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
Bieke Stengos is
the author of two poetry collections, Abandoned by the Muse and Transmigrator. She has also published short stories and has a
few novels in progress. She was born in Belgium, lives in Canada, and spends
time in Greece. The wonderful part of having so many cultures in the mix is the
rich texture; the hard part is finding a voice in English to make this come to
life. You can find her work at her website here.
“Nocturne” previously
appeared in Diviners, A Journal for Women Writers, Volume 3, Issue 2,
Summer 1998
See Brian Henry’s
schedule here, including
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What a beautiful poem!
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