AW

Gifts For
Elizabeth

Look into the sky tonight and travel
back in time, where diamonds light forever-
up beyond the Milky Way; if you know
the stars by name you'll never be alone.

See Lunar, queen of all the nights, a-glide
with silver smiles; lingers while the morning
mist shimmers all with dew, then hides among
the vapour-screens to watch her lover rise.

How mighty rides the Sun King, Midas of
the dawn, transforming leaden sea and sky
to sheets of dazzling gold; red carpets lie
on cloud-scapes of plains and mountain passes.

Purple anvils, forging hailstorms; thunder
clapping; lightning flashing; Buddhas billow
then dissolve in peaceful islands floating
high ... Now yellow skies of driven rain-squalls.

Flooding fields send swollen rivers rushing
to the sea, where they boil and steam in the
tropic-tides, then leap on the wind and flee –
to return in tears to their native hills.

Such glory is the earthly engine – where
sylph-rainbows float on fields of flowers that
mirror back their subtle hues; while starry-
fish flash in inky seas of ever-night.

Deep forests whisper secrets to the fields
and jungle-hedgerows where busy insects
drone. Fisher folk of spiders spin beauty
into webs that find jewels in the frost.

Savours of the planet are bound into
a whole by the pulsing of the hours in
the rhythm of the days, that circle in
the seasons of the spiral of the years.

There's a presence and a theme in the beat
of the never-ending dancing of the
ocean on the shore – where a gypsy wind
croons love songs to the birds that pipe and soar.

To melt into this music is to blend
into the motion, and form again the
beauty of our truth; where minds are laughing
ripples on a stream that runs forever.

Find succour in the knowledge that all of
us are one, and the substance of all things
is the universal essence of the
stars ... and see strife as but a passing phase.

Charlie Gregory
Prifddinas
Cymru

AW

AW

Memories

White mist on a mountain,
grey mist on the sea;
vapours of the time-mist
are the men I long to see;
just the knowing of them
made a better man of me.

Spring is in my song today,
fields beside the sea.
Robin, from the tractor,
waves a hand at me.
Gulls, churning like a sea-wake,
follow on the plough.
Donald, trudging homewards,
after milking of the cow.

Peter, in the neap field,
leans upon the hoe,
dreaming of a girl he loved,
many years ago.
Geordie’s in the seiner,
butting up the bay,
heading for the haddie grounds,
over Orkney way.

Summer feeds the fields of hay,
moist winds from the west.
God is in a summer day,
men and land are blessed.
Comes along a bonnie lass,
children at her knee,
breathing nectar in the glass,
giving love to me.

AW

Taj Mahal

AW

Taj Mahal
Taj Mahal is silent, blushing at the dawn,
thin veneer of beauty heralding the morn.

Scorned and mutilated, living with the hounds,
chattel of the bad men by the palace grounds…
Never ending evil meets them off a train,
buys them in a village, then inflicts the pain.
“Amputate! Infect them! Smash an arm or leg!
Make them our possession, only fit to beg.”

Taj Mahal is mystic, love song of a shah,
music of a river, echoing afar.
Gentle men and women, viewing Mogul’s stones,
fountains of compassion: “Show them broken bones;
get the ragged army limping on parade,
begging bowls a-banging, injuries displayed.”

Symbol of submission, baby at her feet
hasn’t got a pillow, sacking for a sheet;
screaming and hysterics, battle for the prize,
quelling ranting mother, blinding baby’s eyes.

Taj Mahal is awesome, shimmering at night.
Agra folk are sleeping, Milky Way glows bright.
Glorifying heaven, planets rove the skies.
Satan roams the shadows, mid the cripples’ cries.

Charlie Gregory
India

Photographs: Taj Mahal at dawn… Chris Mills, Aukland, New Zealand.
Taj Mahal at night… Vijayakumarblathur, Malayalam

AW

Orang Ulu

Orang Ulu ( pron. Uloo) = collective name for the up-river tribes of Sarawak.

Orang Ulu,
loping through mottle-green light of the jungle-track,
lighter than dawn-mist, nimble as wild-cat.
Hunt-hounds around-him are bounding and
wailing a death-hymn or baying for
deer-spoor or fat-ox or wild-boar.

Ulu-agape at the edge of a clearing,
proud ebony, ironwood crashing before him;
din of tree-felling and sawing and logging,
plundering into the land-of-the-lair,
filling the air-of-the-woods with despair.

Animals fleeing; no way of escape.
Earth-mother, naked and bruised by the rape,
bleeds yellow-puss in the pure-running-river
where bones of the forest now rattle down rapids...

Change; flooding the valley,
drowning the nestling, the gibbon and python;
feeding their life-force into the pylon.

Rain; kissing the forest her final goodbyes...
Lonely in grief, tears in his eyes,
Ulu burying dogs in the shade of bamboo.
"Sleeping in nature," the sandalwood sighs,
"dreaming forever of hunting with you."

Charlie Gregory
At the head of the Rejang
Sarawak

Wedding Reception

                         Reception
                
        We’ll settle by the bar and watch
        the women dance, then split a likely
        pair, when we think we stand a chance.
        I’ve one eye on the bridesmaid, with
        the skirt that’s riding high – showing
        off the daisies, tattooed upon
        her thigh.

                      The groom is still hung-over;
        can’t find the pregnant bride. She dodged
        into the box room – best-man by
        her side.

                     Mothers-in-law are screaming,
        ‘war,’ handbags all-aflail. Uncle
        Jack is on his back. George is green
        and frail.

                     So we’ll linger here and
        guzzle beer, till the barman calls
        the time. Then make a play for a
        pair who sway – join the pantomime...

        ...Hope you like the big one, with the
        bird’s nest in her hair. Because I’m
        heading for the bridesmaid, with the
        skirt that’s riding high, showing off
        the daisies...

Charlie Gregory
Cardiff

Natasha

Natasha

She descends from en-suite and the balcony-shops;
sways down the stairway, leather-mini concealing,
sometimes revealing, lace stocking-tops;
carries her bruises where nobody sees.

In the hub of the foyer the faces are probing,
sharp as the glare of the night-patrol's lamps,
some fantasizing, others disrobing.
Where has she been? what has she seen?
edge ever nearer; want her but fear her.

From the shelters and hides of their devalued lives
the other girls know what she carries inside;
science-degree; career that tumbled
when shaky foundations of Motherland crumbled.

The Westerner sits and weighs up the scene,
wealthy vibrations of pleasure and ease.
''Are you looking for fun?'' almost a prayer,
crouching before him, hands on his knees;
smouldering eyes hide the pleading inside;
bleak deserts of poverty stretching before her,
murk of the tenement, queuing and crying,
pauper-line selling, pauper-line buying.

''How much?'' he demands. Heart skips a beat;
will he be the one to be swept off his feet?
Will he whisk her away? New York maybe?
Somewhere… D.C.?

''Two-hundred,'' she blurts, ''American-bills...''
She suddenly chills. Pitiless tips of cruel icebergs
drift-in from the Muscovite mist to rip-off the fees
she must squeeze from the floating-unfaithful
who crawl through her knees.

''Too dear,'' he waves her away.
It's me! She's crying inside.
It's me – every-man's bride.
"What am I worth?" she wonders aloud.
"Seventy-five," he replies, "one of the crowd."

She rises before him, standing head bowed,
defeated – not cowed.
The girls turn away, back to their chat.
At the bar, double Scotch-on-the-rocks
is served to a rat.

Charlie Gregory
Moscow
1990’s

     
            Aurora                               KGB HQ