Excerpt : Alexandria

The eastern harbour.  The lighthouse that fell

the stones configured now to a citadel -
the guide’s laconic. Meanwhile, some of the city
has been clawed by the sea into its depths
cobblestone streets gobbled, the warp and weft
of grand architectures of peace and probity.

There’s nothing remotely romantic about

a lighthouse, the strongest beam shines out
not as golden hope, bloody fancy metaphors!
just a plain warning, turn away, keep off,
keep off the grass, the rock, this shore, don’t stop.
The moth and flame in vaguely shocking reverse.

The bunched weight of history easily slips

like a tote-strap off shoulders, no way to grip
it simply. Teenage kids high-five on the pavement.
A black and yellow waspish cab in cruise mode
rubs up slow against the kerb. The waves erode
the rough shoreline till the backwash is spent.

Thoughts in the Cavafy Museum in Alex, seeing two yellow candles set into the outer corners of the desk he used when he was alive OR I have always wanted to write a poem with a very specific and long title, like those far eastern titles longer than the haikus they head

Cavafy's desk with candles

There are no visitors, none; just us three

the house is a flat up dark flights of stairs
and sure, the marble plaques and busts are there
but the guard’s surprise is also plain to see
a few pounds for adults, children go in free
the guide’s dutiful, “that’s his desk and chair,
he spoke five languages,” the love-affairs
glossed over. Decorously perfunctory.