Dear Sir
It's excellent in the Spring, Skiathos,
I'm told. Thank you Douglas Clark
for sharing that fine piece, my printer
is now spitting out.
----- Original Message -----
From: Douglas Clark <[log in to unmask]>
To: Poetryetc <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, August 31, 2000 7:18 AM
Subject: De SAde etc
> I must say that many years ago I found de Sade's Justine quite unreadable
> and it is only Erminia's quotes that do anything to recover him as a
> writer to me. But what Dom's argument has done has been to bring alive
> an ancient poem of mine which I will unfold upon you. POems are so
> much easier than arguments.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Skiathos
>
>
> The Maiden of the Silver Bow crosses the quadrangle,
> Headed for her pentagrams and whisky.
>
> The Greek gentleman with his black shiny shotgun
> And his white red-eared dogs examines me
> As I cruise past on my motor-scooter
> On the way to my favourite Skiathos beach.
>
> The island is thick greenery, close-packed trees,
> I climb the steep slopes to train my thighs for the swim.
> In early evening as the sun goes down behind the mainland
> I look at the waters below the orange globe.
>
> At night the voices come, they say I will be raped,
> They say I will be killed, they dare me to sleep.
> I sit in the bars and drink, terrified, a spell
> Has been cast on me, I talk with my hands.
>
> I lie on the sand with my arms spread reciting my poems,
> My face buried in a towel. I am a hunted animal.
> The voices come out in the night-time. They say they will rape me.
> I haven't yet entered the water since I arrived. My swimming a secret.
>
> I leave my clothes and my Omega Constellation watch on the beach.
> And swim. Out into the rich water. My thighs crackle.
> I swim to the nudist beach where I talk to a girl.
> The voices are absent. I wait till evening for the magic time.
>
> The fisher boats wallow in the bay with lights to attract fish.
> I sit naked watching them approach. Fireworks explode over the town.
> There is a commotion inside my head and I stand up erect.
> I address the god. I accuse him of hounding me. He ignores me.
>
> I realise I have to swim for it. I wade into the water.
> It is a beautiful swim. Like clockwork precision.
> My muscles well-trained. I could swim forever.
> I pass a ship with its red and green lights. They see me.
>
> They wave to me. But I am on business. The voices will follow.
> As the morning comes up I am half-way across the channel.
> There is no going back. I swim beautifully. Forever.
> I hear the voices coming up behind me. They are to rape me.
>
> They talk to me telling me of my fate. I swim.
> I swim for hours. I am slow but I do not tire. Breast stroke.
> I see the land ahead. Like Omaha Beach. I see a village.
> I head North. I have to wait for my brother to fly to Athens
>
> After I am reported missing. I head up the coast.
> After sixteen hours I emerge from the water. I live.
> I stand on the stone blocks staring back at Skiathos.
> And howl derision at those who would have killed me.
>
> In the night the voices come. I sit at the foot of a cliff petrified.
> They talk to Switzerland and to Aycliffe for me. I think of
> The Lady in white watching from the hill in Skiathos as I left my clothes.
> I think how she walked away, leaving me. To die.
>
> I survive the night among rocks that become dead babies.
> In the morning I swim South to a safer spot.
> I try to cut my throat with a stone. I am unworthy.
> I have to wait another night. Then the voices come back.
>
> I see boats searching for my body in the channel but I hide.
> There are men sitting in the boats scanning the water.
> I am frightened of men. The voices are a part of me.
> I decide it is time. I swim down to the village.
>
> I emerge naked from the sea and an old man gives me
> A plastic sack to wear. I am taken into the cafe
> To drink beautiful Greek brandy. They talk of a miracle.
> The ambulance is on the way. The voices say they will kill me.
>
> I am clothed. I strip my clothes off in the ambulance.
> I want to die naked. We come to the hospital in Volos and I have to
> dress.
> I am put in a ward two floors up. I try to fling myself from
> A window onto the concrete below. An old Greek peasant saves my life
>
> With his strong grasp. The voices still tell me I will die.
> The nuns teach me the Greek for 'Thank you'. My brother
> Arrives and heads for the psychiatrist. We drive helter-skelter
> To Athens Airport. The voices say I will live. I am mad
>
> As a hatter. I believe they are running conspiracies against me.
> It takes ten years and five books of poetry to recover in England.
> The Maiden of the Silver Bow crosses the quadrangle,
> Headed for her pentagrams and whisky.
>
>
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