Grassy, thanks for the read and comments. I am glad the length did not
trouble you as it appears to have concerned some others. I take your point
about the 'non-rambling rambling' and will consider this. I think this is a
performance piece in a way and would gain by being read aloud. I can hear,
myself, the old man breathing heavily between strophes and hear also sighs
where I have not written sighs if you know what I mean. Regards Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "grasshopper" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Friday, October 25, 2002 12:08 PM
Subject: Re: New sub: The Smoke of Evening Fires


Dear Arthur,
The length of this didn't bother me- I didn't feel it was a 'long' poem at
all. Once I had pushed the image of Anthony Quinn as Zorba the Creak, out of
my mind, I enjoyed it. However, I do think it would benefit from a tighter
structure. I know it's an old man's ramble, but I feel the challenge is to
convey the ramble without rambling quite so much, if that makes any sense.
Perhaps his thoughts could be more closely linked to his journey up the
hill - triggered by the things he sees and passes.
The question of length is an interesting one, as I confess I sometimes feel
almost affronted by a very long poem -You expect me to read all THAT? and it
often puts me off. Perhaps it is me being lazy, -I want it in a condensed
form, I don't want to plough through acres of verbiage. I think it's because
poetry usually requires much more hard work on the part of the reader. A
long poem can be plain exhausting.
Kind regards,
  grasshopper
----- Original Message -----
From: "arthur seeley" <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, October 24, 2002 11:30 AM
Subject: New sub: The Smoke of Evening Fires


This didn't seem to get through last time I posted it. If it is a second
showing to you, forgive me. Regards Arthur.


            The Smoke of Evening Fires

Lord, how many times have I climbed this hill?
Firewood is heavier these days,
the road stonier, steeper.
How can that be?

I’ll rest here a while,
watch the low sun trail shadows
over the rich bottom lands,
blue scarves of smoke rise straight,
the white church beyond the bridge,
hear shouts and laughter,
the angelus echo and re-echo, dogs bark.

It should be a better harvest for us all this year,
spring came early, the blossom
thick and white as dancers’ petticoats.
I have a pebble in my shoe.
How many times must I climb this hill?

Smells of supper- bread and goat stew.

I should have had good bottom land by the river
not this stony hillside where nothing fat will grow.
I should have had good bottom land,
rich black earth, groves of olive trees,
vines and lemons,
a flock billowing like a cloud over the hillside.
I might have been rich,
drank each night in the taverna,
laughed, sang to the bouzouki,
wept for the troubles of lovers,
given candles to the church.

I might finish the wall this year,
get a young back to help.
It is no work for an old man.
Two sons dead in the war,
a third one gone away somewhere.
Do I have a grandchild?
Hah, who would have such sons?

Time we caught the stallion in the salt marshes,
his mane and tail draggled with mud,
his hooves flailed and punched the air
nostrils flared, teeth bared,
the shrill cries of him, screamed like a woman,
my sons tight on the ropes,
how we laughed in the mud, hah,
such sons.

The stew smells good,
rich, thick with meat and herbs,
oregano, black olives,
the sweet breath of new bread.

I am weary and the hill is stony and steep.

It is my daughter who waits for the firewood now
sets bread on my table
simmers stew over the heart of her fire
brims the jug with retsina
but my bed is empty,
my blankets cold
when my legs ache in the night
I am sleepless
and only the moon shares my pillow.