Yánnina

<i>'There lay the peninsula stretching far into the dark gray water, with its mosque, its cypress tufts and fortress walls; there was the city stretching far and wide along the water's edge; there was the fatal island, the closing scene of the history of the once all-powerful Ali.'</i> —EDWARD LEAR Somnambulists along the promenade Have set up booths, their dreams: Carpets, jewelry, kitchenware, halvah, shoes. From a loudspeaker passionate lament Mingles with the penny Jungle's roars and screams. Tonight in the magician's tent Next door a woman will be sawed in two, But right now she's asleep, as who is not, as who . . . An old Turk at the water's edge has laid His weapons and himself down, sleeps Undisturbed since, oh, 1913. Nothing will surprise him should he wake, Only how tall, how green the grass has grown There by the dusty carpet of the lake Sun beats, then sleepwalks down a vine-festooned arcade, Giving himself away in golden heaps. And in the dark gray water sleeps One who said no to Ali. Kiosks all over town Sell that postcard, 'Kyra Frossíni's Drown,' Showing her, eyeballs white as mothballs, trussed Beneath the bulging moon of Ali's lust. A devil (turban and moustache and sword) Chucks the pious matron overboard— Wait—Heaven help us—SPLASH! The torch smokes on the prow. Too late. (A picture deeply felt, if in technique slapdash.) Wherefore the Lion of Epirus, feared By Greek and Turk alike, tore his black beard When to barred casements rose the song Broken from bubbles rising all night long: 'A ton of sugar pour, oh pour into the lake To sweeten it for poor, for poor Frossíni's sake.' (*) Awake? Her story's aftertaste Varies according to the listener. Friend, it's bitter coffee you prefer? Brandy for me, and with a fine White sandy bottom. Not among those braced By action taken without comment, neat, Here's how! Grounds of our footnote infiltrate the treat, Mud-vile to your lips, crystal-sweet to mine. Twilight at last. Enter the populace. One little public garden must retrace Long after school its childish X, Two paths that cross and cross. The hollyhock, the rose, Zinnia and marigold hear themselves named And blush for form's sake, unashamed Chorus out of Ignoramus Rex: 'What shall the heart learn, that already knows Its place by water, and its time by sun?' Mother wit fills the stately whispering sails Of girls someone will board and marry. Who? Look at those radiant young males. Their morning-glory nature neon blue Wilts here on the provincial vine. Where did it lead, The race, the radiance? To oblivion Dissembled by a sac of sparse black seed. Now under trees men with rush baskets sell Crayfish tiny and scarlet as the sins In any fin-de-siècle villanelle. Tables fill up. A shadow play begins. Painted, translucent cut-outs fill the screen. It glows. His children by a jumping bean Karaghiózi clobbers, baits the Turk, Then all of them sing, dance, tell stories, go berserk. Tomorrow we shall cross the lake to see The cottage tumbling down, where soldiers killed Ali. Two rugless rooms. Cushions. Vitrines In which, to this day, silks and bracelets swim. Above, a painting hangs. It's him, Ali. The end is near, he's sleeping between scenes In a dark lady's lap. Vassilikí. The mood is calm, the brushwork skilled By contrast with Frossíni's mass-produced Unsophisticated piece of goods. The candle trembles in the watching god's Hand—almost a love-death, höchste Lust! Her drained, compliant features haunt The waters there was never cause to drown her in. Your grimiest ragamuffin comes to want Two loves, two versions of the Feminine: One virginal and tense, brief as a bubble, One flesh and bone—gone up no less in smoke Where giant spits revolving try their rusty treble, Sheep's eyes pop, and death-wish ravens croak. Remember, the Romantic's in full feather. Byron has visited. He likes The luxe, and overlooks the heads on pikes; Finds Ali 'Very kind ... indeed, a father ... ' (*) Funny, that is how I think of Ali. On the one hand, the power and the gory Details, pigeon-blood rages and retali- ations, gouts of fate that crust his story; And on the other, charm, the whimsically Meek brow, its motives all ab ulteriori, The flower-blue gaze twining to choke proportion, Having made one more pretty face's fortune. A dove with Parkinson's disease Selects our fortunes: TRAVEL AND GROW WISE And A LOYAL FRIEND IS MORE THAN GOLD. But, at the island monastery, eyes Gouged long since to the gesso sockets will outstare This or that old-timer on his knees Asking the candlelight for skill to hold The figures flush against the screen's mild glare. Ali, my father—both are dead. In so many words, so many rhymes, The brave old world sleeps. Are we what it dreams And is a rude awakening overdue? Not in Yánnina. To bed, to bed. The Lion sets. The lights wink out along the lake. Weeks later, in this study gone opaque, They are relit. See through me. See me through. For partings hurt although we dip the pain Into a glowing well—the pen I mean. Living alone won't make some inmost face to shine Maned with light, ember and anodyne, Deep in a desktop burnished to its grain. That the last hour be learned again By riper selves, couldn't you doff this green Incorruptible, the might-have-been, And arm in arm with me dare the magician's tent? It's hung with asterisks. A glittering death Is hefted, swung. The victim smiles consent. To a sharp intake of breath she comes apart (Done by mirrors? Just one woman? Two? A fight starts—in the provinces, one feels, There's never that much else to do) Then to a general exhalation heals Like anybody's life, bubble and smoke In afterthought, whose elements converge, Glory of windless mornings that the barge (Two barges, one reflected, a quicksilver joke) Kept scissoring and mending as it steered The old man outward and away, Amber mouthpiece of a narghilé Buried in his by then snow white beard