Tag Archives: travel

It Is All Here

It Is All Here

Bridges and statues.
Could be Paris or Rome.
Lamp posts and lanterns.
A bend in a river.
The water flows slow.
Chance mirror illusion
of a drowned dome.

I didn’t die today, I didn’t die.
I didn’t fly away, I didn’t fly.
I don’t need to travel, it is all here.
The camera is cleansed, the lens is clear.

Works of genius lay all around.
They meant nothing to me
until they were found.
There they were, on the page,
canvas and screen,
sculpted in stone and sound.
What I saw in them
only I will ever see.

Churches and markets.
Fountains fall in the square.
Puppets and kite strings.
A path winding upwards.
The stone nest is near.
But in the next moment,
I am not there.

 

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Better Than A Dream

Better Than A Dream

I could have come to you in a Chinese junk,
an Egyptian sail boat on the Nile,
rich with Oriental treasures in my trunk,
Persian ruby to reflect your smile.

Through fantasy I came to you by camel,
then by rickshaw and paddle steamer,
in a barge on low land canal and channel
with no bus or tram for a dreamer.

I would have walked,
if it weren’t for border controls,
people asking for passports and papers,
eyes hard with mistrust and suspicion.
I could have walked,
and reached my destination.

I could have landed in your city square
in an air balloon,
but in reality, more straightforwardly,
I met you at the airport.
The other ways would have taken too long,
been too slow.
We would have been together far less soon.

Flew over the south Caucasian mountains.
Here and there, I saw the bare stone gleam.
We stood in Republic Square by the fountains.
Felt your hand, was better than a dream.

Flight Home

Flight Home

I don’t need a ticket for a plane
or a time table for a train.
Things are settled now.
I do not need to roam.
Here on the edge of everything,
I’m waiting for my flight home.

My mission ended,
I have done my task.
I am not from these parts,
but where I am from,
no one thought to ask.
I watch waves rise
and fall as foam.
I do not need to be here now.
I’m waiting for my flight home.

The Sirius Spaceship
is coming back for me
on the blue dolphin pathway,
enabled by my key.
No need for the telescopes
or the computer screens in your dome.
I will vanish soon.
I’m waiting for my flight home.

Visit to Lake Sevan

Visit to Lake Sevan

We took the main road to Georgia,
left Yerevan behind,
on our way to Lake Sevan,
the blue plum shed of rind.
I knew it could not be like my dream vision,
for all the cranes had migrated south to Egypt.
Stone eagle statue stood on a bend in the road,
wings arched high, talons clutching the rock
it perched on, as if not long swooped down from the sky.
It told us we were entering wild mountain country,
home of the bird aristocracy who soar high.
Our driver was our guide.
Was a musician, played Classical violin.
Said it was impossible to live on a few drams in Yerevan,
so he was a tour guide, to help him turn the wheel and win.
He pointed up at a mountain,
as we swung round higher ground,
to show where he went skiing in winter, above Flower Valley.
He drove by a town he said was built in the Soviet time.
It stood in a dip in the land.
Tower blocks of dull grey and brown stone,
named Sevan after the lake.
Round and down the road led on.
Suddenly, we were there where we were bound.
To my right lay part of the lake,
big enough to be a bay of a sea,
a rippling mirror of blue October sky.
Mountains encircled, bare and brown.
My eyes grew large, my mind woke.
Only seagulls braved the chilly air.
Our guide stopped his white car at the foot of a hill.
Several levels above the shore of the lake,
he led us up a stone step way.
That it was narrow, steep and winding,
a difficult climb, an ordeal,
a spiritual trial made concrete, seemed appropriate,
for it led to a monastery that stood alone on the hill top,
as close to heaven as it could be.
In the name of Mary and Jesus, her son,
it was built, long ago, by the command of Princess Mariam.
On the way up, we were stalled by hawkers,
sellers of candles, paintings, trinkets, crosses.
Before we passed through the door,
our guide told us of Thaddeus and Bartholomew,
the two apostles who brought from the east
their master’s word to Armenia,
to break its pagan temple pattern,
to begin its Apostolic Church,
older than the church of Rome.
I was pleased it was Sunday,
for inside the monastery,
we witnessed a service.
Monks chanted holy hymns,
an old priest blessed those who had come to praise and pray,
some to be healed.
I could not describe what I will not forget.
It did not seem to matter how old the stone work was
for I sensed that it was ancient, timeless.
It stood outside history, the changes of the centuries.
Close to the root of Christianity it brought me.
Carvings in the embroidered stone tablets,
I admired for their intricate, skilful art.
Maybe one summer we can return to Lake Sevan
to make my dream vision come true.
I will see you, stood still by the edge of the lake,
your concentration on white cranes,
at rest from flight in shallow water, among reeds,
while others flap their wings, higher and higher,
on their way to mountains further south,
and to what may lie beyond.

Down In A Dream

Down In A Dream

( Lines for Anahit Arustamyan, poet of Armenia, author of My Wandering Muse, My Lyrical Tongue and The Phantom’s Dolphin )

The Armenian mountains,
I come down in a dream,
cross an old stone bridge,
step stones to ford a stream.
The wilderness is silent,
none could hear my call.
Before I wake, I look up,
see your portrait on a wall.

In dreams, no need for passports,
train time tables, money in your pocket.
I come home from Armenia
with your portrait in a locket.

In your lines speaks the soul of your land,
like a lit lamp it shines in your hand.

Wanderer

                                                         Wanderer

Sirius, strider of the skies,
the wanderer looked up to see,
harder, wider grew his eyes,
his lids peeled back with wonder.
The names of other stars he knew were few,
but he could point towards
the glittering of Orion’s belt,
the tilting of the Plough,
the steady sparkle of Venus,
for though he was no navigator,
he had learned of them somehow.
And though they were far older,
compared to them he felt no younger,
still they opened him to celestial peace,
made him aware of worlds,
free of mortal wars and woes,
for they could not hear the sorrow in the sound
of waves breaking on far off shores,
deep in the dark of night,
the murmurs of unseen seas.
They woke his heart to hope,
but always he was glad
when he found an inn,
to shelter there within,
sit at his table, his meal and drink before him,
his travel bag at his feet,
part of his journey over,
but not yet complete.
And when morning came,
time for map study and goodbyes,
he never gave his name,
nor would he say his destination,
as for what was in his travel bag,
he would say nothing,
for it was naught but a pack of lies.