CORFU HAS SETTLED ON ME LIKE AN OLD COAT
This collection is the narrative of the poet's life while living on the island of Corfu, Greece and her subsequent return after five years absence. The collection begins with the poem Augury where the narrator moves to Corfu and identifies herself as an exile as she begins to explore Corfu through its myths and modern day life. The poems are crafted in an accessible style with a strong feeling for place. Included in the collection are several prize-winning poems and many of the poems have been previously published by Agenda, Envoi, Poetry Salzburg, The Lawrence Durrell Journal, The Island Magazine, Cinnamon Anthologies as well as many others internationally.
Just finished reading 'Corfu has Settled on me like an old coat'. A little treasure of a book . The verses make you sit back as you do listening to a friend occasionally nodding with a smile . I love Corfu so when I return to my home this book will be like a comfort blanket on dark winter nights just like an old coat.
WHERE WILL YOU SPEND THE WINTER?
Will you breast the wide waters of the Nile
or lodge in the eaves of high-rise Cairo
rivalling the Muezzin’s call to prayer?
Take care the Sphinx won’t raise
its awesome paw to crush you.
Evade dangers of hawks
and men netting
or shooting for fun or food.
Perhaps you will head further south
along the curvature of the world,
to settle amongst mud-huts
where the only water is spilled
from buckets carried from wells.
Your life will be elsewhere now,
you have already forgotten
the grottoes of this place.
As you leave in these shortened days –
when sodden leaves deaden footfalls,
when the cyclamen re-sparks its cycle,
as the last oleander flower falls
and roses turn into hips on bare stalks –
the heat and heart forsake the land
and we long for the moment we can say
The swallows are back.
THE FABRIC OF DAWN
The needle glitters inch by inch / & the sound of its stitching reaches the sea. David Gascoyne.
The fabric of dawn stretches –
a shy, sienna waking light,
the sky lined with grey clouds
splitting, like silk wearing thin at the seams,
bright streaks sneaking in.
The rack of low, torn clouds
hurry above a glitter of sea
until a breeze breathes away voile mists
and the group of islands
in the north are visible,
the air is whipped
and clear as I drive
along the track which rises
up onto the headland, shaped
and sloped like the palm
of a hand, the wrist
ruched and wrinkled slept-on linen,
the spectral headland narrowing
into a single finger pointing out to sea.
Ahead an empty spit of white sand
corrugates like wide-ribbed corduroy.
Reluctantly, I return to town,
to the necklace of hotels
that nestle in the décolleté of promenade.
Nearby, litter of bougainvillea confetties
alleys and loiters in doorways.
The locals are already wearing
the browns and reds of changing leaves,
woollen sweaters, coats and scarves, knee-high boots,
while optimistic tourists in shorts,
sandals, t-shirts, bare-chested sea-tight skin,
whose sand-filled veins of hope absorb
the obdurate sun which robs
the island of its heat.
The platinum, satin sea now reflects
the empty streets, the town
lonely with ghosts of daytime-crowds.
Fringed tentacles of dusk finger
and scratch the darkening sky.