Fires. Essays, Poems, Stories

the balcony of the minaret My head swims.
    A few steps away the man who intends to betray me begins by pointing out key sights-market church prison whorehouse. Killed, he says. Words lost in the wind but drawing a finger across his throat so I will get it He grins.
    The key words fly out-Turks Greeks Arabs Jews trade worship love murder a beautiful woman. He grins again at such foolishness. He knows I am watching him. Still he whistles confidently as we start down the steps bumping against each other going down commingling breath and bodies in the narrow spiralling dark.
    Downstairs, his friends are waiting with a car. We all of us light cigarettes and think what to do next. Time, like the light in his dark eyes, is running out as we climb in.
    NOT FAR FROM HERE
    Not far from here someone is calling my name. I jump to the floor.
    Still, this could be a trap.
    Careful, careful.
    I look under the covers for my knife.
    But even as I curse God
    for the delay, the door is thrown open
    and a long-haired brat enters
    carrying a dog.
    What is it, child? (We are both
    trembling.) What do you want?
    But the tongue only hops and flutters
    in her open mouth
    as a single sound rises in her throat.
    I move closer, kneel
    and place my ear against the tiny lips.
    When I stand up—the dog grins.
    Listen, I don't have time for games. Here, I say, here—and I send her away with a plum.
    SUDDEN RAIN
    Rain hisses onto stones as old men and women drive donkeys to cover. We stand in rain, more foolish than donkeys, and shout, walk up and down in rain and accuse.
    When rain stops the old men and women who have waited quietly in doorways, smoking, lead their donkeys out once more and up the hill.
    Behind, always behind, I climb through the narrow
    streets. I roll my eyes. I clatter against stones.
    BALZAC
    I think of Balzac in his nightcap after
    thirty hours at his writing desk,
    mist rising from his face,
    the gown clinging
    to his hairy thighs as
    he scratches himself, lingers
    at the open window.
    Outside, on the boulevards,
    the plump white hands of the creditors
    stroke moustaches and cravats,
    young ladies dream of Chateaubriand
    and promenade with the young men, while
    empty carriages rattle by, smelling
    of axle-grease and leather.
    Like a huge draught horse, Balzac
    yawns, snorts, lumbers
    to the watercloset
    and, flinging open his gown,
    trains a great stream of piss into the
    early nineteenth century
    chamberpot. The lace curtain catches
    the breeze. Wait! One last scene
    before sleep. His brain sizzles as
    he goes back to his desk—the pen,
    the pot of ink, the strewn pages.
    COUNTRY MATTERS
    A girl pushes a bicycle through tall grass,
    through overturned garden furniture, water
    rising to her ankles. Cups without handles
    sail upon the murky water, saucers
    with fine cracks in the porcelain.
    At the upstairs window, behind damask curtains,
    the steward's pale blue eyes follow.
    He tries to call.
    Shreds of yellow note paper
    float out onto the wintry air, but the girl
    does not turn her head.
    Cook is away, no one hears.
    Then two fists appear on the window sill.
    He leans closer to hear the small
    whisperings, the broken story, the excuses.
    THIS ROOM
    This room for instance: is that an empty coach that waits below?
    Promises, promises, tell them nothing for my sake.
    I remember parasols,
    an esplanade beside the sea,
    yet these flowers...
    Must I ever remain behind-listening, smoking, scribbling down the next far thing?
    I light a cigarette and adjust the window shade. There is a noise in the street growing fainter, fainter.
    RHODES
    I don't know the names of flowers
    or one tree from another,
    nevertheless I sit in the square
    under a cloud of Papisostros smoke
    and sip Hellas beer.
    Somewhere nearby there is a Colossus
    waiting for another artist,
    another earthquake.
    But I'm not ambitious.
    I'd like to stay, it's true,
    though I'd want to hang out
    with the civic deer that surround
    the Hospitaler castle on the hill.
    They are beautiful deer
    and their lean haunches flicker
    under an assault of white butterflies.
    High on the battlement a tall, stiff figure of a man keeps watch on Turkey. A warm rain begins to fall. A peacock shakes drops of water from its tail and heads for cover. In the Moslem graveyard a cat sleeps in a niche between two stones. Just time for a look into the casino, except I'm not dressed.
    Back on board, ready for bed, I lie down and remember I've been to Rhodes. But there's something else— I