PHANTOM STREET

Could our footprints
Be there in the concrete,
Or smudges on asphalt
Scuffed by our shoes,
Shuffled short stops and starts
Where we would greet,
Marks of steps we took
While we could still choose?

I watched from my window
As you walked past,
Your face forward,
Tresses black and flowing;
You were hurried but happy,
Travelling fast,
And I wished
To be

Where you were going.

But there were times
I saw you waiting there,
Balanced on your high heels
Until he came,
A man
To whom I could never compare,
I had no claim,
I was too meek, too tame.

Thugs changed the name
Of that street long ago;
Yet it's the same -
Vanished phantoms still glow.

SHOMAL

On the northern side of my block

There was the never-ending sea.

But my small studio

Faced south

So my home

Caught the sun most of the day,

Unless wayward rain

And mazes of mist

Blew in from the steppes

And crossed the waters.

Neatly paved streets -

A realm of shiny vehicles

And well-dressed pedestrians -

Ribboned below me.

Smaller buildings were freshly painted,

Trickling wet and glossy after a storm.

Skyscrapers appeared

To be built of glass

And not much else.

At night I could look

Through any window

And see families gathering for meals,

Children busy with computers

And video games.

Later the lights would dim.

People retired to sleep away

The fatigue of each unknowable day,

And, perhaps, to trade in love.

In the morning they rose again,

Well after the sun materialised,

And set off to exchange mysteries.

Traffic always moved

With an erratic disorder

That seemed so random

But must have involved remote control

By an all-seeing manager.

Beyond the residences

And the roads

The land began to rise,

Gently at first,

Towards the mountains.

On the lower slopes there were farms.

Men and machines kept to routines

While workers wielded a shovel;

All was dispatched in giant rigs

With wheels at least as big

As a poor man’s hovel.

And the cycles of husbandry

Changed the colours of the fields

Day by day and week by week.

Swathes of cream and yellow

Gave way to pale weeds,

Then to deep brown

As the ground was ploughed.

There were rows and rows of small trees

Dotted with technicolour bounties,

Either ready and ripe,

Or still no more than blossoms.

Above the orchards

Nature’s flora began

With stately oaks, beech and chestnut,

Everchanging,

Giving ground to junipers,

Evergreen,

As the forests gained altitude.

It was magnificent artwork –

Every imaginable shade of cool green,

And the occasional arc of crimson,

With scattered splatters of gold,

And shimmers of vermillion.

At the top the mountains towered,

Peaks barely lower than the sky.

Snowy summits

And bulky black blocks in the light

Becoming dusky silhouettes

When the sun proclaims the night.

NIGHT AND DAY

And all the day
The wind cries out
You're ill
While raindrops splash
Closed windows
With the grime
Of foul pollutants
Burned some other time
That no one owned
And no one ever will.

Then comes the night
Of loudness like land mines
Exploding up
With echoes through the dark,
Anonymous,
They fail to leave a mark
Except on peaceful sleep
And glad dream times.

And all the day

The wind cries out

You're ill ...

OLD SONGS

 “The crow that flew over us … will tell about us in the town.”  (Forough Farrokhzad, ‘Conquest of the Garden’)

Certain music drives me back

All the way

To the wanderer

That I was

Before money bid me

Dance to its beat and sway

And the wealthy

Condemned me to be poor.

I remember

When our hearts were touched

With fire from flames eternal

(That later turned infernal).

Lighting up the night

We blazed like burning stars

In the black crows’ sky above,

White-hot in the zeal

Of our requited love.

I remember all this,

And more than this,

I remember you,

That last time that we kissed,

Your final phone call,

And your face

Across the street

In the traffic crawl

Of an orange taxi fleet.

How I wish

I had leaped

To my feet

And run

To rescue you

From what was to come.

SOU'EASTER

I watched the storm strut

On the sea’s edges,

At first far-off icy chops,

Chilly sprays,

Steered by a wind,

Once lord of freezing days

In Antarctica’s wild mounts and wedges.

That sou’easter blew the white water on

Towards the shore

Across the sapphire blues,

Then rain fell from skies blackened like a bruise,

As if morning’s warm sun had never shone.

AFTER LIFE

In that single moment

Before the end

Is there only the past,

Old marred memoirs,

And no future,

No such thing as again,

No way to grow,

And no new repertoires?

If the years ahead

Belong to the rest,

Then they will all gradually forget

The times

When you were there

Amongst the blessed.

They’ll move on and prosper
Without regret.

You'll be in a silent film

Degrading

Through mistaken recall,

Discarded takes,

Intentions misjudged,

Legacy fading -

Memories of you

Transformed into crude fakes.

But then again
You might travel to find
The sweetest places
Of your explorations -
Those haunting sites
And dearest destinations -
And the ones you loved
Who left you behind.

FOOL MOON

There are days

When sorrows wake up with you.

Last night’s moon haunts you

Like a fool’s mirror,

Reflecting lights

That you must misconstrue -

Reminders that madness has stepped nearer.

These are your random days of dire distress,

Regrets without meaning,

Pointless despair,

Hollow hot tears that scorch,

Bid you repress

Sanguine thoughts

Of others who might still care.

And when the sadness lifts

You will wonder

Where it went

And when it plots to return.

But for now

Your heart quakes,

Split asunder,

Although it beats,

The pulse stings like a burn.