A poem

The passionfruit has flowered again
Lush blooms floating on the scent of jasmine
Which fills the evening air. Sitting beside one another
We watch the wattlebirds at their games in the grevillea.

But I hold the same glass in my hand.

Now come the bother boys, as we call them,
The cockatoo circus. Chaos of white feathers
And sulphur crests trapeze through the branches
And somersault around one another.

But the same words stretch across the void

I haven’t really been here, have I?
We sit in the perfumed darkness,
Listening to the snuffles and whisperings of the night
Waiting for the path to bring me back.

If you enjoy my writing, please visit my blog Wise Men Fish Here , where (if you feel like contributing to my coffers) you can also buy my photos and my latest ebook of poetry, Songs of a Sad Summer. Thank you!

Because I am hopeless with a map

Somehow, in Barcelona, I lost a cathedral.

Admittedly I have no sense of direction (except in Hong Kong. For some reason I never — well, rarely — get lost there.) I lack that bit of my brain. My kids regularly ask me which way to go, then walk in the opposite direction.

Yet Barcelona’s Barri Gòtic, or Gothic Quarter, is not that large. And cathedrals have spires stretching to the sky, which should be able to be seen.

The cause of the problem is also the delight of the Barri Gòtic: small, winding alleyways, buildings which reach out to almost touch one another across the cobblestones. Ancient walls bulge into the street, and the street signs I found were no help. Even in a large square (which I never found on the map) I found no reference to centre me, and so I did what I always do: I set off at random. Something was bound to turn up. …

A poem

I wish I could share the sound of the cicadas with you
Those first notes of summer began a few days ago
Promising long, lazy days
Just as the jasmine
When it scents the morning breeze
Heralds the spring.
Already the deafening song vibrates into my thoughts
As the cicadas bumble between the trees.

Can you hear them?
Or are summers different there
In that place where everyone goes alone. …

From Subways to Samurai and Grasshoppers

Japan’s subways are efficient, well-organised, and completely overwhelming. Different companies own competing train lines, the stations never interconnecting. Subway maps are works of modern art, and equally as open to various interpretations.

Then comes the Herculean task of finding the platform. These have been carefully hidden in underground shopping malls which stretch for what seem miles. I couldn’t resist peering in the windows of shops which seemed to sell everything, from second hand kimonos to exclusive places well beyond my budget. There were noodle shops, electronic places, food markets, book shops, and places selling more traditional goods. …

How the streets of Naples bewitched me

I fell in love in the side streets of Naples. I fell in love with Naples.

Naples Bay is reputedly the birthplace of the Sirens. Although the age of the city remains unclear, mythology holds Naples was built where the body of the siren Parthenope washed ashore. (She drowned herself when her songs failed to entice Odysseus, a man so readily enticed.)

A town was probably founded by Greek colonists, perhaps as early as the 10th C BCE, which then became a thriving city before the rise of Rome. …

Another poem

Sing, O Muse, of those days of glory, floating
With scraps in a sud-filled sink. A flotilla of bubbles
Drift out the window, bursting into a shower
Of rainbows over the washing machine as it spins
An endless salsa. Meanwhile, the ironing dozes,
The sleeves so innocently dangling o’er the basket,
A hanging judge. Where now hide those days
Of sea-kissed air and ambrosial champagne?

Unnoticed, the minutes quietly gather my memories,
Glance at my forgotten face, then gurgle
Down the half-blocked drain. A slick of worry
Wraps around my thoughts: what sacrifice
Can halt those voices, whispering down the ages
Cursing me with all I once desired?

If you enjoy my writing, please visit my blog Wise Men Fish Here , where (if you feel like contributing to my coffers) you can also buy my photos and my latest ebook of poetry, Songs of a Sad Summer. Thank you!

A Poem

No rain;
No rain in memory. Wombs,
As parched as the land

Overflow with dust.
Rare life born to a grave.
Wandering souls

With no place to sleep
In this dying land of adults.
Storms bring buds to grizzled branches

And a child springs forth in the rain.
A village of hands stretch in worship
Unknown life, anew.

Washed away by showers, the past
Blossoms into sacred memory;
Engraved in song

Forever changing.

© A. Harrison

If you enjoy my writing, please visit my blog Wise Men Fish Here , where (if you feel like contributing to my coffers) you can also buy my photos and my latest ebook of poetry, Songs of a Sad Summer. Thank you!

When you feel you’ve seen all Rome has to offer

Rome can be overwhelming. It can be daunting, chaotic, and exhausting. It is also amazing. It’s easy to find a list of the ten best things to do — but if you need a break, or need to escape the tourists and the crowds, here are some suggestions.

Why Not Stay in a Convent?

Once the heavy wooden door closed, I stood surrounded by silence. Flying anywhere from Australia takes a long time, and after a night and a day and a night I was exhausted. Eventually, I emerged from that metal cocoon into the chaos of Rome. …