La luna rossa, il vento, il tuo colore
di donna del Nord, la distesa di neve...
Il mio cuore è ormai su queste praterie,
in queste acque annuvolate dalle nebbie.
** dimenticato il mare, la grave
conchiglia soffiata dai pastori siciliani,
le cantilene dei carri lungo le strade
dove il carrubo trema nel fumo delle stoppie,
** dimenticato il passo degli aironi e delle gru
nell'aria dei verdi altipiani
per le terre e i fiumi della Lombardia.
Ma l'uomo grida dovunque la sorte d'una patria.
Più nessuno mi porterà nel Sud.
Oh, il Sud è stanco di trascinare morti
in riva alle paludi di malaria,
è stanco di solitudine, stanco di catene,
è stanco nella sua bocca
delle bestemmie di tutte le razze
che hanno urlato morte con l'eco dei suoi pozzi,
che hanno bevuto il sangue del suo cuore.
Per questo i suoi fanciulli tornano sui monti,
costringono i cavalli sotto coltri di stelle,
mangiano fiori d'acacia lungo le piste
nuovamente rosse, ancora rosse, ancora rosse.
Più nessuno mi porterà nel Sud.
E questa sera carica d'inverno
è ancora nostra, e qui ripeto a te
il mio assurdo contrappunto
di dolcezze e di furori,
un lamento d'amore senza amore.

"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--"

We can very well imagine
that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta
to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians",
but naturally. The Spartans were not
to be led and ordered about
as precious servants. Besides
a panhellenic campaign without
a Spartan king as a leader
would not have appeared very important.
O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians."

This too is a stand. Understandable.

Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus;
and then at Issus; and in the final
battle, where the formidable army was swept away
that the Persians had massed at Arbela:
which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away.

And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign,
victorious, brilliant,
celebrated, glorious
as no other had ever been glorified,
the incomparable: we emerged;
a great new Greek world.

We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans,
the Seleucians, and the numerous
rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria,
and of Media, and Persia, and the many others.
With our extensive territories,
with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations.
And the Common Greek Language
we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians.

As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!

salt stings wounds
salt stings eyes, entering, leaving...
healing, healing. The sea will take you away.
I tire of hearing abot these migrants
well they tire of the rick-shaw of an untested boat
of their homes becoming rubble & dust clouds,
of seeing blood in the dirt.
As long as there is war,
as long as there is famine
as long as there exists somewhere
called 'refuge'
then there will be refugees.
Oh child, rocked to sleep by the tide...
you should never have to answer for adult violence,
innocent & sleepy, sinless.
You have been written in blood in the old books
you have been decided for.
Your dice have been rolled by strange hands;
born amid angry eyes,
and so shall die,
washed ashore upon sand,
carried quietly away
to your final crib
to your refuge.

so long a silence covers up much pain
we can rejoice but we must still recall
this sun of freedom rises through the rain

why they were taken we need not explain
for weight of shadows on us casts a pall
so long a silence covers up much pain

of those who suffered for other folks’ gain
whose battered bodies hung against the wall
this sun of freedom rises through the rain

and still we dance our every hope made plain
elsewhise we’d stoop and crouch and bend and bawl
so long a silence covers up much pain

they won their battle and their long campaign
whose time of servitude was not so small
this sun of freedom rises through the rain

with words of justice sung in no wild strain
by men and women proudly standing tall
so long a silence covers up much pain
this sun of freedom rises through the rain

across the silences these words are true
that answer sorrow with a worthy smile
but will not pause to soften nor revile
your efforts nor the feelings that are due
this passing day what is it we review
among the many sights that might beguile
each voyager who reaches this last mile
is that the known provides us with a clue
some would be said to answer that the day
is not sufficient for all that we need
but we must struggle onwards into night
actors and viewers of the self-same play
not certain if our desperation’s greed
but ever hopeful we can get things right

to travel takes us back to where we start
all journeys have good learning as their end
but no one can go further than their heart

we seek a place from which pain must depart
leaving us healthier and with a friend
to travel takes us back to where we start

where all our bags are piled upon the cart
yet we can see those folk who will not bend
but no one can go further than their heart

so we have gone unto a place apart
to understand but not to reprehend
to travel takes us back to where we start

into the torment that must make us smart
beyond the certain hope which we defend
but no one can go further than their heart

therefore we master the creative art
that teaches us the ways in which to blend
to travel takes us back to where we start
but no one can go further than their heart

Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******,
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, *****, homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.