Time spread poems like butter on bread
Springtime and long summers days, confusions and technological change 16 April 2025, Jeffrey Levett
Naxos and Lesser Cyclades, Greece
At a distance, the island appeared to be a tiered wedding cake with several layers of dazzling white topped by a castle and monastery. It was all for Tina. On arrival, the Portera on the bluff was open, seemingly to beckon both of us to walk through it into a new Ariadne smile. Radiant rays of sun poured through it. We walked the shores of Naxos. Cheese, carrots, and potatoes. It was 1963, and we were exhilarated by the cooling spray whipped up by the Aegean wind. We laughed and loved.
Do you remember Νaxos?
Come let’s take a journey on sun-buttered bays of light.
Plunge into waves of morning dance on the sands at night.
And we shall arrive again at the place where we loved on trembling sand. Listen once more to the wave’s music and the tide wetting the land.
Feel the warmth of lost moments, feel the touch of our hands.
Recline in the sun together, love, on the warm golden sand.
Come let’s follow the rainbow pass through the colors of time.
Listen again to your voice whispering your head next to mine.
Feel the heat of rocks ageless baking in golden sunshine.
And we shall lie down at midday, and I shall drink in your sweet wine.
Follow the scent of the blossoms; look for the wisdom of vines.
I will see you once more in the springtime before leaves leave on their flight. Before you weathered the winter before the cold darkness of night.
I shall hear the lilt of your laughter snuggle up into your smile.
Bathe in the gaze of your brown eyes all softness and warmth for awhile.
Come let’s take a journey over the widening years.
Cool in the waters of morning, warm in the flow of our tears. And I will bring you my laughter blossoms from the bough of a tree. As we hold on to each other forever in love together youthful and free.
The same girl
Such a wonder have I dreamed and now perceived.
That I have found and only lived in you.
Could I today just find a way to say.
You are the sunshine of my night and each and every day.
Two fragments found in a forgotten place
Chance it was when an awe-inspiring girl
Crossed my path and I hers
Our eyes pulling and could not draw back
Two different lives were somehow interlocked
I looked at the girl and Athens with my amazed admiring gaze, In their own time they gave me back their pulse, their breath, She walked with springtime grace
Garlanded with warmth and an enchanting smile
That I caught on to within her eyes,
Through mine I gave her my captivated gaze,
By chance she unlocked a door my charmed life
Let’s hold on, search for the sun
Enjoy it all with no show at all
It’s all ours, ours for the fun
Let’s find the road and just go
Let’s look up towards the light
Enjoy ourselves throughout the night
The day and night are ours alone
Let’s pass the hours, feel the warmth of home
Let’s live life with what we have
Not bother with what we have not
What we have is precious love, a desire to live
Let’s hold on we have the sun
We have bays buttered by it too
We have the sun and moon the rain
We have our smiles, our laughter and the flowers
We have our hearts our minds and thoughts
We have our garden, no not Eden ours
With trees for shade, a stream that runs through
Plums and pears and tart apples too
There was a time when nothing seemed to fit, nothing made sense, and then came It crept up slowly and then swallowed me. I sipped white wine and nibbled on food, and the hours went by. Suddenly, the words nothing is what it seems to be shouted themselves out at me. None other heard, and I was not aware of others.
Confusion
Awakened in the dark of night, I left my dreams behind.
I stumbled towards day to find that nothing quite makes sense.
But all are talking, mouths close and open, moving fast and slow.
Devoid of sense with nothing adding up.
And when it does, it adds up to represent some zero-sum.
Yet all including me are writing.
Typewriters tick and tap away, and sheets fall out.
Pages littered with a’s and b’s and m’s and n’s not to forget the y’s and z’s. With far more space than ink, like an unknown atom’s alphabet.
Electrons in full chase around a proton-neutron epicenter that may not hold. Reams role for replication to multiply memos meaningless.
But no one says a single word while all are talking, scribbling words on paper scraps. Pursuing thoughts a sentence here a few lines there stretching a paragraph somewhere. With a little more teasing, it stretches to a page of typewriter fodder.
Tick and tap, tap tap, and tick the memo shuntered to the replication tray. Some memo of menace, so beware.
Perhaps the country’s call for cannon fodder to feed some war.
While controlled conversations behind closed doors.
Much said, but making no sense at all.
Where all action is delayed and mock decisions with certainty are made.
Confused not knowing what to do, perhaps put down my pen.
Return to sleep, hoping to catch up in a better world of dreams.
When I was young, I never thought of going to America. When I was still young, I did, and I loved it. I made good friends for life and went back as often as I could. One of my dreams is to make my American last stand in CHICAGO.
Strange notes between Chicago and Athens, from fun to serious and sometimes furious conversation. To be read for me by Ed at the International Club if he remembers, and with poetic aplomb instead of his typical reformer style. Tonight, I can think of no better place to be than to be with you, all of you. So let it happen in thought and memory. A moment of recollection, please, a minute only; I don’t want to take you away from a great chef’s food. Put down your forks, Erich, please put down your fork and lift up your glasses; I see that’s easy! We toast you from afar.
I remember you all so well and clearly: the Dean of Deans who tangoed with his wife in Argentina better than any dago, a medical educator who rants on poverty, a great working man’s doctor whose son is in Hollywood and a TV star. Erich with an h, Ed, and Captain who discovered the dread disease of carbitus, T&D, Tom with the wooden leg, Henry White and Linda Matilda, books and magazines stacked in stable perfection with a central window through
which its holed-up occupant could be seen working in his office, and through which, if necessary, the phone could be passed. In my mind's eye, I see Erich with Fran, Linda knocking back the margaritas in Mexico, Ed asking me mischievously on which side of the bed I wanted to sleep in front of the bellboy... Of course, there is George; his only phrase is "no salt," said loudly.
My friends, my captain, Zhivago and Zorba have taught me much: that under no circumstances must I despair; to hope and to act is my duty. So here goes. The Jeff Lifetime Achievement Awards tonight go to two distinguished Americans jointly shared by Jolly Jean and Friendly Fran, with the recommendation that the boys keep the money implicit in this ever so meritorious award for an occasional coffee or for the tip of the night. Erich gets Dekano of Dekanos Award, and Captain our captain Ed gets the World Community Service Chalice.
From the eastern flank of the land of Ez [as in Eurozone]: No Dorothy here, only scared crows; no cowardly Lion, just lion-hearted politicians, pronounced in the King's English as "lyin." No Tinman, only pilfered copper... while the streets are full of rag, bone, and tag men collecting (that’s what it’s called) all things in reach in sight: street lamps, public telephones, cables... don't park your old car anymore here; coming back, your calls to insurance will go unheard... Many on the streets are insiders; some come from outside of Ez... some come from over the rainbow... while others are over the rainbow. Meanwhile, the government of Ez expects its patriotic people to keep coughing up to keep the coffers topped up and spilling over. Meanwhile, all the Punch and Judies and the Black Georges wonder why the coffers are well below the Plum-rose line. While most are coughing up coin, our saviors circulate and drink wine... the Plimsoll line plummets and the basic basket grows smaller with less salad, no more salad, and no more salad with feta cheese... Dear friends, you have helped make a difference...
In celebration of her long life, many are the things that bound us together: from breakfast to Obama, from bagels to buns, from Chicago to Athens, from fun to serious conversation, from vodka (gin) and tonic with a twist to wine that sometimes tasted of the tar (Retsina), from hot hot coffee to Greek coffee, from love and affection to affection and love. Her husband was my mentor and taught me neuro-physiology. Leaning seemed to come easily as he handed out tall
glasses of vodka and tonic with a slice of lemon topped up with perfect cubes of ice. As the sun sets or rises slowly in the western and eastern sky, we are confident that day or night will arrive, maybe thinking that the dawn of hope will come for man to live peace on earth, his ultimo besoin.
Lines for a world day of peace
It’s quite clear here, right at the center of it all.
In Delphi, where the gods still prevail.
It's not too late to build back better, and a better one.
Urged on by mountains tall and still agaze on Marathon.
While Marathon still looks upon the sea.
While here we stand with gods and free.
On this most precious special day.
Hopeful that we can hail in peace.
Yes, it is clear; no, it is not too late.
To build for all mankind a better fate.
Can we stop; slow down the undoing of our world?
The burning, flooding and polluting of our souls
Restore our world to glory in hope and splendid green-blue oceans, sunset’s red, rivulets, and flowing streams. Where men all
and women too are equal and all free.
Can we redo our world? Improve it for all offspring.
Such wonders are the words and phrases I can hear when I think
They tumble forth differently each time but are always woven together as a captivating collage. They come mainly from a lyrical dialogue between East and West. If I can retain rhythm and musicality and remain recitative with recurrent words and transient, what follows may well be called a poem. I give you a bouzouki and three peacocks with bejeweled tails.
Cross-cultural musings
I came to buy bread, 6 I am, and never left the street.
The street is now renamed for the missile.
Here where the clock stopped and Despots bicker over truth.
Where lies and misinformation rule the roost.
15 I am a hostage, held because of my darker, deeper skin.
Innocent on the threshold of life uninvited horror came to my door.
No drip of water; now the pelican for me is dead.
Earth has become a stray dog, kicked by a military boot.
Carry my soul to the palm reader; take it to be fingerprinted.
Two banks of one World River.
The West is behind, but the East is not before.
Devils are in the Orient, tyrants too, but the bleeding finger does not speak. The weavings of the winds are sparks that can kindle imperial cities.
Listening to the stars is a singular experience multiple in meaning.
Flames raging furiously, thoughts breathe, words burn, and wine intoxicates. What can we do with this already crumpled world?
What can we do with this already unmade world?
Underway is the way, and we can only finish the journey.
On every path from desert to town, I wander with caravans.
Trade in shawls, coffee, and musk.
Through bazaars, past donkey carts lining the dirt road.
With rosary beads draping my hand.
And crimson shades, Eastern roses, the Roses of Shiraz.
The cup of Jamshid, obedient water, and worlds contained within the wine. To sip, kiss over kiss.
A rose of hope, the stupidity of hate, and hope in harm’s way.
Insane shadows, I tasted them and spoke them, though I said I wouldn’t.
Ruffled locks near midnight, you come in disarray.
Return for a night as the moon turns full.
Fiery eyes and eyes of fire, the loveliest things she owns.
Love, listen to me at night, most of all at night.
The time will pass, all must change.
What is human and what is stone?
At dusk I stand beside the well in which the moon is trapped.
Face darkness of the coming night, the terror of the waves.
Look up to read the cosmos as a sacred text, a perfume that is love.
To read the first alphabet that declares our human grace in Persepolis.
A glance of the beloved! My ancient love is she asleep?
Who lies beneath your spell, tonight?
Loves, take me home again but not to that house, especially not at night. She still looks for the man who used to burn inside her blouse.
His search is for the hundred qualities of a camel.
To plunge into a lightning storm.
Oh so rosy lips and cheeks, those lily hands of sheer delight to poets.
More precious than all the gems of Samarkand.
Gardens are not for those who do not crave to know the flower’s soul.
Upon the fates will be bestowed a rose of hope.
Return me to lemon trees in blossom and the cicadas call.
The devil takes no interest in dry old bones that lie at peace.
He fell through a smashed-in anger mirror.
To find himself alone on the other side.
On the edge of a forest, looking into a large swamp.
Take me to the river where fish fall in love three times a day.
Three times a day, they kill themselves.
No better way to enter heaven, than a return to stone, no heart.
In the crimson shade of stars, you’ll find my grief concealed in verse.
A falling meteorite from high above connects heaven to earth.
Whereupon unfold both sacred and profane in black stone.
Where are you from, again the same old question.
I am a prophet of myself, without religion or followers.
Not even on myself do I impose my invitation.
To sit in burnt-down places on either bank of the river of the world.
While from today’s day and tonight’s night.
Ask not to demand anything but what yesterday did bring.
For up there upon the roof, up on the roof a peacock stands.
A peacock stands upon the roof.
Faraway places with gods in control.
Once a young man from a faraway place used a big stick to beat upon snakes. Walking by day and by night, over tall hills and through lonely valleys, came upon coupled snakes in primeval thrill.
Warmed by the sun’s rays, releasing such reptilian passion the young man tried hard to subdue a thrill and passion.
He could, should have left well alone, gone on, made his peace but without rhyme or reason he stopped the snake’s fun.
How could he not have known that nothing goes unknown or unseen as when his stick was struck by gods all of Greece?
Anger came fast to Hera and Zeus he said her you must play by my rules, preserve love and life, and ensure it for fools.
You are he bellowed the goddess of the bridal bed and native bliss, get angry much more turn Tiresias into what you wish.
The youth Tiresias changed place took up womanhood spent seven years in girlish form. She stayed like that and played the field until she met again by chance a pair of coupled snakes. Still young now worldly wise he downed his stick let them mate and whereupon Hera took away all of his womanly ways.
Time passed, and Zeus to Hera said sex is enjoyed by women more than men which got her well worked up said tis not so.
They bickered on and on in high dispute tis so says Zeus tis not Hera replied until abruptly they decided to ask someone.
Someone who’d played both roles quite well enjoyed sex with a woman and sex with a mam. One only they knew who’d lived both lives for sure the still young Tiresias who had lived life with and without a stick.
So the young man from a faraway place who hadn’t let seven years slip idly by was now recalled to settle the case.
Zeus and no other god had had such a unique fun stated clearly their query and loudly of his and of Hera’s Tiresias now far too big for his occupied boots delivered a verdict, women relish nine men only one if sex has ten part.
Hell hath no fury like Hera’s and now greatly displeased decides to punish Tiresias with all loss of his sight Zeus now aghast but with his hands tied,
no power to heal him and restore his lost sight
so he granted him long life, Life of a wise seer
expert on sex with his erudite knowledge
Revered by Homer in faraway places and in Oedipus Rex.
At the heart of the Aegean on a small island called Pserimos, whose population is less than 20 but currently about 2000, as a result of tourism, the concept of smart islands was Once upon a time, children ran wild like cappers there, which gave the island its other name, Caparri. It also resulted in this poem dedicated to a wise teacher who years ago remembered 100 pupils in the local school. Her wisdom is larger than her island. And yet another image leaps to mind, with myriads of schoolchildren streaming down a narrow, dusty road towards home when school lets out. It was in Gaza!
Tranquil and reflective Aegean Isles
Pserimos in summer, and the sun shines bright.
Fiercely in early afternoon while slowly moving towards dusk and night.
Day’s end is still yet one whole eternity away.
But it will come as surely as the tide will turn.
Then will the sun descend to sink beneath eternal waves.
A rising moon will lift off to ride above the darkening earth.
Full bloom and full, full as if in high flown birth.
Laced beams of silver, flitting through the citrus grove.
Fireflies flirting in a purple painted light.
Dry, blemished leaves, brushed arrestingly by the lemon’s yellow afterglow. Olives dancing shimmering upon gnarled ancient trees.
Scintillations surprisingly softly falling on the eyes.
Dreams to be remembered and tenderly recalled.
Smells of strained soil with brave blossoms wafted by a breeze.
Greek fire, warm drops in sand of pooling wax beneath an icon’s glow.
Copper hammered cross by weight of age subdued.
An old church whose eyes have within its gaze untold pain.
Where the dark-eyed virgin mother of the world.
Gives solace and sets in flight waves of worldly inspirational light.
With Cassiopeia high above caught once again in the midnight flight.
Caught up in Meltemi’s daytime forceful energetic wind.
Declining to a cooling evening breeze.
Caught up in the Aegean’s gentle fall and swell of tides.
Wrapped in a silvery linings through the starry sky.
Graceful and flowing along the wide stretching Milky Way.
Those isles of Greece, the pleasing Dodecanese.
Where mysteries of numbers and the universal harmony became known.
To that ancient, awesome, penetrating, and thoughtful gaze.
Where know-thyself was perceptively admired, esteemed, revered.
Where Apollo’s sun and scepter were bright, Prometheus’s warming fire held sway. Attended by a sometimes sad and woeful moon, sometimes a simple silver sphere. Where the early morning and the evening stars became the same and one. Where lovely Aphrodite beguilingly arose above the ruffled waves.
Where a cool Venus rose above and set within a wine dark clouded sea.
Where lovely Aphrodite and cool Venus rise from and descend within the sea. The Isles of Greece are the Isles of pure delight.
Apollo’s light cannot be absent there for long.
Pythagoras knew his numbers well and fled from Sammian tyranny there. Hippocrates who never harmed a soul, and Socrates, who knew yet knew not at all. Those Isles where philosophy survives and all is well.
On a small isle and gentle Grecian site, called Pserimos.
Poems end never, mine yes
My words come to an end but poetry goes on and will go on. Writing poems should start early, as early as possible. It is when young when our senses can register the earth shaking and when our brain has the agility to make up its mind on the direction that life will be taken. If life is lived in freedom it comes easy to the few that take the road less traveled by. Far too many lives unfold in unequal worlds with ever present, slavery to fear, and want, making it too hard to set
free its abundant talent. In the twilight between those worlds, talent can be suspect as when a writer was hauled in by the state police and asks why, saying he has done nothing wrong? You write books don’t you which people are reading, so you must have done something!
When young the earth shakes while the bell rings for old men who continue to tilt at windmills as bell’s toll. As students in search of our Earth’s heart-beat, we learn that there are bridges over which marching soldiers have to break step to prevent collapse and that the flutter of butterfly wings in another place yesterday is the reason for the storm overhead, today. Tomorrow will always remain unknown except to the poet, while philosophy can shed light in its early dawn.