But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go.
Lennon-McCartney
I Driving to Mirtiotissa
We learned to avoid the village
to drive through the olive groves
evading
children and dogs
and old men with sodden voices
calling to one another through the trees
the way we avoided noon
or the sickening
halt of the butcher’s doorway
leaving the white-hot streets and the slide of traffic
islands of rubble
flashes of broken glass
oil-slicks and fruits-spills
the sudden
untenable light
cruising the dirt roads and alleys
on blue afternoons
for something we almost found
again and again:
a sand-lizard perched on a rock or a clump of thorns
the fretwork between its fingers
the fire-coloured throat
the spiders in the gaps between the rocks
goats in the weeds
their slack mouths and sun-bleared eyes
remembering panic
that faint trace of shit and vanilla
that hangs in the shade.
You were reading a book about angels
the way they appear on the road to the unsuspecting
wingless
yet ringed with light
they could pass
for locals:
men in boots and cotton shirts
a girl in a printed dress
beside a well
and though we imagined
we couldn’t believe in such things
if anything was there
in that black light
we knew it would be lost
in no man’s land
on back roads scabbed with weeds or veiled with sand running through chicken farms and unmapped towns or rising to the chill
of native pine:
angels
or Pan
– that god of sudden absence –
come from the shadows to meet you
a hair’s-breadth away
a blackness in the everyday event
like something tethered
a flock of birds descending on the church
a spill of figs
the unexpected chill
of spice-haunted wells
or miles of cicadas
stopped
in the noontime lull
though we guessed that the angel of roads
or the panic of standstills
was less than the weight of ourselves
being lost or found
and even this a story
like
II Kidnapped
that story of our exile in the hills
months of pursuit
the roads whiting out in the dark
fresh disappearances
spotting the matted grass
– they were still on my scent
though I’d crossed those mountain streams
a dozen times
the water filling my boots
the year-long cold
seeping through my bones to fledge the groin
and I’m travelling still: my name on a borrowed passport
sleeping between the graves in an upland church
foraging for eggs and spills of grain
living caesura, less than the sum of my parts
I’m waiting for the limbo of a life
that goes without saying:
a circle in the woods of mint and coal
where someone has stopped before now
to light a fire
– almost
but not quite right:
illusion
like the one who stays at home
lost in the warmth of butter and cherry tea
and wanting for nothing
immune to the smell of fairgrounds:
illusion
like the one who would arrive
travelling unawares
though clues abound:
the smell of standing water
barley mows
or alpine meadows glimpsed from the early train
to Brasov
or Kluj
those upland silences that last for days
delectable mountains
hillsides clad with pines
and cherries
the grey of nearness
soldiers
standing in a clearing by a truck
boys from the country in jackboots
and threadbare shirts:
illusory
III Pilgrimage
as all these journeys are:
home after dark
on a late bus
or waiting alone
at the station
the platform light
suddenly all there is for miles around
and something I almost recall
some hunting bird
skimming low over the tracks
and vanishing.
And even if I recognise the shape
even if something remains
some haunting call
I know from somewhere else
– some film or tape –
even if some local perfume drifts
towards me
as I cross the narrow bridge
an inkling of oilseed rape
or ripened corn
the scent of orchards
fishmeal
rendered bone
there’s nothing here to understand or claim
nothing to grasp
nothing to think of
as true.
I’ve come this way before
I’ve read the maps:
the dream of a shoreline
the delicate upland trees
delectable mountains nuzzling the rear-view mirror
houses standing open
doors ajar
the windows like the gaps where angels live
in old nativities
signals above a meadow
porch-lights and doors
as if there were something more
to be revealed.
I have driven this road too often
and come too far
losing the taste for home:
its standing warmth
the gravities and shifts
we dwell upon
– so when I reach the hollow of the stairs
intruder on the dream you’ve shifted from
I’m glad of the silence
glad of the distance between us
the blackness of country roads I have smuggled in
on my shirtsleeves
the flavour of rain
and nothingness
– a gap you would not house
no matter how often you turn
with the feel
of something at your back
some hirsute god
some cloven-footed wisp of the angelic
– though speaking for myself
I’d want to say
this nothing is why I am out on a starless road
learning the true extent of no man’s land
the night wind threading my eyes
and nowhere to go.
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