Written in Cuba - Number 4

Problem
One thing bothers me
Am I just writing about my life
Rather than
Living it

Who
A girl I know invades
My almost secret place
I can't see who it is
I say
"Hallo"
But she either doesn't hear
Or
It's someone I don't know
And she soon disappears
Back into the sunlight

A Crowd
This is a place
Which should be shared with
One other only
Their is safety in numbers
But sometimes also
Despair

Discovered
I have been discovered
A salsa bass finds me
Maracas compete with the surf
I may as well go back
And join the others

Here's Looking...
In the Sierra Madre
I expect to see
Walter Huston
Winning his oscar
And the evil Bogart and his burros
Getting his come uppence

Then I learn I am in the Sierra Maestra
The master not the mother
And the images vanish
Back into the 50's

Almost A Cuban Sign
Yo Uso Castro

Music Maker
Recording studio
Downtown Santiago
Studer reel to reel
Jap tapes
Old English mixing desk
Great sound
But from a corner of the room
A DAT machine
Looks on disdainfully

Carving
African centre
Breathtaking beauty
In black
You imagine a man
Sitting
Under a giant tree
In his hands
A piece of hard wood
In his head
An idea

Music Room
I look inside a drum
A maze of twisted cane
Escher steps
Going but not arriving
My eyes try to look
In different directions at the same time
A wooden vortex draws me in
I have to look away
Before I fall over

Question
At the bottom of my floppy sundae
I find a smooth spherical object
My eyes send a message
To that part of the brain
Concerned with shapes and colours
The message is
"Grape"
My tongue
To be awkward
Sends a different message
To that part of the brain
Concerned with taste
The message is
"Banana"
That part of the brain concerned with paradox
Produces the observation
"How do you make a banana spherical?"

Peacebrakers
It is peaceful by the pool
I pick up my pencil
Carefully
So as not to disturb the silence

Then they descend on me
Not flies
Not mosquitoes
But jabberes

Not your ordinary jabberers mind
But East European jabberes
Complete with swallowed l's

Are they related
I ask myself
To the blue haired
'Daily Mail' readers
That make me change carriages on the Underground

But nearby
A man banging
Nails into wood
Puts all such thoughts
Out of my head

The Church Of El Cobre
Before the coach stops
The swarm gathers
Small brown hands tap on the glass
They offer gifts
Gold for fools

The holiest place in Cuba
Unfortunately the lady
Was on the opposite side to José
In the Independence struggle

The church has a constantly running TV

For those who prefer
A different kind of soap
The shrine is impressive enough
Especially the glass case
Containing the football

Adjustment
He continually adjusts
100 metal chairs

Perhaps he plays an intricate game
With an infinitely cunning
Invisible opponent

Maybe he sends coded messages
By satellite picture
To his inscrutable masters

Could it be that the sound
Of metal scraping on concrete
Causes some perverse sexual arousal

Or
Most unlikely of all
Is he
Just trying to look busy

What ?
At El Patio
They sit at a table
He concentrating single mindedly
She rather restless
The waiter is out of earshot
She leans across the table and says
"Could I have a taste
Of your pink thing ?"

Warning
I've had enough of the party
We are at a country house
Swimming pool
Inevitable son group
Bananaless trees
Unlikely mangoes glowing

I wander off
Leave the house
Turn left
Towards an unlit section of road

A calm slightly menacing voice
Comes out of the dark
"Friend, there are no lights there
It is dangerous - go back"

I turn back towards the music
Walking slightly faster than before

What is..
If we ask our guide
What is that bird
He replies
It is a bird

If we ask our guide
What is that tree
He replies
It is a tree

I wonder
What his reply would be
If we asked our guide
What is that rose

Balls
Pool has become an addiction
The game
Not the swimming

Powerful spinning spheres
Delicately dancing

A flash of brown
A streak of white
A pistol shot
And a ball is taken out
For the short eternity of the game

Final
Final day in Santiago
Final day in Havana
Final day in Cuba
 
Will I ever return
I don't know
But something of mine will

A Funny Piece Of Paper
I sweat here
At José Marti
Sitting in the plane
Heading for Londres
But only just
If they had realised who I was
They would probably have kept me

I didn't know
What the silly piece of paper was

When they asked for my visa
I couldn't reach it
It was in the waste paper basket
In my room in Santiago de Cuba

I thought there might be problems
But I did my Al Pucino impersonation
And they let me through

To Pass The Time On the Plane
I shall write one poem
Every hour
Unless I fall asleep

9pm Poem
"H" said he thinks that
I am either a genius
Or a ?

After I threw away my visa
He says I am definitely a ?
Possibly an !

10pm Poem
After the past two weeks on
Green beans and beetroot
I dream of
Baked beans
Chips that aren't sweet
Fresh tomatoes
Crisp apples
Crusty stick loaves
I dream of
Sainsbury's

11pm Poem
I have with me
The first bottle of rum
I have ever bought

I have just had some rum
Though not from my bottle
I am slightly slightly tipsy
Hooray for Havana Club
Hooray for Captain Morgan
And his bandy men

Midnight Poem
The entrance to the galley
Is coffin shaped
I wonder if this is
Significant

1am Poem
This is the way to stretch time
Every bump reminds you
That only 1 second has passed
Looking at my watch
I discover
It is stationary

To sleep
Perchance to wake up at Stanstead
No chance
I am too aware
Too aware of being suspended
In a slim metal tube
Bouncing along
On the laughter
Of the sky gods

2am Poem
I write
Therefore I am
Peculiar
At least that is what they think
Because I absorb experience
And recycle it as words
I am
Peculiar
They take pictures
Which will probably blink at the daylight
I write
And hope many people
May read my words
I am
Peculiar

3am Poem
The trip was not
What with
The heat
The food
The pestering by 'friends'
And not having a woman -
One of the most enjoyable
I've ever been on
But it certainly was
One of the most interesting

If I ever felt a little depressed
I would stop and say
"Hey, I really am in Cuba"

And it certainly was
One of the most
Rewarding

I never stopped writing
A sort of poetry factory
Literary battery farming

There are some people around the world
Who would like to read what I've written
Two to be precise
Copies will be sent

Back to Cuba
Forward to Australia

I am a little worried however
That any attempt to
Export my writings
Might be resisted by the SPCW
The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Words
 
8am Poem
No I didn't fall asleep for 5 hours
And
No this old Illushin isn't
Heading home to Russia
Having missed England
I've just switched to good old
British Summer Time

I am now very confused
If this is my final poem
We should have landed
But I feel we are still
Over the Atlantic
Or even possibly
The Baltic

9am Poem
Outside the plane
It is very cold
Inside it is just cold
A slow painful acclimatisation
Too cold to sleep

In my rucksack
In the cold cold hold
There are warm things
Tantalisingly
Just out of reach
A jacket a jersey
A scarf 2 hats
Thousands of t-shirts

So close
All I have to do is
Reach through the floor

Now that we have
Caught up with the day
Perhaps the sun will take pity on me
And share a little of it's warmth

Final Poem
Approaching home
Way above the sheep

I didn't have to freeze
But by the time I had discovered
The blankets
They had all gone
The sheep are uncooperative
And far away

I suggest we make a collection
5 dollars each
For the captain

In Cuba money melts away
Like icicles in a microwave
Mine did

As we swoop out of the sun
I am left with
Viente pesos and Camilo
Tres pesos and Che
Two dollars
And
And
A bottle of 5 year old
Havana Club