Aristos in North London
He knows all about Darius, Alexander and Demosthenes.
Reads classical Greek and will tell you the story
of Epaminondas, oligarch of Thebes, who invented
a battle formation that helped him beat the shit out of the
Spartans. Yes, he used to be an educated man. Kalispera.
Good afternoon, ladies.
Kalimera, ti kanis—Good morning, how are you today?
Called his restaurant Lacedaemon. During the week
he opens late morning for lunch. Unkempt, unshaven.
Fridays is bath time.
In the evening the chattering ladies trundle in
with some elegance learned in the big city, tightly
cinched, high heeled to give height, glittering blue
queen-of-the-night specials framed by long-lashes, soft layers
of glistening blood cover the teeth that are not missing.
Slowly begins the sirtaki.
Slowly they pick their men.
Beginnings
The smallest shorts are still too long.
His little legs in mandatory socks
and sturdy shoes.
The blazer’s sleeves cover his baby hands,
the school’s coat of arms (bright blue on brown)
is prominently displayed on the breast pocket
and on his cap.
Our very, very first day.
He cried last night.
“I won’t go to school (sob)
‘cause I can’t write.”
Hand-in-hand
we
walk
up
those
endless
stairs.
His face is all scrunched up,
he’s trying to be brave.
Oh, God, he’s only three –
and a half.
The young one’s pretty, has kind eyes,
a lovely smile.
The old one has a black moustache.
She is the Director with a capital ‘D’.
I bet she secretly tortures animals.
I’d promised him I’d stick around
for those few hours.
I’d be close.
Just over there, in the café.
The young one picks him up.
However much he stretches,
his little arms can’t reach Mum,
and he is taken without pity
into the belly
of that dark hell hole.
I follow him with misting eyes
while my heart is breaking
and point to the café.
He manages a tiny smile.
I told his dad it was too soon.
I did.
But he is English and insisted.
You live here now, he said.
Language skills
The crew thought she was
just another dumb
blonde actress forged
in the beds of Rome’s
cinema elite.
When she crossed and
uncrossed her ample
undercarriage they
forgot about her brain.
Directed their attention
at her other talents.
Jeremy, the English director,
first took her to bed
then to the registry office.
What he liked most about her
was her delicate silence.
The toast of the night clubs,
the best table at the Ivy,
the tabloids worshipping
at their feet, even the
paparazzi applauded.
Their whiter than white smiles
lit up the darkest corners.
A sudden and shocking divorce.
- What on earth happened, Jeremy?
- She learned English.
Madrid
Bars in the holes of the old wall
under the Plaza Mayor.
Champignons from the grill.
Steaming aroma of garlic and tomato.
The old drunk just pissed
against the lamp post, now leers
at northern pink flesh milling
around the accordion man. It’s ten
and almost dark.
You cross over calle Toledo,
get to calle de los Cuchilleros.
The vaulted cellars of the oldest
eating house in the world cool the moist
film on your naked arms.
The cold is shocking.
The Sobrino de Botín
has sold suckling pig since 1725.
One of its waiters was a boy called
Francisco Goya. He was hopeless.
On the way back, across from
the alpargatas shop, passing the
guy playing the water organ,
a sign says, ‘Hemingway never ate here’.
An ex nun, Madrid has grown
exuberantly into her new hedonism.
Invented la movida, an endless party,
where like shoals of fish the young are
schooling from discotheque to
bar in a relentless choreography.
Exhaust fumes blend with wafts of
sweet, cloying maryjanes.
Passionate Madrid embraces
her strangers; welcomes and seduces.
She'll not kiss you
right away, plays hard to get.
But if you’re lost or lonely
she gives you succour.
Wants you to stay.
Madrid, you used your charms on me,
precious or obscene.
Yet, I never was quite yours.
For almost twenty years
you were my lover,
but another has my heart.
Preparations for the inevitable
I know I must do some shedding.
Can’t go into a long enfeebling winter
with the weight of oceans, moors, beaches,
dark woods and stark horizons, the laughter
of children, long summers, strong arms
around my waist. I ought to swap my sturdy
and reliable roots for something more light weight,
remove the tree that tries to rise beyond
the forest to see the stars, watch the blizzards,
the sandstorms and the inundations.
I shall have to bend with the wind.
My back is permanently angled, getting closer
to the soil where my bones will rest.
Even the nights are becoming thinner.
Pain, poetry, curses and laments I’ll shed,
letting them fall where they are blown.
Then, one sunny winter morning,
I’ll push through the snow, through white
and glistening crystals, dancing lightly to frost’s
fluted cymbals, weightless as a snowflake.
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as seven poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her latest: DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS? (Kelsay Books July 2022), WHISTLING IN THE DARK (Ciberwit July 2022), and SAUDADE (December 2022) are available on Amazon.
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