My Santiago

“My Santiago”

(If there were no cherry blossoms in this world How much more tranquil our hearts would be in Spring.)

Ariwara no Narihira (825–880)

A Plumb Line for Living

“Disjuncts are the story, Their imperfections, Giving life its even keel”

Why I write….

I write because I can, And because I can communicate what matters to me To the world at large.

But this is not all, By any means, no.

I write because I have to. There is no alternative, no rationality, no out.

From time to time I feel compelled to observe it, interpret it, to create it, to re-create it, to imagine it, to simply wing it,

Not for others, But for myself And in that there is an awe in Just how this happens.

Epiphany, is a word that comes to mind When I think about my process; The creative one. The idea or the notion will come to me, And the urge to write is then compelling.

I cannot imagine a world without writing.

The words spill out Raw, On the page And sometimes there is the desire To say too much; Although I full well know that less is more.

This notion of creating; This is mine, On that page And no one can take that from me; It is heady and all – consuming.

And then to have that creation Read and acknowledged and understood

From a different context, A person across continents, Across races and divides, Is awe revisited.

So yes, The process, the idea that must be said,

The wonderment of the words on a page Shaping the minds and thoughts of another, The feeling of creating, shaping and reshaping, Of letting go and having multiple perspectives, Is a privilege, Is awe revisited again and again and again, Is the act of being human, Is perfection in the very act of our human imperfection.

“Ichi – go – ichie – e”

“One time, One meeting”

That night, We seemed to stretch then shrink time, All the world’s Time And yet too short.

A Moment in Time – No More, No Less

I waved good bye to my one night girl, As the train pulled reluctantly (it seemed to me), out of Adelaide Central.

I was never to see her again, Yet hoping I was wrong.

I wasn’t!

We had been close For one night; Those few precious hours, that stretched out, Yet flashed by.

From our first tentative meeting On the discotheque dance floor in North Adelaide, To easy relaxed conversation, Mutual attraction made stronger by the reality that this was the one night, The only night we had, Would ever have!

That night, We seemed to stretch then shrink time,

All the world’s Time And yet too short.

We walked late into the night, Hand in hand, Through the Botanic gardens In Adelaide. All alone, Just the two of us, And we cut off imaginary bridges from beckoning reality, Wishing we could be stuck here, Forever.

But she had commitments,

A husband - to - be, A wedding, Then marriage in waiting back at home, In her state, Across the gulf from me. Curiously, I didn’t think this unusual, Just accepted the way things were, the way they had to be.

But hope springs...

The night stretched into early morning, To the ranges above the city, The place where lovers go to escape, And from there we saw the city sleep then wake to life, Whilst we were never more awake.

But unspoken was the knowledge, That this had to end, Soon.

Names were exchanged, But no more.

No family, No commitments, No work or future plans. Just the here and now, What we had - in the moment - Nothing to look forward to, Except this serendipity, This memory. And it is ended, At that train station, Very early on the Sunday, After the Saturday.

A hug, A holding close, A slow drawn out kiss,

Wishing each other the best for whatever lay ahead. Reluctant parting, A slow, delicious letting go of what we had, Would never have again.

And with that, The train pulled Out of Adelaide Station And her, Out of my life.

Her Smile (12/03/2018)

It was her smile that moved me, Quiet, tremulous, With faintest hints of timidity, laced with sensuous thrills; An intimation of infinite possibilities, lurking within. If it was her smile that drew me in, It was her life, That adult woman – life, that held me captive - and ready to make myself the fool, The utter fool. of being faithful, When she had every intention of faith - less - ness; “Seeing others” Remarkable euphemism designed to mislead, sidetrack and finally drop off at the side of the road, With no hope of getting back to civilisation. Creating falsehoods - Promises of no consequence -

And I played the fool, The utter fool, The clown,

Not knowing just how much she must have been laughing behind hand, held to face, As she listened gravely to my vapid angst - filled protestations.

And that night, When I called her mid-stream on a winter’s run, In a deserted night - street phone both in Adelaide, I knew, but could not stop my foolish words tumbling out,

Needing to believe her inadequate lies.

I met her Sometime later, -

when it was over -

Unexpectedly; And her presence hit me with the full force of unexpected pain; Her face, Her timorous smile, Her body, What I had lost, But in reality, never had.

Routine

On Sunday, We do the laundry, Fold the towels, Iron shirts for the onslaught of the working week. On Sunday, We experience the subtle variations of the day; Fresh hope in early mist, Wistfulness of mid-afternoon hiatus, And the bunkering down into melancholy evenings;

Day done, Weekend Ended.

The older woman

There we were, Me at 16, My first older woman, In my arms. Head nestled into mine, Giving herself to me Unconditionally; And me, taller by a head, But the novice in so many ways.

We clutched and swayed as one in that most Catholic of church halls,

Cloaked from the gossip of disapproving parents, Voracious friends - who wouldn’t understand - And the predictable pragmatism of a world ever waiting to reclaim us, reset us, reinstate us, and jolt us back to age difference and the cynical jaded present.

But, we had our time, Our space, our moment, our moments, Patched together, Song by – country music - song, Ever tender dance by tender dance,

In that one night, In that church hall,

In that sultry Colombo Sweat-infused romance; No one but us, No right, no wrong, No conversations, No past, And - certainly - no future. But never wanting one; Full well knowing that Futures destroy the magic of the present; The transient and permanent time etched in memory and nursed in dark corners, carefully unwrapped

in whimsical moments of life, When cares and adulthood threaten to pulverise the irresponsible right out of you, Leaving you stable, solid,

yet oh so lost!

We had our moments Had them then, Have them now.

And now in times of reverie, I wonder where she is. And how she has aged?

That older woman, A full two years past me,

With her soft yielding body, Her hair, shoulder - length, And her perfume mingled with the musk of her body. Her permissions granted to me for that one evening, With no questions asked, No guarantees given, No words spoken or looks exchanged;

Just there, Wordless, Soaked with meaning.

I wonder if she, The older woman, ever thinks… of me, In the same way I do of her?

Perhaps not; But I like to think she does!

Adolescent Reverie

“Natsukashii”

“Nostalgia”

We were five in those sultry Colombo days … still etched in my memory, Knowing we had something -hard to capture- In this too grown up life.

*Kavi in Upper Fourth (* Kavi- A Singhalese word meaning traditional verse or poetry immersed in myth)

Wednesday’s were the worst, As we sat, upright at our metal-connected ink - welled table and seat, Two to a plank - from bygone times,

And waited the impending death by a thousand cuts; Yes, literally cuts, But no, Only metaphorical death, But in some ways, Worse than the ‘sleep that ends all sleeps’; This ‘death’ had no end of memory, No final release,

Just the weekly lull, Then anticipation of dread, of pain, Hurt, the Loss of face.

Talk would nervous - focus on how much we - each knew, The verses, the right ones, The accent, the rhythm and rhyme; the “Kavi”, As we compared notes with the ‘poor bugger’ Who simply could not grasp it; And, felt so much better.

His pain, our respite.

Joy sprouts in unlikely places.

All too human; we were.

False hope played a part too, As we imagined that he was absent today, (He never was / a fat man with a Spartan constitution / go figure that / just our luck) And allowed a glimmer of hope.

But, doom and pain came, As he always did, Signalling his advent from some distance,

From the direction

-

of that ramshackle very ‘common room’ Where, With its rattan armchairs, Whitewashed walls and iron - barred windows, We imagined this torture was spawned - By his distinct wobble - walk, Whippy cane in hand, Slapping soft, fat flanks, Licking spitty lips.

Ebert, however, never quite got it!

Geoffrey, with his boyish looks, His thick bifocals,

And the smell of fear; Would get hit every Kavi infested post - lunch Wednesday, In our Upper Fourth private school education, And Ebert would cry, As we looked on Stoney - faced, Struck dumb with fear, Just thankful that it was him, Not us!

All too human; we were.

We were 14, And girls, Any age, any shape, any form, Real or from the intimate centre folds of our father’s magazines, Were our leanings and learning.

Not Kavi!

Those sweat - infused Wednesdays, That Mount Lavinia (late sixties) time, (No liberation or love - ins here), That adolescent year, That singular man with his pock marked, florid face, His wobble hips, His whippy, bendy cane, And Sinhala Kavi; Are etched in my mind.

I still don’t know any Kavi, But Wednesdays post - lunch, these days, Are fine.

Strong arm in the Chapel Grounds (06/04/2018)

We settled disputes, Old style, in the old days, at our fine private learning institution. We fought each other, Till one had his face ground into the dust, And spat out “Surrender”.

Surrender it had to be, Nothing more nor less.

Abject surrender, Beaten, cowed, Then, best friends after that.

The colosseum was the Chapel Grounds, The plebs, curious students, Voyeurs keen for some biffo, lots of bluff and the odd gore.

And the combatants!

I’ve had the one or two, A rite of passage,

Beat up a latter-day friend, Ground his face into the dirt, Eked out abject submissions, Dusted my hands And rose - off my feet, To new status, Accorded only to - The victor. Did I like it? Hard to tell. Didn’t think much then; Guess not. But there was something So final about The face-grinding,

The abject surrender, The pagan conquest, The ‘bread and circus’ ambience, The legalised violence; It brought peace to some inner demon, And made ultimate sense.

Top shelf revolt

(07/04/2018)

I had time for that priest In that Church of the Open Door.

But precious youth - time spent in church, Was, to me, pointless, Or worse still, Idle hands for the devil.

We would attend church, Our only salvation being that we sat - away from parents.

Wing of church (Nave to be exact)

Hidden from parent And forbidding others, We built our coterie of plans. There were the scrutiny of girls, And our edicts on them, The rolling of eyes as the old priest trucked out the same old same old

- with minor updates from the previous year -

The serious contemplative faces as we were eyeballed by parents en route to communion, And the rolling of cigarettes!

Now that was revolt From the top shelf.

Rolling your own, In the nave of our church, On a pleasant Sunday morn. Of Memories Grabbed and held in church, at church, These stand out in my mind

We were Five (An acknowledgement of ‘our’ adolescence - Ralph Wickramasinghe 1952-2000 RIP) 25/03/18

We were five in those sultry Colombo days, Those heady, complex times of teenage angst. We were five, Inseparable in all we did, And we had something - hard to capture - in this too grown up life.

The names, Allan, Trevor, Ralph, Errol, Michael,

Four still around, One, lost his way, Too early, Too soon to go.

And yet he lived As he willed. Fierce resistance, Fits of anger, A cocky life lived with scant regard for convention, Respectability, Or the false gods

that dictate What we do, How we dress, Where we live...

I missed him when he went, Although we had not spoken for years; Friendships are like that.

He was my yardstick, My measure of our resistance to life’s insistent boundaries of living; And whilst he lived,

It seemed real and possible.

But he died! At 48, Too early, But strangely, timely, And in time.

Not for him old age, Nor ageing gracefully, Acting with regard to consequence.

Ralph’s was a brief life, -Ephemeral existence-

Lived on his terms, And when he died playing soccer on a workday afternoon, He was doing what he liked, No more no less!

The five are now four, Spread across time zones, continents, With families, occupations, And the things to do, People to see; But those Colombo days, Are still etched in my memory, Knowing we had something -hard to capture- In this too grown up life.

Convention

she weighs up garments, ties, shirts, belts, - His personality - And pays for each at the counter of obedient souls;

Ode to an obedient man

He holds the shirt up, Both hopeful and tentative at the same time, The look in his eyes, Saying perhaps this time “I’ve got it right”, “Picked the right garment for myself

She turns, And looks, Lips pursed, head cocked to her left, Keeping him in suspense for an elongated murmuring minute, (his world on edge) Then shakes her head, “No, that won’t do, dear”, And he, He places the shirt back on the rack, Sheepish that he even tried to dress himself; Now a meticulous metre behind her, As she weighs up garments, ties, shirts, belts, - His personality - And pays for each at the counter of obedient souls;

No refunds on this.

Doubts

He felt that somehow, Somehow, he never quite Measured up

The Fake 27/03/3018

He felt that somehow, Somehow, he never quite Measured up; Never quite made the grade, Somehow was indeed, a fake. One that was “too soft,””, Or “too immersed in the arts”, “Not rational enough”, And never quite “getting it”; Whatever it was!

And yet, What was that about?

He felt wanting And yet, At the same time, Time and time again, He felt supreme confidence, Simultaneously.

Catching glimpses Of himself

As he went about “Being the adult” He would have the slightest twinge of guilt, As his alter ego Nudged him And said, “You fake”

The hurt, not the pain (16/03/2018)

I can’t put my finger on it, But all is not well in my life, At present, anyway.

I can’t name it, But it’s there,

Not a pain anywhere But certainly a hurt.

A subtle difference I admit, But real, nonetheless, More real - than pain.

All is not well in my life, Hurt birthed by disappointment in negligence of others, Spurred by their, Oh so, overt desires to build egos.

But hurt has pathways, Alternatives; To self-destruct Or

to let go of the hurt, the pain, To let go of disappointment, Of desire, And to understand that

I don’t define my life by the dubious ethics of others.

So whilst all might seem to be In disarray, In reality, All is found!

The Middle Class Man

Coming in on cue, he plays the middle-class man with aplomb. His conviction enthrals and as one, the audience rises for the encore. Yet even as he struts and conjures life’s double-breasted fool, -tie attired, face reflected in polished brogues, the yardstick of the elegant- there lurks in recessed niches wisps of a person’s irreverence’ mocking his life’s work. Digressing, on the half-expressed word in the midst of serious frivolities, he is startled by a strange reflection in the finger smudged glass; His! And he is relieved at the face that comes to him. A face that betrays - only to the patient - a life, a conviction, beating in measured and strong pace. And this redeems him.

Cuban Adventures

A City of the Dead, White sepulchred, Row upon row of Cuban folk heroes, In their final resting place

“Mexico and Frieda”

Her face,

Serious, intense,

Hair pulled back -

The sensual woman

who captured the hearts of

Diego Rivera and Leon.

Passport to Baracoa

(9th December 2017)

We wake this morning,

Alert at 5,

And by 6 we are climbing

cautiously,

the vertical, metal, spiral

of a staircase,

to the dilapidated rooftop;

Views of Havana’s

crumbling facade rising

like weathered ghosts,

Leering over us.

Perched on metal chairs,

Sipping thermos coffee,

Followed by Guava and cheese rolls,

We watch the grey day

take shape.

Breakfast done,

We descend the stairs

watching for that juncture

in the steps,

where foreheads hit walls -

And reach our temporal Casa,

On Chacon Street, 103;

Where we gather in our group,

to walk the broken street to our transport.

Driving,

We pass places on the promenade,

Where lovers and walkers co-exist;

Havana’s place by the sea,

And into 5th Avenue,

the houses, sometimes ragged

but oh so beautiful;

Past decrepit parks, playgrounds

and overgrown tracks,

With one solemn, slow

and -sometimes- comic runner,

enacting a masquerade

in hazy motion;

a parody of the athlete.

And so we arrive at Baracoa Airport,

To fly to self-same name;

Cuba’s most far-flung place

of rugged beauty.

We check in and move into transit.

And that was some few hours ago!

And so now we wait,

In stasis,

In transit,

Incommunicado,

And Incapable;

of escape!

Some sleep,

in repose with hats tipped over faces;

Others entranced

by links to the outside worlds,

Peer with serious intent at small screens;

Some scribble feverish,

Into intimate diaries,

their intimate thoughts;

As rain crashes on deserted tarmac,

air con - chainsaw - rattles,

water seeps across transit floor,

And Cuba hot tracks

rock the cooler cafe.

And so wait, wait, wait.....

For that bird to descend from the sky,

Our passport to Baracoa!

A Hummingbird at Jamiru

(10 th December 2017 Baracoa, Cuba)

Day begins with boarding the restless, engine-rumbling beast

that may have been a Ford,

(in another life perhaps),

Now reincarnated into this Baracoa version,

With Korean - Sssaasong - engine,

Cuban brush - painted flat matte rust brown,

And wide-open stallion - flaring headlight nostrils.

Repainted, reupholstered,

Resurrected and re-loved,

Reincarnated in a new form;

Not Ford now, but a nameless Cuban rebel,

Ready to convert ten pliant people

to its rust cushion comfort,

All facing each other,

While we rock and roll – wildly - down the pot-holed tarmac out of town.

Breeze in our faces and at our backs,

We sway past the Sunday Baracoa countryside tableau

of boys riding bareback, with sacks of coconuts,

The ubiquitous football game, barefoot on the rough - crafted oval,

Casual on-lookers at makeshift bars,

And beautiful women,

Alluring, with their high cheek boned faces, flawless skin,

Immaculate nails.

The beauty of a people at their Sunday rest.

Our first stop, the Chocolate Farm,

Where we are greeted by Lisbeth,

(not the Dragoon tattooed one),

But just as enigmatic, beautiful, charming,

With wide - eyed smile,

And her way with the tubular chocolate pod,

“Invigorating, aphrodisiac”,

we depart, laden with Cacao nibs, tubular music rods

and Coco Butter,

Leaving the change with Lisbeth,

With a desire to help her family

stave off Raul’s taxes.

Through tropical rain,

We drive till we stop at the river,

Where we board boats

with names like Guantanamo and Taxi Boat,

And glide to the small island with its

Hummingbird, nestled by the river’s bank,

Oblivious to our cameras.

Intrepid, we swim in the icy water

surrounded by towering cliffs,

With Kites soaring overhead,

Massaging soles of feet on black river sand;

And then rain soaked,

We trudge to our beast ,

And head back to our Casas,

Thanking Oscar for the experience of a day in Baracoa.

Moving on…

(From Baracoa to Santiago on Tuesday 12 th December 2017)

Today we transcend Baracoa,

Through a surreal mountain forest,

Trees stripped of leaves,

Remote huts, ingenious water pumps

And horse drawn carts.

We reach the Guantanamo look out,

And climb to view the infamous base

Through second - hand binoculars,

And barely glimpse – the harbour,

The stand-off between the US and Cuba;

Curious, complex, unjust, never-ending!

As we try and capture this slice of history,

I hear the frustration in a nation’s voice,

The impotent anger of all Cubans.

We arrive at Santiago de Cuba,

This city of a million,

Cradle of the revolution,

Stopping to photograph a General

Leading his men,

Horse rearing on back legs;

Symbolism for brave death in battle.

And then into Historic Santiago,

Where we are allocated Casas,

Ours being Yellow and splendid this time.

High up over the city,

With views of skyline and cathedral;

The city pulsing,

-

Sound, music, energy, life -

From every pore.

After dinner,

At the Casa of the 3 Annas,

Some walk into the centre and find a Salsa bar.

There we sip Pino Coladas

and are entranced by Perla del Son,

a 6-piece band of vibrant Latin women,

Belting out loud earthy songs,

With Earth mother voices,

Into the loud earthy sensual Santiago night…

Santiago at night!

Santiago Cathedral Wednesday 13th December 2017

I sit, pensive, Recollecting thoughts in this place of worship.

Cuba, phonetic, Kuba, And Santiago; Bustling city of Fidel’s revolution, Marx’s Socialism poured into every vein, Infused in every pore of its human fabric.

And yet also, the paradox; Catholic to the core!

Both Socialist and Catholic, Rational and Spiritual, Man and God!

And somehow, In Kuba, paradox makes sense.

Cuba’s Gain

With every adversity, There is a silver lining. With every misfortune, A gain!

Cuba’s persecution By her neighbour, Is America’s loss.

America has lost the moral High ground, Whilst Cuba, Though still poor, Has richness In so many other ways.

In Baiyamo (14 December at 12.18 pm 2017)

In Granma province, We stop fleetingly At Baiyamo, Famous for the Cuban anthem and its cobbled street, Gutted house,

And - not to forget - The pompous official Who cut down the trees in the square; A brief 10 months ago.

I meet and greet the peanut seller, From whom I buy Peanuts in wrapped paper cones, Get a Che coin in return, And take my leave But not before we exchange the mystery handshake.

Baiyamo, Our brief foray, Now already 15 minutes in our wake!

Castro’s Grave (Santiago de Cuba)

A City of the Dead, White sepulchred, Row upon row of Cuban folk heroes, In their final resting place; Providing a background to Fidel’s tomb which lurks Dome - like, A mound of earth with the man’s name, Simple, stark, against the grain of the earth grey boulder.

A life well - lived, A man well - loved, A task well - done; “Home art gone, And taken thy wages”

Vale Fidel!

The Changing of the Guard

Young Cuban men and women, Barely out of their teens, Stand immobile, On guard, In front of Maria, Jose and Fidel; A symbolic presence, Honouring the intellectuals, The creators of the Revolution.

A bell chimes, Followed by sombre heart - stirring music, Signalling the new guard.

Young, immaculate, upright men and women, Bayoneted rifles on shoulders, Goose stepping in perfect unison!

Slow, steady and measured, They march to each tomb, Salute, And with dexterity, They change the guard!

Flamenco Dancers in Cameguay

We sit, awed by their presence, And as they move, Precise, exact, sensual and oh so full of the stuff of life, On - lookers drift back to their youth, Struck by the immediacy of life confronting them.

Passion, love, sweat, energy, The here and now, No past, no future, Just the present!

Nothing else counts. Nothing else should.

What binds us? (Love in Cuba)

37 Years to the date, In blinding Adelaide summer’s heat, We tied the knot; Although the phrase itself is archaic; A metaphor for everything that our union is not!

We certainly are not bound by a knot! I certainly don’t feel compelled to stay;

We don’t need knots to bind us, Instead we stay because we simply can and may!

And as we stay together, As we traverse life’s pitfalls, we gather compelling reasons;

That - intuitively - build momentum.

Knots don’t bind us, But love (and momentum) do!

Bay of Pigs

From the French influenced Cienfuegos, City of elegant boulevards, To the Bay of Pigs,

Where Cubans of the Revolution Repulsed supporters of Batista, In a brief 72 hours!

We swim in the pristine waters of the bay, Now peaceful;

Only sounds of tourists snorkelling, Eager to see multi coloured fish, Where once, some half a century ago, It echoed with the staccato sounds of machine guns, The thump of ack acks, And the drone of fighter planes.

Bay of Pigs, 56 Years on!

Knowing Trinidad

(Monday 18th December 2017)

Yesterday, or more correctly,

As they say in Cuba -

“Ayer”,

I came to comprehend Trinidad,

Just a little bit!

I am ever wary

of making pronouncements

about places;

Places about which

I know nothing.

So no edicts here,

Just observations

of one average man,

Encountering a place for the first time.

Trinidad streets are cobbled,

The historic parts anyway.

Cobbled, close, and intimate!

I like to walk these streets

and observe the observers

and their pets;

Those city inhabitants,

Who sit in their window seats,

And peer through the iron grills

at passers-by.

I, in turn, like to peer inside

into the cool, dark bowels of their homes,

Sense the polished floors,

The outdoor patio,

And the decorated tree.

We skirt water eking out of the cobbled earth,

(Burst pipe somewhere

in Trinidad!)

But no-one seems concerned.

People walk, water seeps, and life goes down on!

We sidestep ‘Trinidad Cowboys’,

On their horses,

Clattering through the streets,

Hoofs striking cobbles,

As they move.

I - politely - turn down

taxi offers,

In classic cars from a bygone era -

and agonise if I should

Give CUCs to the needy

or not!

We saunter to the historic square

Where tourists abound;

Trinidad music from live bands

Waft through the cool night air,

And professional dance gigolos

gyrate with young female tourists.

I meet and greet Abel Garcia Leon, the Barberia

at “La Camargue”;

Who is also an artista

painting originals,

And promise to book in for a haircut -

An artistic one!

And I awake early,

In the cool morning breeze,

And walk to the square,

Where I sit with Trinidad Cubans

And check in with my son

at the other side of the world.

We travel to the National Park,

Where I swim in the icy,

crystal clear water of the Javira river;

And discover hummingbirds and colourful caterpillars,

Safe in their oasis.

Vignettes of a city,

Steeped in a history

of sugar cane, pirates and slavery;

And “Santeria”;

African inherited spiritualism mixed with Roman Catholic.

Trinidad -

Reflecting a piquant mix of

Spanish - African;

The final equation equals

heady Cuban;

A newness borne from fusion!

I need to write about Cuba

The people and their place How they fashion lives of passion Fused in one nation, one race. I want to capture their music That keeps me sleepless at night their songs of love and deception, Lyrics to dance to and fight.

I long to feel their dance The rhythms of their day That sensual earthly Salsa So vital to their way

I endeavour to depict their courage Their faith in a Cuban way of life

The struggle to create a living Beset by a neighbour’s strife

And I will now place on record My opposition to the ban By a Goliath of a nation Against this smallest clan

Barbaeria in Habana

It is a balmy December afternoon

on a Saturday in Habana,

And I am in a Barberia in O’Rielly street,

Waiting my turn.

In the barber’s chair sits a substantial Cuban man,

Young and handsome,

In a fleshy sort of way;

He is having his head shaved.

The barber glides a deadly sharp razor,

With dexterity over the man’s scalp,

Precise, drawing no blood -and then - lovingly - rubs lotion over his scalp.

When my turn comes,

I convey my preferred haircut

with elaborate hand gestures,

“No hablo espanol “ -

And the help of customers.

A few things are - however -

lost in translation,

And I leave,

Hair graded,

Zero to One to Two

from bottom to top;

Knowing full well that a week is all it takes,

Between a poor haircut and normality.

Pontiac 1953 Milton

Pink Pontiac 1952, 65 this year, A senior citizen by any means, Carrying three others.

Milton, 27 years married with 3 kids, Owner, Drives us to the French fort, Around Che’s house, Now a museum,

And then past the houses Of the ‘better off’ comrades of the Revolution.

To be Cuban

To be Cuban, To be Afro - Spanish, is to embrace contradiction, In its many forms; To be wholly a Catholic, And also give oneself up to Santareia, To be gay and be communist; All in one!

But above all, To be Cuban, is to be loud, passionate and comfortable with contradiction; To not seek to rationalise, To make sense of, But to simply accept and be!

At Yumi’s in Saroa

A short ride from Fidel’s biosphere,

We pull up on the outskirts of Saroa.

At Yumi’s!

We are now high in the mountains,

Far from the cacophony of Habana,

Surrounded by hills,

In a valley.

Yumi’s is the first house in the community that is Saroa,

And we are struck by the stillness,

the cry of the Cuban Mockingbird,

And the lazy circling of Vultures,

Riding the airstream,

Constant lookout for prey.

We feel at home,

And I wander the immaculate yard,

With rows of organic crops,

The gnarled wooden railings

Covered by cement,

And a pig,

Split open on the barbecue.

I visit Cookie,

Chained on a long leash,

And with a rusted old barrel for his home,

He gambols

in wide - eyed, joyous circles,

Looking to lavish his love.

This is ‘his world’,

Knowing nothing different

other than this circumference of chain;

Sadder than I can bear to think,

I pat him,

scratch his back, cuddle him,

Then move on,

Trying not to dwell on it.

I sit on my first-floor balcony,

Open an “El Presidente” beer,

And pretend to make an historic

“History will absolve me” speech,

To the ‘masses’ below

as my friends scurry around,

From one momentous ‘bird event’,

to another;

Snapping with wide apertures and long lens.

I stroll the brief distance from our Casa,

And en route am intrigued by two oxen with a young man at the plough,

Hear loud Spanish Rap cannon out of a modest house

and ricochet off the mountains,

See a man stop his tractor

to help a little boy on

in the middle of the thoroughfare -

And acknowledge the calm; this is Soroa at dusk!

To be Pagan

(Mexico City 2017)

Today we contrasted the old and new,

The pagan and the Catholic,

But even as I say this,

I question my conditioned response,

To ‘what’ and ‘how’ we believe.

Surely Guadeloupe

and its convoluted ‘miracles’

Is nothing but a delicious fiction too?

A fiction created by priests in black gowns,

Walking their rounds -

To keep their place,

their authority,

their power?

How is the worship of a ‘Virgin Mother’,

Somehow more reasonable than worship of the Sun?

Or the Moon?

Some may well say

that it makes perfect sense

To worship the Sun;

The giver of life!

To be a pagan worshipper

Is to acknowledge

the real, the rational, the mystic and the magic,

of life and living.

No need for worship,

Of statues,

Or at least knowing

that idol worship

cuts the same way,

For Christian,

For Muslim,

For Hindu,

For Buddhist,

For Animists,

For Pagan!

There is no difference.

Who needs feet when I’ve got wings to fly?

(Frida Khalo)

(Mexico City 2017)

Entering the manicured grounds,

You are immersed in a world of peacocks

and endangered hairless dogs;

“Isla de las Munecas”!

This was Dolores’ place of rest

and reflection,

Where she preserved

Diego and Frida,

One, her sometime lover

And the other,

Frida, his other more troubled love and muse -

On canvas.

His works,

Dazzling in their range,

Dexterity, genres.

Her portrait,

The only nude of her,

painted by Diego.

Frieda’s range,

From sepia childhood prints,

To her hospital anguish

And her dazzling coloured portraits.

All Frieda.

Her face,

Serious, intense,

Hair pulled back -

The sensual woman

who captured the hearts of

Diego Rivera and Leon.

In Frida’s museum,

Her life is distilled.

I see a person,

Immersed in life;

Mexican by choice,

Communist by ideal,

Intellectual by nature,

Artist in every way.

To see her,

In her outward look,

Was to see the careful product,

Hours of camouflage

recreating body, appearance,

And refusing physical shortcomings

to chart life.

Dolores, Diego, Frieda and Leon,

Characters, larger than life!

Hubris

(In Greek tragedy) excessive pride towards or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis

And after all, these are little deaths, Inconsequential deaths,

White lie deaths

We live so others can Die

(i)

Today, on rising, New day, high hopes,

New life;

Resurrection of sorts

- back from that Bourne * where no traveller returns - As each morning is,

I cleaned up ants

on the breakfast bar.

No!

I stand corrected.

I Assassinated, Killed, Murdered, Mutilated,

scores

of lives.

Oh, but in my defence,

Size does make a difference,

And after all, these are little deaths,

Inconsequential deaths,

White lie deaths. *

I am absolved! / It’s a sin to kill!

(*Bourne = land * White lie = a lie that is done for a good cause and strictly does not qualify as a lie)

These are ants,

Without backbone,

consciousness,

complex emotions

DNA, heritage.

Or have they?

(Collectively?)

Most of all,

They are smaller (the smallest),

The smaller they are,

The less they are…

And so,

I grab dishcloth,

And kill ants!

Wet dishcloth,

Death by wiping!

Rinsed in sink,

A job well done,

A sense of accomplishment.

And all this before breakfast!

(ii)

No Elephants today; Nor can I cope with Dolphins, Whales.

Too large, too consequential; too noble, too few,

Too reminiscent of our deaths.

But time enough for them too

at the hands of others,

and once removed from guilt

we can wring our hands, wring our hearts,

And excuse ourselves

as being too far, too removed, too impotent, too apathetic;

Except for the truly sentimental times

Where our gorge rises for brief moments,

And we petition and pillage the immediate ‘monster’

but are monsters, equal monsters, nonetheless.

(iii)

Maybe cane toads today on wet gleaming roads,

(Transfixed!)

And then our goals become

Aspirational, (buzz word),

As we bulldoze habitats,

Dam waterways,

Coax species

to make that unprized list,

The endangered one!

Ants wiped,

Toads quashed,

Species misplaced,

Habitats lost.

And all this before breakfast!

(iv)

Dismissing the inconsequential, We close eyes to the big deaths,

Close minds to desolation,

And subsist.

Living long lives.

Building high (er) fences.

Meaning exchanged for vacuumed time,

Addicted on a reality

That is no longer true,

We are voyeurs of our own (timely) doom.

Wiped clean by cockroaches!

And all this before breakfast!

Russian Adventures

“kapel”

“sunny day when water starts dripping from icicles”

In winter we button our fur coats, In summer we unbutton them; That is the difference in the seasons at Kizhi

Gorky Park - Fading Summer - 2018

Gorky Park, Until now, an unreal figment, Of Cold War espionage, Hollywood sub-plots, And subtle twists of fate, With the Russians - inevitably the bad guys.

But this Gorky Park Is relaxed, calm, An oasis in Moscow, Filled on this weekday, With families, Moscovites, Doing what they do in summer, In the parks, on the rides, Soaking up the last of the summer rays, Having lattes with sesame seeds and ginger, By the lake.

And the sculpture garden captures me

With hauntingly real faces from history and religion, Clowns, revolutionaries, saints, poets and saviours,

Spanning time, Fact and myth, Given a new lease by art.

Here too, are Lenin, Stalin and Brezhnev, Architects of modern Russia; The Bolsheviks from the October cleansing, To Glasnost and beyond;

And the bust of Marx, Whose ‘Das Capital’, Started it.

But don’t look for Trotsky here, His fate,

Usurped, exiled and ice-picked

-

in Mexico - Is excused from the pantheon at Gorky!

Gorky Park, Ninety years old, In Moscow’s leaf- dropping, Mazy afternoon,

Late August, last - burst - of - summer;

Captures me.

From Moscow to the Volga 2nd September

Today we board the bus Bound for the Konstantin Simonov On the Vodohod line, Cruising the Volga, Connecting through the Moscow canal, Dug with the excesses of Stalin.

Four nights in Moscow have passed; Days at Gorky Park, Red Square and the Kremlin, A ride on the Metro Stopping at Revolution Square with its brass captures of the Bolshevik entry into the world, (more than a station - a history lesson in itself), The September First recognition of young cadets -goose stepping - in front of the Church of Christ, Rebuilt in its medieval image; The impressive Kremlin Memorial Armoury, Depicting the gradual transition to European dress, carriage and Faberge eggs; And the energetic, ebullient Folk dance of an athletic Moscow dance academy, On our last night.

We leave Moscow, Having barely touched the surface, Just a mere taste of this city Steeped in history, Rich in stories of bitter Boyar feuds,

Poisoning of the Tsar’s wives To gain favour and influence

- With the hopeful selection of one of their princesses

As the next Tsarina - That is, until the next lethal dose Of poison; And the cycle starts yet again.

Moscow, Four days too short to know, But enough to grasp, To begin to comprehend.

Sitting here

The Simonov cuts a swathe through the vast Moscow canal, Built by Stalin’s ‘quota system’ of political prisoners. As it inches through intricate locks towards the Volga, The view is strangely at odds with the brutality of its creation. On the banks, I see Daschas nestled into the Birchwood forest,

Cloud - speckled sky, And tranquil waters,

As I sit on the side deck, On this cool autumn day, Experiencing Russia, So vast, So unknown, Yet by increments, day by day, Peeling back the layers, Unravelling its beauty to all who would see it.

Uglich - 138 Moscow

Pleasant cacophony, Four piece make - shift band greets us, As we disembark.

This is the Uglich’s big day, With boats berthing for the afternoon.

There’s money to be made, And the four men Bring reprise rusted snare drum, accordion and trumpet.

At the Uglich Kremlin, Stand the Babushka clad ladies; Two sweet fifty - something locals, Singing in offbeat tremulous voices. The place is old, Careworn, Steeped in history, myth, superstition; The son of a Tsar strangled with his necklace by two men In the middle of the street.

The murderers, Stoned by the peasants but the investigation pronounced guilt on the townspeople, Sending some to Siberia, Along with the ‘guilty’ bell;

Which failed to raise the alarm.

The bell in back in town now, Pride of place restored!

The Convent, Destroyed by Bolsheviks, Now undergoing gradual renovation to its past glory.

Each year, Just a bit more appears, A miracle in the making.

Our guide, Vladimir, tells a joke about the KGB, Involving a two-story building

in Uglich town centre; the local KGB haunt.

The guide’s Aunt said “that is the tallest building in Uglich” To which the boy (our guide) said “but how is that? It is only two stories high?” Back came the reply: “Because when you are in there you can see Siberia”

And then the moving Russian singers, With Balalaikas and voices to match, Entertain us with spiritual and folk song.

Uglich, a summer - Dascha’s Short drive from Moscow.

Kizhi

In winter we button our fur coats, In summer we unbutton them; That is the difference in the seasons at Kizhi. We have perhaps two months of a summer (of sorts) And then comes winter; From November - Where the lake freezes over – Till the thaw.

Here you see they are reconstituting a church Which was built in 1714 And it is simply amazing; Wood on stone on birch And Silver Aspen shingles covered roofs

Where rain rolls off Falling 37 Metres.

130 villages on this island And 2 people per square metre Russian and Finnish taught in schools Churches never stood in isolation One could hear the sound of an axe Two summer room upstairs Winter bottom floor m 40 degrees below zero Height of snow drifts us the height of a man Nov to June winter Older people and children slept on the stove No serfdom here Rye and wheat grown Poor lazy people could not survive here Chickens lived inside in winter Nothing is by chance all seating by design May and June white nights People fished for river pearls Pierced with a fish bone Bear, Elk, Fox, Wolves co habited the island Smashed flax to make line

Life and Death, Death and Life

In the flash of a smile,

In the opinion passed;

Perhaps at 6pm on a weekday,

While watching the news – in the happy hour –

A momentary Respite June 1994

Here I sit, Inert! Passive on the outside, Immobile and withdrawn on the inside; Enjoying the company of my own.

Not wishing to be disturbed, Not wishing to work; To utilize my time productively ! Only to sit and look and listen, To observe life’s passing parade - Things I should be doing, But somehow, On this winter afternoon, That hardly seems worthwhile… Better to simply sit and wait; Till the moment passes And then

those living and getting on with the job-

Re-join the race!

Dénouement (Dedicated to my father who died of Alzheimer’s on 25 th June 2005)

I bend to kiss his forehead, Now cooler, No longer flushed cheeks, I whisper, “Love you dad”.

Waiting for some flicker of recognition, Some sign that he knows

that I have been there these last seven days!

That he knew, I was his son! That he knew, I loved him!

But none came. Instead, The merest flicker of eyelids, A pursing of the lips, A loose bronchial cough!

It’s all in there, (Locked away – forever fused in a tangled web of synapses

Impassable now) The recognition, The life passed,

The soul, The man!

Chemistry and Religion; Science and God.

Irretrievable!

The delicate balance Between care and care - less, Between fixing and palliative, Between restoring and death, With least pain.

So I turn on my heel, Walk out of his room With a parting glance over my shoulder at the physical likeness of my dad. Now infirm. And turn the bend in the corridor,

Heading towards the coded entrance door – C 2578 – Thinking just how unreal this is.

Leaving him, Probably never to see him - alive - again, And yet, no momentous revelations, Just a plain, ordinary and simple Parting. A down to the grocery store, back in a minute, parting.

A letting go, Of a man, my father.

And with no fuss, no bother, I let the hinged door swing shut, With a finality, On that part of my life, Perhaps, Forever!

Endings

It was a somewhat typical night,

Our household being what it is;

Eccentric, nocturnal, prone to obsession

to do and to keep doing

and finish what we started,

In one headlong rush.

Tuesday January 21 st 2003!

A simpler time,

The first of our four parents

to move on!

I remember thinking, much later,

Sadly,

That Donald had passed in Adelaide,

Even while I was watching summer Tennis,

Fran, working on a Life Course,

Jay writing scripts;

Strange how it happens…

These things.

In another place,

At the same time,

The life of a loved one

was ebbing away.

The insistent ring of the phone,

Shrill at 12.30,

30 minutes past midnight,

Jerks me out of sleep,

Heart pounding.

I had awoken,

Oddly, just seconds before,

Waiting…

Social calls don’t happen at after midnight.

Premonition of sadness.

Fran takes the call,

On the other end, Nedra!

I sit by Fran’s side,

Reconstructing snatches of conversation

From my wife’s bursts of anguish,

The words etched in my mind – of hers –

“Oh Dad! Oh Dad! Oh Dad!”

Hope refusing to give way to blunt fact.

But even in death,

Life has its quirky moments.

As we book flights, washed clothes,

In that surreal early morning time,

The washing machine blows up,

The phone dies,

Both only fleetingly;

As if Donald,

Ever the fixer of things,

Has decided to have a little fun

on his passage to the other side.

Life’s like that,

Death’s like that.

Nothing is lost,

Nor - anybody.

He lives on,

In his girls,

Their traits,

One the fixer,

- In more ways than one – The next opined, conspiracy theorist,

And the last, ever the optimist,

(All creative)

His grandchildren,

And in odd moments.

In the flash of a smile,

In the opinion passed;

Perhaps at 6pm on a weekday,

While watching the news – in the happy hour –

Where we might listen and say,

“Yes Donald, Yes we know Donald”.

He won’t be forgotten,

Endings after all,

Are only new beginnings.