Sicilian Vespers

Poems written during my time as Chaplain of St Georges, Taormina, Sicily.

My Terrace

Cable car past my window
Regular like a metronome 
Beating time from dawn to dusk

Across the bay Tuna cut through
Salt waters avoiding the wily nets
Laid by patient fishermen, pescatori

Tourists ascend and descend like 
A Mark Wallinger video, but the angels 
Are helicopters traversing the skies 

So this heavenly view point, visited 
By artists and writers, caught between 
Sodom and heaven, arriving rejected

By their own kith and kin, seeking
Solace in a magical mystery tour
Of their own hoping and dreaming

Under the shadow of Mount Etna
Looking across the Bay, light falling
As the lights towards Messina fade
Into a darkening Sicilian sky

We await the new days dawning 
Celebrate marriages made
As the whole of human existence 
Is laid out for review and rejoicing

Watching the very centre of the earth
This Mediterranean sea, crossed
And recrossed by those seeking futures

Refugees from war torn lands, argonaughts
In rubber dinghies clinging to life, enacting
Their own odyssey of hope over hope

After D H Lawrence

Your body loitering naked in warm
Waters at the ocean’s edge
Yielding to the tidal flow
Resting tanned aganst sea washed sand

We two in consumation are as one
Existing beyond loneliness or solitude
Surrendering our very essence, one
To the other we are complete, perfect

An evening sun sets
Behind the mountain
Slowly, cautiously, one
By one, in the dusk
Are revealed below my terrace
The lights of Taormina

As the daylight falls
I approach the waiting
Night with caution, sleep
Does not come, so I sit
In darkness on my terrace
Above the lights of Taormina

Somehow I approach
My little death with caution
Anticipating another end
In a not so distant future
Saying compline on my terrace
Above the lights of Taormina

No roaring lions go about
But feral cats pad ghostly by
I sense the silence of heaven
Naming the lights for friends and lovers
Offering prayers on my terrace
Above the lights of Taormina

A night out

Nights in Taormina 
The press of bodies 
On Corso Umberto
A Brit pop band 
Singing Wonderwall 

This mix of language 
Nations, music, dance
The Finnish couple 
Took to the floor dancing 

Rhythms askew, twisting
To the Money, whilst funny
It was a tribute to musicians 
Risking their talent

The funny guy, centre
Stage, just dancing, after
A fashion, his shorts
Swirling to the rhythms 

Just passing by, caught
By the music, always planned
To be a pop idol, the crowd
Cheered, no one jeered

Good humour in the bar
A Guinness pub in Sicily
Tomorrow I will search
For a four leaf clover

The Irish are everywhere
The biggest export, St Patrick
Settled not just America
But the whole of the known world

Heaven’s Silence

Settling into a new sense
Hearing heaven’s silence
There are no sharp corners
Or hard edges to be smoothed

We must adjust as we go
The pebbles around which
We close our fists must be
Accommodated, space made

Until we settle together
Comfortable in each other’s
Silence, made at ease until
The pebbles soften and we mellow

With time’s passing, the pebbles
Remain strong, hard, but we know
It’s simple to understand, the constant
Flow of water turning stone to sand

Pebbles

As warm water laps
The strand I reach down
To grasp the iridescent 
Aquamarine pebble glinting
Beneath foaming waters

I hold the pebble firmly
In my palm, it’s shape
Snuggles between stretched
Fingers, adjusting to damp
Warmth in my outstretched 

Hand, so begins slow, gentle excercise
Adjusting to the newness there
Knowing that in time I will grow accustomed 
To feeling you alongside, in my life
Comfortable, at one, friends, lovers

Awaiting Elizabeth’s Arrival

Watching your flight, live
On the screen tracker, each
Minute seems an hour in passing

My bus to the airport, turns
Down tortuous steep inclines
As I approach the airport

Arrivals flicker up on screens
Overhead, each flight checked in
Luggage carousels, Passport control 

Negotiated, I see you first in arrivals
Looking anxiously around, then you smile
Move towards me through a milling crowd

Living a Sicilian dream. Below, the lights
Of Taormina greet us as the bus draws us closer
To the music of Corso Umberto

Bougainvillia

Red flowers pierce green leaves
Magenta, ruby, bloody wounds
As on battlefields poppies grow
Pro Patria Mori

In this centre of the Earth
Peoples journey from danger
Risking lives for safety and peace
Pro Patria Mori

Here the Bougainvillia blossoms 
Over the shallow graves of the drowned
Affecting the mourning of nature
Pro Patria Mori

The dead bury the dead, the living
Wash their hands irresponsible 
Of cause or effect, failed policies
Pro Patria Mori

From Lesbos to Lampedusa
Syrophoenician’s beg children’s 
Crumbs from their master’s tables
Pro Patria Mori

Modigliani’s women

Sing a chorus of delight 
Resonating along
Corso Umberto

Singing a captivating man’s
Praise, reaching towards
The sublime, their eyes 
Piercing the secrets of hearts

As we walk the room
A Son et Lumiere streams
Light through an Absinthe
Glass, as lovers reach forward

Seeking their truths, seeking
Their futures, but finally walking
Backwards, like Greeks
Seeing what they leave behind

Turning backs on what is
No longer bearable, life alone
Without the beautiful man
Transforming their beauty

From vision to canvas
In oils, drawn from life
Transformed by images of Africa
The eyes continue to reveal truth

As we walk to the piazzo
My eyes reflect your beauty
Your eyes are captivating 
Reflecting the beauty

Modiglani’s art

Passegiata

Each footstep grows fainter
As we walk towards 
A distant slope reaching
High beyond the Church

The organ notes thunder
Deep bass against the choirs
Melodic harmonies 
This rich tapestry of sound

Celebrating the coming
Of a new day, new hopes
A new arising from depth
Of ocean’s rise and fall

Natures symphonies
Sound and vision
First lauds gives way
To prime celebrated 

As the Sun rises with
Terce echoing from 
A night sky singing
The morning’s rising

Sunsets

The sun sets over Messina
A soft blush in a deepening 
Sky, as night enters stealthily
We sense the presence. Your blush

Matches the skies sultry look
As we finish the wine in our glasses
We anticipate an evening of music
Beneath Taormina lights

Lunch at Randazzo 

Gathered round the table
Dipping bread in wine
Shared words, Linguaglossa

Macaroni with tomato 
Sauce, ripe fruits bottled
For the winter ahead

Aubergine marinated 
In oil pressed from the trees
Where we parked the car

Courgette deep fried, served
With Artichoke finely sliced
On white china slightly chipped

Green beans glistening 
With a dressing of warm butter
Speckled with Garlic roughly chopped

Words of appreciation, the grace
Offered for food and friendship
Grown and shared in the Cascina

As we break bread under the mountain 
Vines groaning with their grapes
Pressed to make the wine we spill

Hospitality

Around us the evening gathers
An excitable procession passes
From the Bus Terminus to the Corso

Traffic pours North and South, above
Our heads a helicopter falls stirring the waters
Below our terrace, an ambulance

Sings its siren warning, silently
We ask the Virgin to intercede
Peace and blessing, health, recovery

In this still centre the ancient ministry
Of hospitality becomes our vocation
So we tell our beads, raise our glass

Welcome strangers to enjoy rest
Amongst the bougainvilleas, beneath
The shade of Chiesa Anglicana

Canaries in cages

By a first floor window
Above Porta Catania
Below the market
Bathed in warm sun
Two cages of Canary
Sing their dreams
Of open skies and flight

High over the Ionian Sea
Rising on thermals
Birds of prey wheel
And turn against azure
Skies rejoicing 
in open skies and flight

So people trapped
Earthbound, dream 
Dreams of freedom’s gift
Rising to fulfilment
Soaring to achieve
Their potential risking
All to succeed

A Visitor

Taking calls in Taormina 
Free roaming passeggiata 

Being aware of Greeks bearing
Gifts, making claims about Sicilian

DNA, clearly losing their marbles
Causing confusion, demanding

The end of memorials, claiming
Freedom of theatre from Brit Pop

The return of Aeschylus to his stage
The return from captivity of Helen 

Of Troy, preaching against hegemony 
Demanding the return of their money

Refugees

As the lights of Tripoli fade
Or the lights of Damascus
When the electricity works
Fade into a dark ocean

So the small craft, low in the water
Drifts toward distant shores, still
Hostile, but less so than home
Paddling by moonlight hoping

Against what little hope is left
For new life on new shores
In new lands, hearing the sea’s
Sussuration lapping into and over

The small overcrowded boat
Sensing ahead the flash of light 
The coastline coming into view 
Fireworks from a Fiesta, celebrate 

The Saints day of a village, town
Or City mistaken for a welcome
Easing distress for the distressed 
As ahead the lights of Taormina shine

Wandering Minstrels

In the Wundebar on Corso Umberto 
We sat down to pizza and beer
Whilst a jazz band sang Roberta Flack

Four musicians stopped by
Ordered pizza and beer
A trio I guessed and a singer

They sat beneath the mountain 
That breathed fire like a dragon
As the bass played a chord

The ground beneath our feet
Moved, a faint pulsing, a rumble
Of tectonic plates jarring together 

This is the earth on whose uncertain
Surface we dwell, does the earth move?
Only you can tell, but here under the volcano 

It is more certain, as Popacatapetal showed
God is in the fire and the earthquake 
Father God, Senor, forgive us our sins

Corso Umberto 

Words of language scattered
As we walk along streets flowing
With people, the language of humanity
A literal babble as in Babel

A street of shopping and eating
Of music, of jazz, of chords played
A street of intermingling, of sweat
And deoderent, gelato and granita

A street following the mountain’s
Contour, a street of flat pavements
Between Messina and Catania, past
The Greek Theatre, feet stained with dust

From Etna, a street of and for passegiata
A street of unmet friends, strangers
Yet to meet, a street of street styles
And beach dress, a catwalk of fashionistas

Pausing for caricature or artistic portrait
For the view of the cruise ship or the lights
Below, hesitating as Etna signals steam
In the Sunset, drinking Sicilian wine, raising

A glass with cheers, smiling to strangers
Unaware of dangers, the waiters balancing 
Trays, swerving through crowds beneath clouds
Below in the dusk, the lights of Taormina

Etna

Steam rises over the lava fields
As the craters lift and swell
Black dust mingles with steam

Deep in the mountains heart
Magma boils and fires, its burning
Soul scalding and scarring land around

Voragene, Bocco Nuova, Silvestri
Drawing crowds to witness the constant
Threat of eruption carrying the land before it

Threatening life and property as it slides
A river of fire, across vineyards and homesteads
Abandoned, neglected, forsaken by natures force

The wonder is in the way a fragile flower stands
On the bleak, threatening darkness of the lava
Where a hundred years passes before growth

Returns, yet here shining against the dark ruined
Soil, the bright, hope filled, deep yellow mystery
Celebrates the possibility of restoration

Linguaglossa

Words always words
Each day I am rewarded
For trying new words
When buying bread
Or milk or wine

Here the language of discourse
Is the language of sharing
Linguaglossa is the name
Of a small town hereby
Today the guide slipped

From language to language 
This is the encouragement 
Of words laid like bread
On the tongue each Sunday
The word like bread

Broken, shared, said
Or sung. Each evening
The sun goes down, stars 
Appear as words glowing 
In the night skies

The Dancer

Mind the Flaneurs
And mind your manners
Tonight’s yellow shirts and shorts
If that’s the news just mind my gold shoes

Stop by the saxophonist 
Really quite the modernist
Tonight’s a very smart black
So enjoy the views of my best gold shoes

My dancing attracts crowds
Mobile phone filming is allowed
Tonight’s better red than dead
Social media just loves my gold shoes 

Ah a white wine on my table
I think I’ve become a fable
The talk of Corso Umberto 
Reflecting the patterns on my gold shoes

I’m an old but Italian Stallion
My gold medallion
Swinging in my unbuttoned shirt
Matching the hues of my best gold shoes

Road Signs

Approaching the mountain 
Imbued with awe the warning
Was not of sudden disruption 
But of the presence of deer

Standing silently in tune 
With the earth’s pulsing
Beneath their feet tectonic rhythms 
Where lava had cooled an ashen plain

Deer as the sentinels of earths 
Changing leaping gracefully before
Molten streams as the earth catches fire
From its belly cascading devouring 

So the sign warns, its iconography 
Showing deer in in their beauty
Unimpeded by landscape escaping
To new lives, new grazing, new hopes

Leaving you uncertain yet assured
As you arrive beneath the pulse 
Of the earth, the volcano’s breath
Demonic, so the deer speak of grace 

Compassion, trust, renewal, possibility
A road sign warning of danger, risk
Telling a story of how nature lives
So much at ease with itself

A Sonnet written in a thunderstorm 

Uncertainties hover ahead chimera 
Always tempting your fates toward risk
Overhead thunder rolls like gods at play
Never certain whether to stay or twist 

However the cards are dealt, the dealer
Retains the upper hand, lightening dazzles
As you blink, lightening flashes through ether
On battlements soldiers defend castles

Beware Greeks bearing gifts, suing for peace 
Occupying with military force
Hoping the hostilities will soon cease
Harnessing plough not chariot to horse

Playing chess with the fates of history 
Seeking to fathom life’s mystery

Sunday

A hot day is in view
Lizards warm themselves 
In sunlight casting golden
Shadows on earthen floor

As we prepare for Eucharist 
Where bread is broken
Where wine is spilt, so we prepare
words, to be broken, shared

These gifts are given as celebration
Declaration that we are prepared
To come as children entering
The kingdom that awaits, where peace

And justice can be seen and sung
Broken hearts healed, truth revealed
As the day warms fear of thunder
Lessens, the God’s look kindly on us

The lizard’s know these truths
Basking innocently in the sunshine
Waiting for the scraps that might fall
From the table we have prepared

Caffe Corretto

A morning coffee
Taken alone
Apart from Facebook
On my ‘phone

After heavy rain
Streets are clean
Sun comes out
Keen to be seen

The waitress asks
Una corretto, una normale?
I shake my head
Una Corretto only

Passeggiata 
Passes through
My coffee corrected
What shall I do?

Is Sunday your last day?
Her Italian rushed
finally revealing
They had me sussed

After I thought 
My disguise
Was complete
Just one of the guys

I paid with Euros
And then on a hunch
Asked for Arancini
To be eaten for lunch

So prepare for departure
Get ready to fly
Sadness in leaving
As days rush by

What is to come
Rumours are rife
Glad to be picking up pieces
Of a suspended life

My Dancing Day

Rising early, greeted
By sunlight through an open
Skylight, wondering 
What the day will bring

Maybe today I’ll try
My dancing shoes for size
Maybe stretch to touch
My outstretched toes

Maybe this is my dancing
Day, coming at last
As the pain of loss lessens
Embracing future possibilities 

Rising to face the future
Choosing Yes! I do, will, can
Today the mountain’s heart
Will enrich the earth

Olives and grapes will grow
Maturing ready for harvest
On mineral rich earth
Olives pressed for oil, grapes for wine

Dipping my bread in oil
I breakfast under blue flagged sky
At night, sipping my wine
I toast twelve gold stars

Montelbano

Sea the colour of wine 
Breakers sussurate
Songs of the drowning 
Borne on wild Siroccos

Tectonic plates moving 
Over Aeons beneath continents 
Jarring as they move causing 
Oceans to withdraw before Tsunami 

Breathing winds from Africa heavy
With moisture, as weather 
Gods struggle at days turning
Deciding a days’s weather 

Throwing dice at midnight 
Clouds bring rain on the throw
Stars bring clear skies and sun
Chance, weather poor or fine

Blind Homer keens in the wind
Recites his poetry and sagas
Brings Ulysses home to his love
Praises the compassion from above

At midnight, clear skies 
Tomorrow the sun will shine 
On the horizon comes the prize
A wine red Mediterranean Sea

The Mercata

Move against the traffic
Creating a contra flow 
Of vehicles ascending 
In low gear fighting gradient

Then turning up a shaded
Staircase climbing to the sun
Entering the market taking
A breath under shaded eyes

Layers of stalls vegetables 
Meat, fish, vendors vying
For custom, deciding, choosing 
Freshness comes first, bright

Eyed fish awaiting your catch
Halting Italian, unfamiliar names
Sarda, Sardine, freshly caught
In the straights below. Simply

Prepared for supper, dredged
In flour, lightly salted, pan fried
In olive oil, perfection on a plate
Eaten with an accompaniment 

Of fresh tomato, basil and ever
Present olive oil, with bread 
To mop the juices from fish
The scents and flavours of the sea

A Mediterranean diet, served 
On a plate, cooked with love
By a chef naked for protection 
Against spillage, spattering, damage

No River Cafe perfection
No Jaime Oliver Bish, bash 
Or bosh, no Nigel Slater unctuous 
Compliment, just food perfection

La Mia Casa

Slow sunrise over
Messina, the day
Stretches and awakens
Gathering momentum 

Things will get warmer
The harvest is not yet in
Olives ripe for picking 
Grapes yet to be pressed

In time, like tomorrow 
We will reach out beyond
Horizons to celebrate. Bread 
Will be broken, wine will be spilt

Hands of friendship
Extended, a kingdom
Called into being where
Death is greeted as a friend

In these final days as summer
Draws to a close, tithing
Will be ordered and the Glebe
Fields surveyed for rotation

Accounts audited by angels 
signed off by Saints, all debts
Deleted, leaving you free to leave
Finally at peace with yourself

Homeward Bound

Peeling away, my last bell
Tolled as I face the future

A pilgrims tale, uncertainty 
Connections made or missed

Maybe I could write a sestina 
As the plane climbs over Messina

Six stanzas, each stanza representing
Aeronautical miles as we fly north

A thousand miles or more veering 
Eastward as we climb over the Alps

I keep asking the pilot like an excited 
Child, are we there yet? Are we there?

Cruising at 30,000 feet no turbulence 
We’ll soon be Brexiting, taking back

Control, back in our own airspace 
In charge of our own destinies 

Tomorrow’s not just another day
It’s the first day of the rest of my life

Nearing Newcastle

I’ve not walked 500 miles
But I’ve felt every one go by
Buses and trains and planes
Eating expensive sandwiches
Standing in queues, paying my dues
But my destination gets nearer
And if I had to I’d walk 500 miles
And 500 more to see your face