The Scripts of Summer by Katherine Jackson (read any book .TXT) 📖

Makó

I sit at the side of the tracks
and wait for the last train to come.
I sit in the mud and the grass
feeling the wind passing over my waiting head
and I know that it will come.
This track’s run for one hundred years or more;
you can tell by the rust and how it blends
so casually into the sparse suburbs around it.
How all the plum trees are pushed back towards the fields
as though they once cowered in front of the wheel.
The past pushes lines towards the now
and somewhere deep within Hungary
horsemen are stopping to allow my train to pass.
I can smell the straw being kicked up by steel feet
and the grease on a well groomed moustache.
I can even see the prints where wooden wheels
once pressed down on the ground,
bound for the border, just thirty kilometers further
past this old border town.
Once we’re moving forwards I too will catch glimpses
of horses leading old men back to their houses,
their carts laden with onions and garlic.
I’ll see the painted houses, red dresses
and candle lights in the darkness.
Like a Western movie seen from a train
in which I will ride the rails to a better day.
And here it comes. I gather my bags together and board,
taking a window seat by the door.
But close to the border the trains slows
and people jump off onto the platform below.
I see the station master in his office
reviewing the workings of the day.
Hear shuffling of papers and passports
in the hands of border guards
informing me I have to pay.
And I feel the pushing of people behind me
as they hand over plastic money,
walking on towards another country.
But I cower backwards like the trees
readying themselves for an industrial killing spree.
There's no progress to reality.


Romania in Sepia

I can see through my sunglass eyes
that the glass of my car window is shattering.

I can hear past my headphones
that the engine is spluttering

and I can taste copper in my mouth
and smell the blood in my veins
and feel the haze lifting from my brain

as he knocks on the window pleading for plastic change
and for the first time I see the men in the shadows
hiding in my empty gaze.

I take off my sunglasses as we drive away.
I’ll save them for brighter days.


Sibiu

From deep within the roofs
and high above the ground,
old, bewitching eyes gaze out.

Cunning eyes, with tiled eyebrows
and pigeons for pupils,
glaring down

Stony eyes, staring around
and doors for mouths
letting out psychopathic smiles…

These old lady eyes
have seen the tint of time
on a medieval town.

These Transylvanian townhouses
were once virgins on soft ground,
but now I see splashes of red on their walls,

black cloaks for gardens
and their once tall bodies bent
into ritualistic bows.

Try holding your mirror up to this country
and see nothing but blank spaces,
the houses lost in history.

See nothing but biro lines
arranged randomly on pages
and printed into maps

showing roads between centuries
connecting gaps to gaps to
more gaps.

But look into its eyes
and see the vampires hiding
inside the black.


Border Crossing From Calafat to Vidin


specks of brown scour the balkan mountains far below
before swooping to the ground and swinging back towards our boat.
the fish swim in spiral patters through the shining water
and the silky ripples they create are stirred by our rusty motor.
we stumble and sway towards the rocky bay that signifies another border.

the mediterranean breeze breathes lazily
cooling our sun stroked faces and flip-flopped feet.
a pristine haze rises coolly up from the deep
making our bodies dance free of the humid heat

the smoke sails across the starboard and into our staring eyes
as an auburn streak is shot across the darkening blue sky.
the other passengers sing out understanding sighs
and our boat bumps gently against the other side.


Birds over the Balkans

A large, dark bird
circles the Balkan mountains below.
Vulture or Eagle,
who knows?


Kritsa, Ossa

The green hangs heavily, draped over trunks of forest trees.
Deep roots gather water dripping from their leaves.
A single sunbeam shrouds the tops with golden brown;
a stream of yellow separating condensation from the clouds.
And the clouds hang heavily over the layer of green
covering the mountains which tower from the sea.
And the mist creates a barrier of white between the sea and sky
as though the Gods are on their holidays up in the mountain’s heights.


Koroni

the jasmine scent floats softly over the ceiling of the sea
but underneath the seaweed seeks a heaven in the deepest deep

the boats float softly over the ceiling of the sea
but deep within the rockpools coral creatures creep

bodies crash peacefully into the ceiling of the sea
but underneath apricot rocks crumble under crabs’ feet

the lights from the tourist towns illumine the sea
and violin strings shudder over changes of key

and baklava sits heavy in the belly
and baklava sits heavy in the belly

and octopus bodies hang from the quay
and the red light of the moon shines over the marquees

but underneath in the deepest deep weird fishes scream.
underneath in the deepest deep weird fishes scream.

Publication Date: 11-28-2009

All Rights Reserved