And then there are times - A poem

and then there are times

when the wheels stop turning
inertia unravels another line
and i am moving

the word hangs limp
and heavy in the air
already falling
down below me
behind smaller gone

and i know nothing
(I whisper this into your ear)
see him turn to chase a sphere
that rolls into my hand

i let it go 
and watch it fall

and i am moving
watch it fall
turning round

Turning In - A poem

I was the one who
fuming with wine
muffled my buckle
with a mock comic
finger to lip

I who tipsy
tripped up through
the kitchen’s cats
muttering cursing
suffering vinyl
all to turn the tap

I you heard
flop into bed
roll onto your side and
maybe smell
my soft whispering
plea to sleep

and I who clumsy curled
my arm around
which ached
and moved
to part

I was the one
who nearly woke you
breathe in peace
rest well

As the Mist Leaves No Scar - A song inspired by an unravelling of Leonard Cohen's conceit.

Leonard Cohen's conceit.

Verse 1
You set off a bomb and you got clean away
A suicide bomber who lived out her days
And oh how the mist can leave a scar

Verse 2
Innocent accidents happen each day
A child with a gun blows her daddy away
And oh how the mist can leave a scar
And oh how I wonder who you are

Chorus
On with this carousel, on with the show
On with the daily routine
On with these promises and the belief
That you are what you seem

Homeless and doe-eyed you asked me to stay
A host with a parasite eaten away
And oh how the mist can leave a scar

Collateral damage caught up in the fray
An innocent bystander caught in the way
And oh how the mist can leave scar
And oh how I wonder who you are 

(Chorus)

(Verse shape guitar solo)

(Chorus)

(Verse 1)
+
And oh how I wonder who you are 
And oh how I wonder who you are 

https://soundcloud.com/ponteefex-earnest/as-the-mist-leaves-no-scar-1

2018 - 10 - Running in Crete 5

At around 11 am I left the coach park, the sun loungers, and the hoards of tourists behind and struck out from Elafonisi along the south-coast trail. Within ten minutes I was hiking a sandy path through labyrinthes of eroded conglomerate rock formations that would not look vastly out of place in Utah. Nor in the original Star Trek series, which often used the sculpted rock canyons of this state as televisual shorthand for the otherworldly. My immediate destination was Kedrodasos, a quiet and picturesque beach where I had camped some years previously at the end of another long run down the same coast. The word 'kedros' in Greek is something of a false friend, for English speakers at least. I have often mistaken it for 'cedar tree', rather than correctly as 'juniper'. 'Dasos' means forest, and the whole habitat is a protected area, another rare example of coastal dunes stabilised by juniper trees, as the signs here proudly announce. In fact, it was on stopping fully to digest these signs during my first visit that I finally realised my life-long mistranslation, which was duly confirmed when I bit into one of the berries and was flooded with the unmistakable taste of gin.

On arriving at the dunes, the sun was at its zenith and beaming down from the clear hemisphere of the south. It was hot enough to seek out shade, and be thankful for the onshore breeze. A few like-minded souls lay on the sandy cove, none of them wearing much at all. I do not 'practise' naturism, in the same way that I do not artfully draw breath. However, when I find myself on a remote beach in temperatures which make clothing uncomfortable, I do not see sense in preserving my modesty, particularly when no one else seems so inclined. Besides, running through Crete, every gram on your back counts. And I really could not justify the burden of a pair of Speedos.

So I stripped naked and entered the sea, slowly at first until I could confirm that it was a comfortable temperature even though we had just that morning entered October. The south coast of Crete is blessed with the longest summers in Greece, and the first time I set foot on this island I spent almost the whole month of October camping on the south-west coast and its offshore island, Gavdos, often cited as the southern-most point of Europe. I barely wore more than a bathing costume most days, and nights I could not zip up my sleeping bag without overheating. As a young Scot as yet unaccustomed to travelling, I found it nothing short of magical that such a land could exist just 4 hours from the mist and drizzle of home. However, let it be known that when bad weather does come at this time of year, the wind can lift stones, and sheets of rain can turn those bone dry gorges into muddy torrents.

I emerged from the sea like an electric spark, vital and energised. Grabbing my hat, I lay down on my mat, covered my eyes against the glare and savoured the sensation of the sun gradually warming and loosening my muscles. I had felt my legs in particular quite stiff that morning after the long hard run of the day before. I'm not much of a swimmer; my elements tend to be earth and air, rock and light. But I like swimming precisely to the extent that I value the healing contrast in temperature between sea and beach.

As soon as the touch of the sun turned from warm to hot, I dressed and hit the trail once more. The path led on through lonesome sand dunes to another whitewashed chapel crowning a spit of land. Here in a thicket of hollyoaks and carobs, a spring gurgled into a marble basin, and a long concrete table flanked with benches lay empty in the shade, waiting for the feast day of the local saint. The path wound on eastward through scrub and burnished earth, at first clinging to the hillside with a sudden drop to the sea on my right, then dipping gently to a sheltered cove where lapping waves licked at toppled ionic columns. Fragments of pottery lay all around in the sand.

Climbing to a dirt road, I descended to another cove, but this time to a violence of sunloungers and baking bodies. I had hit the only strip of asphalt between here and the eastern trail head, 8 km flanked by clear plastic greenhouses, a peculiarly Cretan sight and the source of those huge and succulent tomatoes that find their way into most Greek dishes. I tightened the straps around shoulders and waist and broke once more into a run.

My destination was Palaiohora, lit. 'old village', a low key resort and laid back town that has a strong sense of community, the kind of place where farmers from nearby hamlets come to gossip over raki while their offspring splinter into the streets, some happy to be children others already trying on the phlegmatic poise of their parents. Here the asphalt stopped and the trail continued eastward clinging to the sea in the direction of a spit of land known locally as 'cape crocodile' on account of its silhouette against the morning sunrise.

It was by now 17.30 with just 90 mins till sunset. I had already covered around 30 km through all kinds of terrain, but only 2 hours separated me from the ancient site of Lissos, where I had once spent an enchanted night in another beachside chapel.

Situated in a narrow valley of olive groves just beyond cape crocodile, Lissos was the site of an ancient Asklepion, or healing temple. Nowadays all that remains are the four walls, chest high, and laid out around a mosaic floor depicting various geometric patterns and birds. On one side of the valley, you can explore some later Roman stoneu- built tombs, some of which have resisted ruin. Two Byzantine chapels complete the site, both built up from recycled temple blocks and decorated with frescoes old enough to have been vandalised during the Ottoman occupation, when it was the custom to scratch out the eyes of the saints.

Remarkably, the same spring that flowed two thousand years ago, and a vital ingredient of the cure, still flows today, though redirected with the aid of discreet piping to emerge at the site entrance under a huge carob tree. Here you will also find the keeper's kiosk, which I have never seen manned in 19 years of visits. You can range across the whole site at will.

It was around 2 hrs walk to Lissos, and I could not resist the prospect of descending into the narrow valley by torchlight. So I set off along the coastal  path with cape crocodile looming ever  larger before me, at first gold, then rose before fading into a vast colourless silhouette against the twilight. Rounding the cape, I began descending into the valley. The sound of the waves disappeared, then the touch of the wind. In their place, a few crickets stood out against the silence, and a pair of Scops Owls called out to each other across the gathering darkness. The path was rough and scattered with large stones. In the beam of my head torch hung suspended fine particles of dust, and every so often I had to correct my gait so as to avoid crushing one of the numerous jet-black millipedes that were now answering their nocturnal call.

Soon the familiar sight of an ancient stone threshing circle was before me, and thereafter the gurgling of the spring followed by a sudden scattering of goats hooves against loose stones. I had arrived.

Filling my water bottle, I took a long drink of pure, cool spring water, and made for the beach-side chapel, dedicated to the Virgin. Inside I lit a candle, and the long, painted faces of eyeless saints, flickered before me as I laid out my things to sleep.

2018 - 10 - Running in Crete 4

Yesterday summer suddenly returned to this corner of Europe, but not without a final show of defiance by the outriders of the massive weather system that had been swirling around the Aegean all these days. I woke late and refreshed inside the chapel of Saint Theodoros. Peaking through the door, I noticed that the westward view was mostly clear and blue. It took me half an hour to peel and eat an orange, pack, and perform ablutions of a sort, sluicing my face with bottled water, wiping the sleep from my eyes and brushing my teeth. When I looked up again, a long streak of grey cloud was rolling in from the north west and the world had lost all colour.

I began to run south through pines, then olive groves, past a monastery famed for a miracle involving the transmutation of a stone step into gold, past a dusty agricultural supply point masquerading as a village. Past a steady stream of farmers riding their Toyota Hilux pick ups into town, their dusty weather beaten faces like the cracked earth of summer. All very Cretan.

My destination was Elafonisi (lit. deer  island) another coastal lagoon with coral pink sand. I was 9 km from the island when I set off that morning, and around 500m short, the heavens opened in a last tantrum of rain. A westerly wind suddenly got up out of nowhere and whipped drizzle in from the sea, driving it across my path and catching my pack like a sail. I felt the wind repeatedly shoving me out into the centre of the road, and every time I corrected hard to stay right. And I loved every minute of it.

There is something about the sports of climbing and running that they attract, or perhaps foster, a resolutely stubborn and defiant character. Often this expresses itself in egoism and a disregard for social graces. Climbers in particular are notoriously difficult to live with. But for me, my defiance is a game, and on display only when I think that I am being tested. And it is almost wholly directed at the elements, the environment that would constrain and limit my efficacy. And efficacy is the right word - the sense that your will and actions matter, that they can make an impact on the course of events in this world. All this is why running through wind and rain can be so exhilirating. There is the illusion that nature is toying with you, testing your limits. But since nature has no intention, it is only an opportunity for you to realise the freedom you always have to act. And so you push back harder, you refuse the passive role, and you maintain that most valuable of attitudes - self-efficacy.

On reaching Elafonisi 5 mins later, the rain had stopped and the clouds were already drifting inland. I stopped for breakfast at a taverna overlooking the bay, enjoying a local staple of thick Greek yoghurt covered in honey and walnuts. The sun was now beaming down from a rapidly clearing sky, and my thoughts were turning to the prospect of my first swim; but not here. The tour busses had already begun to arrive, decanting a steady stream of Northern European tourists from the resorts of the north coast. I watched them from the veranda over breakfast, a caravan of ill-chosen muscle shirts, pork pie hats and novelty bouyancy aids.

I am a terrible snob at such times. Whenever I tell anyone about my deep love for this island, I am often at pains to distance myself from the popular image of Crete as a cheap and cheerful tourist ghetto, a liminal space where red-skinned and red-eyed louts spend two weeks racking up alcohol-fuelled road traffic accidents. But in truth, it comes down to a simple difference. There are those who use their vacation for pleasure, to gain respite from the daily routine through indulgence or luxury. And there are those who feel on their pulse as an indefatigable truth that the only answer to driving a desk for a living is to seek out adventure whenever you have the chance.

So I paid up and took to the trail again, secure in the knowledge that a wilder and less frequented beach lay literally just around the corner. For here at the extreme south-west of the island, the asphalt stops once more, and a rough trail begins. It proceeds eastward along the south coast, almost uninterrupted, for 50 km through some of the wildest landscapes on the island. Heading south from Hania, the White Mountains rise to 2.5 km before tumbling down into the Libyan Sea, which itself plunges 2 km more into the wine-dark abyss. The one and only time that I saw a whale was, quite improbably, in these waters while travelling back from an offshore islet. The sailors woke me with excited cries of what sounded like falena! falena! I shot up  just in time to see what looked like flukes crashing back below the surface around 300 m from our vessel. Unable quite to believe my eyes, I still needed to look it up in my Greek English dictionary to be sure. Sometimes we never forget where we learn a word.

Anyone who walks this trail all the way to its completion in Hora Sfakion may well learn another Greek word: farangi, or gorge. For undoubtedly what characterises the terrain of this part of the island more so than any other are the numerous gorges which slash through the landscape from peak to coast. Tour companies all along the northern strip bus thousands of tourists each year to the trailhead of the greatest of these, the Samaria Gorge, which at 18 km long is Europe's longest. Most make it from here to the south coast village of Agia Roumeli, descending over 1000m in the process. From here only a boat or your own feet can get you home, since there are no roads in this part of the island. And if you decide to walk it out along the coast, you will stumble through a landscape of scree, dust and thorns slashed through with many more gorges, regardless of which way you turn.

It is my favourite place on earth.

2018 -10 - Running in Crete 3

Day 3 Nite 3. These days pass in contrasts, as must be the case when you're covering 50 k a day in changeable weather. Day 2 I woke up in a crater in a field of sand dunes stabilised by juniper trees. A relatively rare habitat in Crete these days following centuries of over-grazing. The previous night I had almost been forced to set up my bivouac in a cliff-top car park, except I managed to talk the ranger into letting me access this environmentally sensitive area so late in the day with a promise that I would not stray from the path, nor light a fire. But let me believe that my speaking Greek helped too.:)

Morning saw me scrambling along a craggy, scree strewn path, with fixed ropes over exposed sections. I was on the extreme north western side of the islamd, exposed to the prevailing winds, which were still blowing in intermittent squalls from the latest storm. Rain jacket zipped up tight to my chin, and elasticated hood tightened around my hairline, I was warm with the exertion, and only wet inside with my own perspiration. Every so often I encountered an eddy in the wind, and the drizzle whipped against the nylon hood with a sound like crackling static.  Between squalls the birds began to sing.

On exposed and technical sections like these, everything of course slows down. The famed Cretan ibex, the Kri-Kri, may be able to scamper blithely over crags and precipices, but evolution has not equipped us for the same. Instead the focus narrows in on just where to place the next footstep, the next hand hold. It is like a game of chess, or a tango, in which your opponent, or partner, is the terrain itself. Choose your metaphor. Either way there are rules within which you can act, steps you must interpret, and there in the nexus between the possible and your actual choice is the potential for tension, anticipated and resolved with each successive step.

I started trail running to make the connecting pieces of trail between technical climbs just as interesting. Or perhaps more accurately, just as satisfying. On technical sections where so much is at stake, intense focus is required, maxing out your attentional resources. Just like running, you enter that flatline space where it is impossible to ruminate and there is no room for phantoms.

After three hours of scrambling I arrived at Falasarna, site of an ancient Roman port, a long sandy beach, and the beginning of an asphalt road. From here down to Elafonisi at the south-west corner, I would be road-running. I checked my GPS. 48 km separated the two settlements - too long to reach now that it was around midday. But I could at least make a dent in that distance. The sun had now begun to peep out from behind the cloud, and  patches of clear sky up above had shifted the colour of the sea into the almost blue. I took off my shoes, removed some loose stones and began running.

It was the second time that I have run that particular stretch of road. I knew it would take me up and down many times, and that it would zig zag around long hairpins to negotiate the.numerous gorges and contours of the coastal strip. But you do not think of the journey complete when you run. You only focus on the present rhythm of your gait and the simple privilege of being fit enough to use your body for what it was designed. Evolutionary biologists will tell you -according to the bio mechanics of our frame, we are fundamentally animals of the hunt, animals of the chase.

Hours passed, and impressions billowed in like the morning squalls. A tiny family convenience store where years before I had bought refreshment from a black-clad widow and her wide-eyed and curious grand-daughter. Withered grapes, dying on the vine, left dangling after harvest by some careless eye. An oncoming motorcyclist clutching something to his bosom in his left hand, which on passing turns out to be a daschund puppy, ears flung back, placid and graceful eyes half shut against the current of air. And dark clouds, with the tell-tale haze of heavy rain falling in a valley up ahead, while I approach on bone dry roads.

At around 17.00 with 2 hours left to sunset, I stopped for some salty potato chips and a beer at one of the pantopoleoia/kafeneoia that you only find in villages where all the young folk have left. Dark wooden cabinets with dusty glass doors housed sunbleached dried goods and tins. A calculator and a drawer served as a till.  From there I descended to a flat coastal plateau with olive groves and scattered villas.

Running south down the west coast of Crete along a coastal plain on an autumn evening is to be recommended. The flat plain prevents the seabourne moisture from rising above your head and forming rain clouds. What clouds there are may  swirl off the inland peaks and blacken the sky overhead,, but the sun at this time of day, and especially at this time of year, is so low to the horizon that it simply streams on under the gloom. Having spent most of my day under heavy leaden skies, now suddenly everything was suffused in the heavenly light of the Aegean. The ribbon of asphalt wound it's way through olive groves a hundred metres from the sea, the slightest breath of wind causing the leaves to strobe their silver underbelly. A massive square-set farmer ripped handfuls of straw out of a bale he was carrying under one arm, and tossed them into a herd of sheep, which bleated and shook their little tin bells. It was only 4 km to the chapel of Agios Theodoros and it felt like I was coming home.

2018 - 10 - Running in Crete 2

Day2, night 2. Days are short at this time of year, and nights are long. Sunset today was 19.15, with just 20 mins of twilight before a torch was needed. Luckily, I pitched up at a little coastal chapel dedicated to Saint Theodoros (lit. 'gift of God) at around 19.45. I had sought it out as an ideal place to spend this last, hopefully, stormy night, and willed my aching feet on and on until it loomed into view against the battering sea in charcoal grey twilight. A dedication to Saint Nikolaos patron saint of sailors might have been more apt given its startling proximity to the waves.

Sometimes these little chapels are locked. A small number are private, constructed by local families as thanks for fortunes and blessings accrued in this world. Their name and their legacy etched into the stonework. Some contain centuries old frescoes, or gilt icons. A small number tell the story of civilisations rising and falling in their very masonry, as column drums from ancient temples suddenly appear in the exterior facade, or, as I have once seen, as the altar itself, complete with capital.

This one, however, despite its dramatic location, had long since lost any significance it had. The satisfyingly sturdy handle of the bright blue door was tied with a piece of weathered string to a rusty nail, hammered into the whitewashd plaster facade. Untethering and pushing the door open, I swept the interior with my head torch. A lectern, a couple of wooden chairs, a table with a pile of beeswax candles, and a free standing and finely wrought brass candle burner topped with a deep dish full of sand. Pretty standard. And of course, the curtained entrance of the katholikon,, the 'pure' area at the back where the priest prepares the sacraments and into which no woman may supposedly enter.

This for me is always the area of interest. Not because I can assert my male privilege by entering, but because it contains the myth and mystery of altar wine.

Long before Christianity developed its cannibalistic understanding of bread and wine, the ancients in these parts made equally ritualistic use of alcohol in sacred spaces. The Elevsinian Mysteries which took place in ancient Attica as part of the cult of Dionysus is perhaps one the most obvious exames, and one, conversely, in which only women were allowed to participate. And it makes sense to me that religion should be so intimately bound up with alcohol.

I am not religious, but I do seek out religious experiences, as perhaps William James would understand this term. One of these is physical exertion in an awe-inspiring environment. Every summer I try to make it out to the Alps or Pyrenees to go hiking and climbing. Always alone, I plan a long distance route that will maximize my time high above the treeline. At around 2000m in Europe, the trees stop, and by 2750m, the only vegetation left is moss, and some stunted and spiny tufts  of grass. The rest is rock, while up above, the ghostly porcelain of glaciers beckon. There is an unearthly stillness up here, and a real sense that however long you linger, you do not belong. Sooner or later the weather will change, or night will fall, and you will feel nature's utter indifference to your presence. That is why I am always grateful and humble to pass through, keenly aware that I am in the presence of something much more powerful and all encompassing than myself.

The landscape itself might be enough to inspire this feeling of reverence in most people. But for me, my attention is often drawn inward by the incessant murmur of multiple thoughts all jostling to be heard, sometimes negative, and often intrusive. The only reliable ways I have found to switch them off is strenuous physical activity, alcohol and sex. At such times I find a blessed release from worldly concerns, a silence which allows me to fully immerse myself in the environment, and to open my mind to a nonlinguistic covenant with the natural world.

Which is why I am drawn to these little chapels. As I write this on my phone, I'm inside the Chapel of Agios Theodoros, the blue wooden door wedged ajar with some heavy stones so that I can more clearly hear the the waves foaming and breaking on the shore. Three beeswax candles are guttering slightly in a current if air, causing the shadows to dance and the walls momentarily to breathe. And a little bottle of altar wine lies at my side, its contents mingling with post-run endorphines to connect me both to this earth and the countless ghosts and stories of this historical island.

2018 - 10 - Running in Crete

Day 1, night 1. Hania city was sunny and warm, but the sky was full of mares tails and there were bruised and sullen storm clouds obscuring the mountains. We also flew through some thick cloud and turbulence over the Greek mainland. Heading west by bus to the trailhead, the cloud thickened and darkened. Spots of rain began to fall. I was tired too, and on stepping down from the bus, decided to have a coffee and a think about what to do. To stick with the plan despite the weather? Or to get a room a wait for tomorrow? A couple of showers came and went in the time it took me to drink a cappuccino and check the weather report... light rain, falling like glitter in the intermittent sunlight. I decided to stick with the plan, so I downed my coffee and hit the trail. 

There are a number of peninsulas  on the north west of the island which stretch like rocky fingers out into the Aegean. The westernmost is called Gramvousa, and ends in a spectacular coastal lagoon with scattered offshore islets. One of these was garrisoned by the Venetians as a natural rock defence against marauding pirates. Not that it did much good, since it was successively overcome by these same pirates who used it as their lair. You can visit today and climb the rock cut steps up to the remains of fortifications. I ran nonstop for about 3 hours to get to the lagoon, just as the sun was around 45 mins from the horizon. Standing at the top of the cliffs facing west, the sky was like a Turner stormscape - churning, mottled cloud, crashing waves, great jets of foam, dark silhouettes of offshore islets. And where it was not a thousand shades of grey, it was emphatically golden, either in one great blot where the sun itself was covered in cloud, or in shafts piercing through the gaps to strike the shimmering water miles out to sea. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and I stopped there and then to find the right words to describe it. A little exercise in paying attention.. an antidote against sleepwalking through life.. and a reminder always to wonder.

On love across a language barrier

The majority of both my long- and short- term relationships have been across a national boundary. Long term I've lived with Greeks, Germans, and Czechs, all of whom have been fluent in conversational English. Short term I've had a couple flings where I've had to rely heavily on the medium of a bilingual dictionary.

First thing to say is that if you love languages, then the experience of getting up close and personal with the speech organs of a non-native speaker is extremely sensual. Indeed, even more so when they are limited to their own tongue. All you have to do is listen to the language used by phoneticians to describe the position and movement of these organs during the act articulation to realise just how carnal the act of speaking actually is.

For a start there are rhotic and non-rhotic accents of English depending on whether the /r/ sound is consistently pronounced when present. In rhotic accents like my own Scottish version of English, the /r/ in words like carpet, work and bird is pronounced as a explosive tap of the tongue against the hard-flesh ridge where the teeth meet the palette. In Spanish, the /r/ in equivalent contexts would be trilled by holding it in position against this ridge, and passing a fast-moving current of air over it until it begins to quiver. In American and Irish English, you simply get a slight tongue curl back in the direction of the soft palette like the end of particularly extravagant lick.

As the most exposed of the speech organs, the lips present the most visually thrilling aspect of articulation. And here too the language used to describe their movements and contact with other speech organs is highly graphic. 

Let's stick with consonants for the time being. Whereas vowels are characterised by the free movement of air through the mouth, consonants momentarily impede or block this movement. Sometimes the air is partially blocked, as is the case with the infinitely sensual labio-dental fricatives /f/ and /v/. As the name suggests, these sounds are formed by biting the bottom lip gently enough to allow air to escape only under pressure. Pressure builds up behind the narrow opening and is released slowly under a degree of friction, greater or lesser depending on the strength of that bite.

At other times, the lips are responsible for the sudden release of tension, as is the case with the bi-labial plosives /b/ and /p/. Air pressure mounts behind the sealed lips which suddenly yield and part with a burst of sound.

And then there are the vowels. There are twelve monophthongs or short vowels in Southern British English. They differ in terms of the position of the tongue and the lips. The tongue can be high or low; front or back within the mouth. The lips can be pursed or spread. For vowels articulated with a low tongue position and spread lips, like the /a/ in cat, the viewer has maximum access to the speaker's mouth, and can clearly see the tongue lying broad and flat. For pursed-lip vowels in which the tongue is high in the mouth, like the /u:/ in blue, the lips are neatly puckered up as if ready to kiss.

So far I've mostly been describing the mechanics of producing English language sounds. But of course, speakers of languages other than English produce sounds which are entirely absent from this repertoire. And it is precisely these sounds that exert the greatest fascination for me, for the speaker is manipulating their speech organs in a way which is entirely novel. Normally, we don't get close enough to speakers to notice these movements. But with the proximity which romantic intimacy allows, we can not only see these differences, but can request private shows in the form of slow motion replays.

Take for example the Spanish sound /β/ in the middle of the word lobo. The so-called voiced bilabial fricative is one of the most characteristic sounds in Spanish, and one wholly absent from English. Whereas we have a /v/ sound where the teeth are clearly visible on the bottom lip, Spanish speakers can make an approximation to this sound using their lips alone. 

The result for a English-speaking lover poised on an barstool in close proximity is instant fascination. Here is a mis-match between the sound that you hear and the position of the speakers' lips. An anomaly that you notice precisely because as a lover, you spend a great deal of time focused upon those lips in anticipation of pending intimacy. 

With this realisation, your attention becomes ever more trained on their lips in an attempt to better understand how they can produce the illusion of /v/ with their lips alone. Your comprehension of content drops off as the language you are exposed to becomes less a stream of meaning than a bodily act, one in which soft tissues meet and part, alternately creating and releasing tension. Instinctively you begin to empathise with your lover's movements, to feel their muscle tone increasing as their lips spread and purse, as well as the tapped and flicked contact of their tongue against the soft tissue of their mouth. And then you give in and beg them for a demonstration, in slow motion of course, so that you might fully both satisfy your curiosity and sharpen your appetite for what might eventually occur when you both stop talking.

If this sounds like foreplay, then imagine what role the reading of poetry might play in the bed of international lovers? Above all other forms of literature, poetry showcases not only the sounds of a language, but also the rhythm. Through poetic devices such as alliteration, assonance, rhyme and meter, patterns of sound and rhythm are foregrounded in much the same way as the lover's fascinated gaze transforms bare conversation into a carnal act. It is the unique status of poetry that it yields nothing in terms of meaning to a listener unacquainted with the language, yet everything in terms of sound. In the international bed, poetry can only be a carnal and sensual act, one which focuses the lovers on the intimacy of each others' lips and tongue in an act of empathy.

Fragment from a fairytale that contains the truth about the sorrow which haunts uncommon joy

“Apollo sir”, Rosenshild whispered one evening:  “You drive too fast your chariot across the sky”.

The sun was just dipping below the rooftops of the capital city and another day of perfect pleasure had come to an end too soon. Persifal, unable to resist the call of sleep, lay wrapped in a blanket on the floor of the treehouse. A light breeze fluttered the balcony curtain but Rosenshild did not see this.... For some time now he had looked on as brown, to gold, to rose then full-moon silver turned the colour of her skin. And now that Persifal was finally fast asleep, he was consumed both by happiness that she had found such peace, and sadness that he could no longer lose himself in the windows of her eyes.

Sometimes joy can be so overwhelming that it brings with it its own sorrow in the knowledge that it cannot last. No matter how deep he drank at the source of Persifal’s beauty, Rosenshild could not quench his thirst for more... and so even in the midst of the most perfect joy... as wave after wave of desire crashed upon his shore... a tiny part of his heart remained still, burdened with the sadness of an hour when all this must end.

Bitter and sweet, Rosenshild stretched out his hand to stroke Persifal’s golden hair, then blowing out the candle, he pulled the lambswool blanket tight around him and settled down into the darkness of the night.

Maria - A poem

This little Greek, so rare a find,

her name should be a symphony!

She might have been a deity

but Oh!: Maria!

With such address will I her cover?

I think not:

‘Tis spread too far, ‘tis wore too thin

and thinner still

with every day

as yet another pious mother

takes a halo for her tears.

So full of grace?

This name is faceless! Base! Unfaithful to her pagan soul!

Maria, girl, you cannot be

so what address might I give thee?

Might I turn unto her tongue where rarities take shape?

‘Tis a language made to measure

fit, perhaps, to dress a treasure.

Now let me see…

Ourani, Irini, Elpidha, Sophia:

What wondrous forms these are!

But then again:

Could sky, peace, hope or truth

ever cover all of you?

So fine a form, so rare a find

with hidden depths, an open mind…

I cannot draw a line!

You are the one: a world to me

and I would need

a dictionary of Greek to find the words to cover thee.

And even then I fear

that though they had a word for it

those ancients never had enough to cover all of you.

What shall I do?

To make a world a symphony

I needs must turn to alchemy

then I might forge a language new

and hammer out a word or two

with sounds as deep as funeral bells,

to penetrate like armoured shells:

Two coins to place upon her eyes,

I’d pin her down with my design

her measure and her treasures mine.

But wait…

What terms are these?

Speaks my tongue my heart?

In play I pray I’ve chased her down this page.

But to what end?

To grasp?

To apprehend?

What mean these words?

What aim be mine:

Do I enshrine, do I enslave;

divine or maim with my design?

My alchemy is fantasy

and ‘tis best can never be:

Short change would I receive from coins that put her in a box.

That she should live beyond compare,

the one, a world, so fine and rare a find,

defiant of my pliant tongue,

is both my joy and my despair:

My life is full, my senses flood,

my heart feels fit to burst its blood red pulsing burden in a single breath:

My love’s address unto the world!

No sound resounds.

No name I’ve found.

Breast bound my joy in darkness dwells.

My tether’s end is white…

…  My tether’s end is white?

What’s this I find?

‘Tis death again!

Who moves this pen?

A day of play I said!

Not quite content to bury her

you’d throttle me instead?

Enough! I’ll put an end to this --

Where went my pen when last I mastered heart and voice?...

Ah yes:

“I would need a diction’ry”

Now I see.

Away this graven imag’ry!

Speak! my heart, and set us free!

Oh little Greek, Oh world I’ve found

Oh never ending diction’ry

Upon the wind of my desire

I see your precious pages fan

and flutter like a flock of dappled doves.

Thick with definitions writ, I read each one upon the wing,

and as they turn

I blow a kiss

then take a breath

then start to sing:

A Virgo pure yet mutable

    My element, unstable

A mine of hope, a dragon’s lair

    Athina’s owl with raven hair

A fleshy statue soft and strong

    A galaxy…

Will I go on?

Oh let me never cover you

but kiss you always on the wing

And make of my discoveries

An ever greater tapestry,

A symphony without a key,

A song for us to sing.

Notes

Line 5: “With such address will I her cover?”

This line plays on two meanings: to cover someone with an address means to give them a ‘title’ or ‘name’.  However, address can also be interpreted as ‘a dress’, i.e. an item of clothing. The idea that naming or understanding someone might involve imposing your own design on them is central to this poem.

Line 10: “as yet another pious mother”

           Pious: defined by false devotion.

Line 12: “So full of grace?”

From the first line of the rosary: a common catholic prayer: “Hail Mary full of grace.”

Lines 13-15: “Base!...thee?”

           Base: common

Thee is an old English way of saying ‘you’.

Line 32: “that though they had a word for it”

From: “The Greeks had a word for it”:  A common English figure of speech used when trying to find the right word.

          

Line 37: “then I might forge a language new”

           To forge: to shape metal.

Line 41: “Two coins to place upon her eyes”

In ancient cultures coins were placed on the eyes of the dead before burial.

Line 42: “I’d pin her down with my design”

           To pin down: literally, to trap; but also ‘to understand’.

           Design: Creation; but also ‘intention’, ‘will’, or ‘plan’.

Line 43: “Her measure and her treasures mine”

           To measure: to understand --  usually in order to control.

Lines 49-50: “grasp… apprehend”

Both these words mean to understand; but once again they suggest notions of control, possession and even violence.

Lines: 53-54: “Do I enshrine, do I enslave;

          divine or maim with my design?”

To enshrine: to hold sacred; to treasure; to place in a sacred position.

To divine: to perceive or to understand something as though by a supernatural power.

To maim: to injure or disable part of the body of a person or animal.

By this question I want to ask: if the common language we use to describe the process of understanding often suggests notions of possession, control and even violence, how innocently do we understand?   We often talk about the need to understand.  What aims do we seek to fulfil?:  to control the world?; to manipulate it to our advantage?  More importantly, how can we ourselves know the reasons why we seek to understand something when the language used to explain these reasons, to ourselves as well as others, is so ambiguous?  When in love we often use metaphors to describe our partner: my baby, honey.  Do we use such terms innocently or to deform the true nature of our love in order to shape it to our own needs?

Line 60: “Defiant of my pliant tongue”

           Defiant:  marked by resistance; challenging.

           Pliant:  easily modified; adaptable; flexible.

Line 68: “My tether’s end is white”

Tether: rope.  To be “at the end of one’s tether” means to be exasperated; to have failed.

Line 81: “Away this graven imag’ry!”

Graven: in this case ‘of the grave’; but also meaning ‘strongly fixed’.

Lines 93-95: “A Virgo pure yet mutable

             My element, unstable

         A mine of hope, a dragon’s lair”

Virgo, the virgin, is a mutable or changeable earth sign.

Element:  Unstable chemical elements, such as Uranium 235 emit radioactivity in the process of changing into other elements.  But element also means ‘the situation in which a person is happiest or most effective’.

Dragon’s lair: In mythology, usually a cave in which the dragon hides stolen treasure.

Line 103: “An ever greater tapestry”

Tapestry: an ornamental fabric, often in the form of a picture, used for wall hangings, furnishings etc., and made by weaving coloured threads into a fixed warp.