Poems inspired by Dubrovnik
These are part of a series of poems which came out of a trip I made with my husband to this beautiful city on the Dalmatian coast.
On the left you can see the view from the atelier window of Vlaho Bukovac's house in Cavtat (click on picture to enlarge).
On the left you can see the view from the atelier window of Vlaho Bukovac's house in Cavtat (click on picture to enlarge).
Rupe Ethnographic Museum
Through a square hole we see dizzying chasms
where Ragusa’s hunger was kept at bay
and, in the rooms above, the back story:
all the tools these people forged to bring out of the earth
what it held in store for them - ploughs, saws, scythes;
mid-wived through difficult labour, raised and husbanded,
preserved in fish-traps, oil jars; they could only
be amazed at what we waste, our bones, organs,
cupboards groaning with our double share.
We buy and discard cheap finery,
disconnected from its making, but here,
laid out in dazzling display, lie
thousand-stitched spirals on linen, twill, felt;
a hundred evenings’ work by those
first to rise, last to lie down,
after field-work, tilling, sowing, Sabbath
bringing the bright colours into the sunlight,
each valley’s head-dress marking its own.
We travel through the world, craving
others’ ritual, song, dance, belonging.
Here’s a beehive in a hollowed tree-trunk,
horse-skull on stone slab for lid, protection against spells:
sweetness in its measured place.
The long oak table on the top floor is laid out
for those departed, or not yet arrived.
As part of its defensive strategy … Dubrovnik had numerous granaries around town, capable of holding enough food to withstand a serious siege. The last-remaining one of these is now the Rupe Museum, and you can see some of the vast chambers that were dug into the rock to store grain back in the 16th century.
(Dubrovnik – Piers Letcher)
Through a square hole we see dizzying chasms
where Ragusa’s hunger was kept at bay
and, in the rooms above, the back story:
all the tools these people forged to bring out of the earth
what it held in store for them - ploughs, saws, scythes;
mid-wived through difficult labour, raised and husbanded,
preserved in fish-traps, oil jars; they could only
be amazed at what we waste, our bones, organs,
cupboards groaning with our double share.
We buy and discard cheap finery,
disconnected from its making, but here,
laid out in dazzling display, lie
thousand-stitched spirals on linen, twill, felt;
a hundred evenings’ work by those
first to rise, last to lie down,
after field-work, tilling, sowing, Sabbath
bringing the bright colours into the sunlight,
each valley’s head-dress marking its own.
We travel through the world, craving
others’ ritual, song, dance, belonging.
Here’s a beehive in a hollowed tree-trunk,
horse-skull on stone slab for lid, protection against spells:
sweetness in its measured place.
The long oak table on the top floor is laid out
for those departed, or not yet arrived.
As part of its defensive strategy … Dubrovnik had numerous granaries around town, capable of holding enough food to withstand a serious siege. The last-remaining one of these is now the Rupe Museum, and you can see some of the vast chambers that were dug into the rock to store grain back in the 16th century.
(Dubrovnik – Piers Letcher)
At the Komodor
The Englishman in wrinkled blue trunks
lies, paperbacked wife at his side,
cooking his flesh a vivid brick red;
a yellow plane swoops over and through
the sea’s surface like a dragonfly, circles
over Babin Kuk and back towards the hills
where black smoke billows into a cloudless sky.
The Englishman in wrinkled blue trunks
lies, paperbacked wife at his side,
cooking his flesh a vivid brick red;
a yellow plane swoops over and through
the sea’s surface like a dragonfly, circles
over Babin Kuk and back towards the hills
where black smoke billows into a cloudless sky.
Midnight on the No 4 bus from Dubrovnik
This man lolls as his son rolls his eyes,
pantomiming an awful smell as
the elderly, frail Englishwoman hangs
from the yellow strap, teetering over him.
Perhaps it’s fortunate that, amidst
a welter of tongues, I cannot dredge
up the Italian for Your child is a pig
with no manners, for at the next bend
a young girl across the aisle, one
of their party, stands and offers her seat,
and the woman grabs at my husband’s
proffered wrist, a desperate sparrowhawk
as she folds herself down,
red-faced and damp with relief
making eye-contact and holding the girl’s
attention to convey her deep thankfulness.
This man lolls as his son rolls his eyes,
pantomiming an awful smell as
the elderly, frail Englishwoman hangs
from the yellow strap, teetering over him.
Perhaps it’s fortunate that, amidst
a welter of tongues, I cannot dredge
up the Italian for Your child is a pig
with no manners, for at the next bend
a young girl across the aisle, one
of their party, stands and offers her seat,
and the woman grabs at my husband’s
proffered wrist, a desperate sparrowhawk
as she folds herself down,
red-faced and damp with relief
making eye-contact and holding the girl’s
attention to convey her deep thankfulness.
The Girl in the Golden Thong
Past my bikini years; the old man in M & S trunks,
we sit on pebbles in a crowd of Slovenians,
Croats and Montenegrins, putting on our water-shoes,
and look up as a pair of young lovelies land
prettily in front of us, squeezing
into a pocket-handkerchief space,
and the girl in the golden thong,
with her perfectly perky buttocks
stands and bends over, straight-legged,
to oil her calves, luxuriously;
my husband’s eyes fly away over the bay
like a startled bird,
and the Russian at our elbow turns pink,
while his wife folds her arms.
Past my bikini years; the old man in M & S trunks,
we sit on pebbles in a crowd of Slovenians,
Croats and Montenegrins, putting on our water-shoes,
and look up as a pair of young lovelies land
prettily in front of us, squeezing
into a pocket-handkerchief space,
and the girl in the golden thong,
with her perfectly perky buttocks
stands and bends over, straight-legged,
to oil her calves, luxuriously;
my husband’s eyes fly away over the bay
like a startled bird,
and the Russian at our elbow turns pink,
while his wife folds her arms.