History without any dates
 
 The clouds are not the story I am
of the rocks I am
with the tide I am
in my Greek village I am
history without any dates
 
My friend is bedridden and
we speak unseen to each other
through his open window he asks
of the world beyond he wants
to give me his spear gun
the Hellenic sun falling into
the fine dark sea
 
I devour the fish but merely
sip the amber retsina
my tear-stained eyes beguile
the nightfall of amethyst and
smoky quartz
 
Don’t open that trunk of music!
My whole life is in there.
 
Bees guzzle the death of cyclamens
at odds with the olive wind
dark stars eat each other like chapels
eat the rock the candles the frescoes
the dusk

I smell ouzo in these pages.
 
The rocks have beautiful faces.

So Many Faces and None
 
 
I am fado I am the loneliness of all souls the rainy souls of loneliness I am the longing in the thorns the scars the string that bends snaps slices bleeds and cries I am tears falling in ancient black wells and farewells never ending
I am fado I am
the longing
 
sweetly vengeful relics nip at my heels, but I am faster
 
like Pessoa I write listening without feeling the sounds of the street disquieted by my gasping snoring living my dying my dreaming
 
an angel is an angel anywhere, but more so on earth
 
singing on the dank street corner singing at the bright river’s edge singing in the blue chapel singing as the planet dies
 
sails and sun feathers unfurled the birds are not angry they are energy they are
 
I imbibe copious clouds but I’m still so damn thirsty
 
being a non-being in a non-world like non-clouds I am so many faces and none
 
calcadas light my dark walks bright gravity to my foolish fancies where I dance like I haven’t a cure in the world
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Fado
(a found poem)
 
 A cry for hope.
 
Tenderness?
Sure, but so little.
 
Just because a swallow dies, spring does not end.
 
The soul gets tired.
 
The fingers take orders from the heart.
 
We leave our bodies when we sing.
 
The alchemy of sound and poem,
it’s inside us from birth.
 
**

Memory?
 
I cannot remember if
there was a candle
on the clothed table
set for one.
 
I do recall the vinho verde
chilling in a teakwood bucket,
poured quietly between 
sets of fado, smoldering,
mournful--
 
tearful singer, wet cheeks lit
by dying candlelight.
 
I remember.

 
**
 
Into the Vapor and Din
 
Listening to Amalia with windows
wide open,
saudade in winter
evening gloom.
 
My new guitarra portuguesa
yearns for me to learn, to teach
old fingers new licks, and I dream
 
I am wandering calcadas in Lisboa
inventing my own heteronyms, concocting
poems with vastly different pens.
 
I greet Fernando Pessoa,
“Bom dia, Senhor. I saw you sitting
outside A Brasileira today but
you were not actually there
nor anywhere else.”
 
“That is how I prefer it,”
he replied without inflection
then vanished precisely
into the vapor and din.
 
I awaken to Amalia singing
life’s last song,
to gray-soaked murk and
swirling fog.
 
The music pours through
my confused heart.
 
My weeping eyes listen
to the distant wild
ocean wind.


(c) Eric Walter 2022

He Heard Wings

The herons had not appeared for quite some time and he wondered if his presence had finally driven them away. He searched the deep sky above the lake, branches of towering firs, rhododendrons in the shade, and the reeds clustered in marshes and coves. All the places he had ever seen them before. Nothing stirred. A mild panic enclosed him. He needed to see them. To assure himself that he had not broken some vital chain. He began to dream of salamanders and small fish. In the flames of his campfire he heard wings.

Dust Off the Two Bronze Bells
 
Somphoun elects not to climb
The 100 steep steps up to Wat Chom Phet
Instead lies down to nap on naked wood.
As I ascend alone, a mangy dog growls
Barks fiercely then turns tail and vanishes
Silent into the somnolent
Mekong morning.
 
The temple compound is serene
Void of humans
But a statue appears to breathe
The Earth Goddess Nang Thorani
Wringing water from her bibulous mane
To drown the army of the demon Mara
That would stay the Buddha
From his meditation.
 
I sweep the verandah with a worn broom
Dust off the two bronze bells 
Enter the sim to sit in contemplation
Beneath a lustrous crimson ceiling
Carpentered firmament adorned
With florid stencils in gold 
Mice, butterflies, peacocks, and bees
Mythical creatures amid delicate feathers.
 
In the corner, a shining gong I will never hear.