to far lands.
To far lands beyond the sea:
to this land,
this land of Turkey;
to this place,
the town of Cesme.
Standing at the prow,
crossing the Aegean,
in a high wind,
an earring flies,
five feet through the air.
A moment later,
touching my ear,
I discover my loss.
Nick has seen the flight.
"Something flew," he said.
"into your bag."
Yes! there it is.
I lost an earring,
between two continents'
and before it was lost,
it was found.
Pirgi
One day we took the car
and honked, and twined,
and twisted and bumped,
until we were in
a new town,
that was very old.
All the walls had been covered
with black-gray plaster,
and white-washed white,
and scraped into patterns
geometric; leaves, and flowers,
triangles, circles and squares.
It was postcard perfect; had sat through
centuries, just that way.
Even Hansel and Gretel, even Herr Anderson,
and the brothers Grimm,
would have been surprised
at such a fairyland.
The narrow streets
invite the camera
to duplicate their scenes.
I take many pictures,
of narrow street,
of bright blue doors,
of white walls, and steps,
of bright red tomatoes,
and black-garbed old women.
But see!
Each one is different.
Each one bears
Its own stamp.
In the narrow courtyard,
there stands an old church.
I am torn
between two things:
A photo of this worn and ancient beauty
and respect for the privacy of other peoples' gods.
I am nudged into hell
by a cagy old man.
(not so old)
He takes my arm
and leads me deeper into this place.
He shows me frescoes
ten hundred years old.
He spurs me to evil.
"Yes." he whispers in Greek.
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"Take your pictures."
He leads me into a courtyard;
pushes and prods with promises of rarities.
I seem to follow, until
he strides ahead. When he turns,
I am gone.
He finds only air.
I do not tell my friends.
I imagine myself,
saved from abduction,
by my own wit.
There is a monastery,
seven centuries old,
in the mountains of chios.
We drove there,
to see the fires,
"which the Tourks had set,"
(said our Greek friends)
"just two days ago."
No one was there.
The mountains were black.
The smell was char and sweet.
the monastery still stood,
by the miracle of stone.
In a crevice,
on a stack of trash,
of paper plates, and cups,
and peels, from fruit,
a workman had left a tile,
carelessly, (ah, fool, he.)
Perhaps when the work comes to life again,
he will not be punished.
I will have crossed the sea;
become a smuggler, and a pillager,
a messenger, through space and time.
One day,
I will go to the museum
in my town.
I will say,
"Here is a tile,
from the Mondoun Monastery
on the island of Chios,
in the Aegean Sea."
Between Chios and Crete,
there is a tiny island:
the island of Santorini.
Tomorrow I will go there.
What will these eyes see?
What will this nose smell?
What colors will be there?
Will the sky be high?
Will the sea be wet?
Tomorrow I will know.
Today, while I ate,
I said goodbye.
While I swam,
I said goodbye.
All day was goodbye.
Tonight, at dinner,
everyone was quiet,
We felt the same.
The sky and the sea,
were all goodbye.
Nick's house by the sea
had held us in its arms,
and rocked us
to the sound of the sea.
Thank you-efheristo,
Kalinicta, and yes,
goodbye.
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