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Nocturne 

 

 

Kyria Soula,

her breath sweet

with the aroma of anise,

draws in the scent

of hot jasmine that sustains

the lingering sounds

of her Mozart sonata

 

There was a time

when she danced

with the best

down at the shore of Piraeus

when she sang

into the hot

black night

when she longed

to twirl and swirl

and clap her hands

to the rhythm

of clear sharp sounds

that bounced from the

silver-toned bouzouki

into the starlit night

 

Closing the slatted doors

of her balcony, Kryria Soula

draws the sheer white blinds

While tomcats howl

underneath the rustle of

dry leaves, she lies still

upon her large empty bed

 

There was a time

when she whirled

high upon the white arms

of her daddy, whose uniform

glistened like the hot sun

on the deep blue sea

How he laughed

when he smiled at her

and told her, the last time

he ever saw her,

that she was his talented

sweetest little doll

How he kissed her

and fondled her

as if there never

could be another

for him

 

With the white sheers

swaying softly in the breeze

Kyria Soula's eyelids

close themselves

over the deep dark pools

of her salted tears

 

When she drifts back

to the call of children

on their way to school

Kyria Soula resumes her watch

as she sips the strong brew

left as a legacy by swarthy men

who held her country captive

Shrouded they were

in their own peculiar ways

Perplexing, like the men she met

on the boat from Brindisi

after she finished her studies abroad

From deep dark Calabria, they talked

of belezza and amore

while gazing deep into her

convent sheltered eyes

They pursued her with a ferocity

that set her to run for safety

into the white arms of Kostas

friend and colleague to her late father

whose uniform shone

with the brilliance of the blazing sun

 

Promising a new life of excitement

no children, he said; no

children, said

she; until, he

said, we'll have travelled

the seven seas

 

But seldom home, he was

wedded to his work

until

he was seized

by a vile and disastrous illness

as he sailed from Constantinople

back to Athens

where she cared for him

until he died

 

Spent he was

and spent

she now lives her life

refusing

to wear a widow's black

refusing to feel the pain

of a life fraught with

such injustice

 

Striking her silk-skinned fingers

on the piano

she sends wails of pain

into an empty street

 

Kyria Soula only talks

to neighbours now, from

her high white balcony, or

she chats with the charwoman

who comes once a week

for company

as much as for labour

When she does go out

she scowls

at children, who throw stones

at weary pussycats

while she diligently steers

her shopping cart

to dodge the dog shit

that adorns

the shining pavement

 

Young she once was

young and unbridled

with her mother's wrath

as judgment

upon her wanton ways

Kostas knew

and he punished her

but no one else

had ever guessed

 

As the day draws to a close

and unusual clouds gather

with the promise

of much needed rain

Kyria Soula sweetens her breath

with anise

while her able fingers

grope ivory keys

to unveil never forgotten

melodies

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