chakra

 

i know, when we get there,

the zinc door trembling as we open makes me shudder.

it’s a long reel unwinding, creaking – the time i spend in those fields,

each time i’m there.

 

once, you let me help you

i walked behind you on soft soil

home, i brought smells of onions and fennel

i dream of you, they return

open doors wide, they won’t leave.

 

we went searching for beans hiding

in tiny branches, white florets

you taught me how to open pod by pod

really quickly. i still smell you

when beans are ready for me to rip, look inside.

 

we collected grapes. i recall

fine stems curling, fingers purple

you showed me the square hole

in the shade, where you turned grapes

to wine, each year.

i don’t know why, i was scared.

 

months later, picking dahlias

and zinnhias – armfuls,

walking in, girdling bunch by bunch,

brown string, to take them to cemetery.

 

then, one day we took you with the flowers.

 

even then, the land was soft

giving out smells of incence

and from the aisle grew olive trees–

 

 

 

sometimes i cut the night in two

humming songs coming from nowhere

which taste of songs chanted by grannies

who are now ghosts

 

Ten minutes to six. Almost dark. I’m in the kitchen. In the living-room, Vivaldi. And Clive.
Together, they make a home of this house. As does the greenish candle on the dark
table, flickering. And the coffee grinder. And the parsley in a glass, slightly inclined.
Together with the pungent smell of roast potatoes and onions. Outside, it’s gone cold. I

can hear children chatting on some doorstep, or some women returning from Mass. No,
it’s children. At times, they laugh. Someone is running. Then stops. And there’s a car with
speakers loud enough to rattle the glass. Simon and Garfunkel: The Sound of Silence.
Probably a van. It too slows down. Here, the street gets narrow. As in an alley, where the
balconies mock each other. The neighbours across seem to live in our house – their TV is
ours too. I could spend lifetimes just listening: people bawling, applauding, making love.
Not as now, apparently still. Everything’s silent, as though they’ve left. Only somebody
locking up, the iron bolt squeaking. The louvre. And a tug at the glass, pulling at the

window-frame. But tonight, there’ll be no rain. There’s hardly one cloud. A short while
ago, everything was bursting with sunshine: the yards and their light-coloured sheets
flapping, the walls with orange trees in their laps, the low steps between the buildings.

 

At this time, every day, I feel a bit sad. Time has flown, like a pebble. Far away, the port
scatters its light onto the water, together with the sounds of ships leaving. Beyond the
curtain caught by a side-tie, the church’s precincts. The clubs spread out on its margins.
The waterfront. And the cars parked any old how mid-way down the hill, in front of the
pizza booth a few metres away from the police station. A horn blares. A pause, and the
car revs. From the roof, I can hear people shouting all the way from Birgu – under It-
Toqba (the hole). And when I look closely at the small waves, I think I can even hear
them snore. From the valley, nothing. My eyes, instinctively, always move there. Earlier,
cranes, trucks. Now, nothing. At this table I can see the whole day. I write, I eat, nothing
stops. Now, nothing.

 

Except the striking of the hour. Everywhere. And it is dark. Pitch-dark.

 

 

   silence – that’s what I recall, mostly

   : the biting silence – of your gaze

where i still keep vigil, waiting for thyme to bloom.

 

a white screen unfolds before me, slightly crinkled slightly patched

 

– and i’m there trembling

in my childhood hole, silent

in a block – that’s given up even on itself;

 

– you scrub my small body, bent over

the plastic basin with its broken handle,

a big pot bubbling on the light blue tower

of a kerosene stove with its black door

– how we peered from far to see the fire dance.

 

and i recall the silence, scared

of time passing, your bones – cracking

 

because that’s what i think

 

 

/ steamboats, keelboats

 

steamboats, keelboats … everyone

lives on rivers, where’s your river going?

 

 

 

 

stefo[1] tells me how his city

stopped at aristoteleus square and froze

years ago, while we walk

– he on the right, me next to him

 

 

we walk down, lost

and he asks if i’m still young

 

 

we don’t see the road

he turns his face

 

 

 

i still see them, quite often

 

as you come to the last step,

this black man in a puddle

of cigarettes and crumbs

nodding, fishing for your eyes fleeing

from his broken pupils.

 

walk a bit, this musician, harmonica rattling

the alleys of his brain winding

behind you, walking past him

– he weaves long ave marias, shaken

stopping, fraying; catches you looking back

starts again, weaving.

 

go up the train, running, before doors shut

this woman wrapped in dark

her face a hot thirsty desert

singing you tales to appease

you - small girl, lost–

 

the falling trees are falling trees

in the long run – the first white hair

and my tummy rolls to peep

over my Levi’s – today my legs

tire of carrying me, why should it matter?

while you rubbed my back – hands pressing down,

leaving red burning trails, you ran out of breath –

now you pass your fingers through my hair

you rest your head on my naked breasts

and let your eyes close – sleep –

when you wake, take me to grow old with you

man, i won’t forget – the taste of apples

in your kisses, and the dew in your sleepy eyes.

 

the four seasons are ours: we start with spring;

spring opens up; grows even lovelier

and at its ripest–

 

Inguanez Simone

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