EUROPE :: goodbye

It’s almost Christmas! Which means this poem was written almost exactly a year ago… how time flies, aye?

When the wind splatters
On windowpanes
Obscuring Christmas lights
I watch the drops,
Count my blessings,
And prepare to say goodbye

My time in this foreign land
Its mysteries and its myths
Have come to an end.
Almost six months,
A dozen countries,
Memories like grains of sand.

So many times I’ve sat
In awe at splendid sights:
Churches or black bleaches
Colosseums or the Aegean sea
Casinos or perfumed bottles
Castles or rollercoasters

I’ve seen the world here
Beyond my wildest dreams
Braved new frontiers
Crossed a thousand borders
Met strangers and parted
Met friends and parted

Lived in a city
Surrounded by strangers
Spoke a language
I had only heard in classrooms
Walked in darkness and rain
In burning sun or snow fields

Learned to love company
And to be gloriously alone
To live on the edge
Of organised chaos
Each splendid day
Merging into paradise.

[Written 27/12/16 in Reykjavik]

PARIS :: au revoir

Long time no update. I was (and still am) quite preoccupied with this thing called life.

So this is it then.
The last night of a
Great adventure
In delicate memory like
Flickering candlelight.
The wax is short.
It drips into ice.
The end?

The night is cold.
Clouds blanket skies
And windows are lit.
It is almost Christmas.
Yet the city is empty,
My friends evaporated
Like the last droplets of
Water in a basin.

No longer will I walk
Across the bridge to
A fancy home for
Long-expected dinners
Made on a whim.
No longer will I see
The same familiar face
Dogging my footsteps,
That charismatic smlie
Beneath messy curls,
The face that marked
My seat in class –
Beside his.

No longer will I see
The Eiffel tower sparkle,
Take a bus across the Seine,
Ride a bike along its banks,
Stroll into museums as though
I own them.
No longer will I stroll down
The Champs-Elysees as though
It were my local street,
Buy breakfast in boulangeries,
Be tempted by creperies.

No longer will I climb
Six flights of winding wooden stairs
Be greeted by an orange laptop
And old familiarity.
As for that large unremarkable
Building I once called my school,
With its floors and rooms and lecture halls,
I can no longer say it is mine.
I am just another passing stranger
Who looks upon it with
Fond, forgotten memories.
Today I have passed that place
For the last time.

Goodbye and farewell,
City of lights.
Though you will always be here,
And I may visit again
A thousand times,
You will never be the same
As you were to me
In these last few months,
In this precious moment.

Au revoir, Paris.

Written 22/12/16 in my apartment in Paris, on the last night before my flight out of the city.

PARIS :: dusk

Freezing cold winds bite at
My dry and cracked hands,
My shoes crunch pebbles
On streets of sand.
Beneath bright moonlight
In glimmering dusk
I sit on a side bench,
Green fading into rust.

Streetlamps light the way
Of weary travellers who stay
Out in the chilly autumn breeze
By the river, under trees.

The Eiffel tower looms again
Over the skyline, shining
I sit still with a pen in hand,
My thoughts awhirl, pining.
Pink and orange cling to skies
Of an ever-constant blue
Traffic queues on avenues
Then rumble off down every rue.

Night falls and Paris glows
Hushed for a spectacular show.
The runners run, the lovers kiss,
And poets sit and reminisce.

LA LOIRE :: les chateaux

Has
there
ever been
a mightier show
of power, a greater
call to arms, than the
building of a majestic castle,
turrets shining white in the sun?

Has
there
ever been
more splendid
than marble walls
guarding spiral staircases
and strongholds whispering
the most intimate secrets in silence?

Will
there
ever be
gardens more
enchanting, with
laughing fountains and
golden leaves backdropped
by ancient roofs and towers?

For
these
castles are
aplenty on this
crisp autumn day
as we walk through
history books and wonder
at the lords and kings of old.

The
rooms
are filled
with splendid
drapes and arched
cold ceilings carved with
heraldic symbols of old nobility
that now gather dust in forgotten books.

The
stone
is dark
and faded
but still it stands
and does not falter
to carry on after its lord
has gone and only strangers remain.

Let
castles
tell their
stories through
whispers in stone
and loud creaking doors
and the whistling of the wind
through the open windows echoes

Like
ghosts
and ancient
spirits recalling
precious past memories
etched deep into the soul
of the foundations of the castle,
buried deep beneath the earth, but not forgotten.

[Written 6/10/16]

MONT SAINT-MICHEL

A misted spectre rises
From a sea of endless sand,
A tower amidst the clouds,
Surveying the low-lying lands,
An ancient stone giant
Proudly weathering winds,
Even as storm-clouds billow
And the sky is dimmed.

The clack of shoes on cobblestones
In this famous fortress town,
Back into the fog of time
As old shops surround.
Climb uneven stairs
Amidst soaring towers,
A gasp of pure delight
As I stare out for hours

At white-washed sand flats
As far as the eye can see
Covered by a low tide
That protects in time of need.
The horizon fades away
Into a sea of darkening clouds,
And the wind bites at my skin
With a whistling sound.

A panorama of wonder
Greets my eyes here.
The world spread before my feet,
A sight my heart holds dear,
For this majestic city
Has seen centuries pass by
And countless men have visited
Or lived here and died.

An island amongst the tides
Between the sea and sky,
A grand towering fortress
Radiating might.
Its darkened stones tell stories
In its abbey and its halls,
As a symbol it will stand
For ages to come, I am sure.

[Written 27/9/16]

COMPIEGNE :: the forest

Feel the rush of wind
Tossing at my hair
As I ride through forest paths.
Watch the blur of green
On either side
As though I’ve grown wings to fly.

The road ahead
Is smooth and straight
My wheels skim like skipping stones.
Silence reigns
Save for the whispering leaves
And my wheels ticking like clocks.

Watch the dappled sunlight
Blocked by  roof of branches
That suddenly fall away and open.
A vast expanse
Of green and trees
At a long-forgotten crossroad.

Hurtling forward
Without a are
Towards a brand new horizon.
We are young
In a foreign land
And we feel invincible.

[Written 9/9/16 – most of these photos were taken on a bike, which is why they are slightly blurred]

PARIS :: my house

I live in an old attic
Beneath the roof,
Under the stars.
A winding staircase leads
To a small room
Beside a busy road,
With a view of open skies
And tree-lined avenues.

The windows are open,
The rumble of traffic
Is an unceasing melody.
The piercing afternoon sun
Fills the room that looks
A little too comfortably inhabited.
But an artist cannot be too neat
Or where would inspiration come from?

I have a new pen in hand,
A quill and ink from lovely Venice
Brought all this way just for this moment,
Just for this purpose
Of chronicling these fleeing memories
That cannot be captured by words.
But who is to stop me from trying?
How else will these memories live?

I have only just arrived
And yet it already feels as though
A lifetime has passed in the
City of love, these blue-roofed houses
Become a home, that flowing river
A welcome sight for sore eyes,
A place of crossroads, where old and new
Merge into inexplicable destiny.

My home, I know, is as far
From this place as it can be,
Across vast oceans and foreign lands
Back to white shores and golden sand,
Of a language that I dream in
With people who have known me for
Longer than I can remember
And better than I know myself.

Here we are all foreigners,
A brave facade before a lost soul
With all the time in the world
That slips through fingers like
Grains of sand.
So desperate to make the most of time,
To have the time of our lives,
Yet we do not know how.

So throw yourself headfirst, my friend,
Or retreat into friendly faces.
Rise with the moon or set with the sun,
Walk tree-lined streets in your dreams,
Visit a thousand museums,
Take a million flights,
Stutter and garble the language,
Whisper desire into the night.

This may be Paris, that renowned city,
But do not come with expectations.
City of love, but love is fickle,
City of lights, or a mirage?
This is a place of old charm
That reverberates deep in its heart.
Do not come with foreign notions of pride,
It will not serve; simply adapt.

One day when I look back,
I will not remember the minutes
Spent waiting for a bus,
The stairs climbed to reach my room,
The meals bought for a lazy lunch.
But that, my friend, is the essence of living.
Amidst grand history and art
I leave my mark.

[Written 7/9/16. The photo is the view from my window]

PARIS :: by the Seine

The river shimmers,
Reflects the sky,
The boats rumble on
Steadily
Lined by trees and
Dwarfed by bridges,
Watching ants crawl along
The shore.

Soft white marshmallows
Frame blue skies,
Sunlight dappled by
Summer leaves.
Along the banks of the river Seine
Philosophers sat and
Pondered their lives away,
Artists’ brushes blurred.

People march–with friends
Or alone
Or plant themselves on
Wooden benches
A drink, a laugh,
A water view
Is enough to shake away
All the worldly troubles.

And poets?
Poets are still–a pen
In hand, rough scribbles
Over tattered pages,
Every few seconds looking up
At the view of a thousand dreams
Pausing, eyes glazed,
Over half-finished lines.

It is we who reach
Down into the depths to
Describe the indescribable soul
Of an evolving city,
Centuries unchanged.
It is we who capture
Every breath of air,
Every rustling leaf.

For amidst the chatter
And rumbling motors
And lapping water
And pitter-patter footsteps,
Those who have come before
And those who will yet come after
Will see the same view,
The same river,

The same rising sun.

[Written 29/8/16 by the river Seine]

PIERREFONDS :: Camelot

In a land of myth
And a time of magic
A castle of dreams
Towered over a village.
Its blue-capped roofs
Emerged from legend,
Its fortified stone walls
Kept careful guard.

In another life
This place held magic,
And dangers besieged it
From unknown realms,
But here there lived
A valiant prince
Aided in the dark
By a lionheart.

They walked these streets
And roamed these room,
Bantered in long corridors.
Men passed judgment kneeling
Or held feasts beside the throne.
A warlock studied,
A princess turned mad,
And between them suspended destiny.

You may call them lost
To fantasy and fiction,
But in my heart
They lived here.
Welcomed valiant knights,
Waged wars against kingdoms,
Fought for morality
Fearlessly.

Here stands the last relic
Of their legendary feats.
The cold stone towers
And mosaic-ed windows
And stone gargoyles of fantasy
And cobblestones of echoed steps
Of the greatest wizard to ever live
And his once and future king.

[Written 9/9/16. I have chosen to put this poem out of order for good reason – this is a special poem  that describes my visit to the Château de Pierrefonds in France, otherwise known as the filming location of Camelot in BBC’s Merlin. I am a huge fan of that show and it was something really special to walk around that castle and relive the memories of some of my favourite characters. I am posting this today in honour of National Merlin Day – may we all have courage, strength and magic, and find our destinies.]

PARIS :: beneath the tower

A scene from a dream
Shines before me,
Rising up towards the heavens,
Holding up the clouds,
Glowing gold against the
Pink and orange sky.

A cacophony of sounds,
Multi-lingual chatter,
Bursts or laughter in the crowd
Swarming towards the tower like
Fireflies towards a flame
Looking towards heaven with bated breath.

Lively music hops into my ear,
The moon peaks out from behind
As the sky fades into darkened dusk.
The city settles down,
Uncoils, releases a breath,
All eyes on the shining symbol.

Streetlights glimmer in the dusk.
The Eiffel Tower is molten gold,
Its beams spin into the night.
People dance beneath the stars
Or gather in flocks on grass
To witness a dream come true.

[Written 16/8/16 in Trocadero, Paris. The photos show the transition of the Eiffel tower from dusk to nightfall. While I was writing this poem, a woman looked over and noticed, and we chatted for a short while. This was the first time anyone had ever spoken to me because of my writing, and it was such a pleasant experience.]