Cafe du Monde

A cabaret


At the Cafe du Monde
in Monastiraki,
Zemfira the gypsy reads
teacups, cards; unlocks
enigmas in your stars,
reveals fate hidden
in your palms.

Here you can purchase
gypsy charms
to turn the evil eye away;
talismans to bring
ships fair winds,
fetishes to keep harm at bay;
and if heart's desire is eluding you,
we have the remedy for that too -
elixirs we brew induce
sweet dreams, and make
your dearest wish come true.
 
At the Cafe du Monde
for a limited season,
Scheherazade will narrate
her tales; poets and minstrels
congregate nightly,
dulcimer players
sing serenades.

At the Cafe du Monde,
Layla's bells and veils
transport you
to exotic lands; 
visitors can find
romance, dancing
pavanes and sarabandes...


*  *  *


Песня Земфиры

Цветку - пчела,
Астроному - звезда,
Дереву - птица,
Цыганке - дорога…

Певцу - песня,
Небе - луна,
Пьянице - пянство,
Мне - пространство…

Рыбе - вода,
Любовнику - счастье,
Поэту - муза,
А мне - судьба…


*  *  *

Капитанская песня

Ещё не кончена зима -
тучи затмили небеса,
яростные волны
чуть не захлебнули
корабля…

Моря бывают злые -
воображает капитан
среди бури, среди тьмы,
подружки верные глаза.

Пройдут ветра дурные,
утро станет плавным, ясным -
гул затихнет - вечером
взблестит путеводная звезда.


* * *


Tonight young sailors
from the Black Sea
cry to beautiful Layla,
Пляши! Пляши!

Rose-petals shower
her sequined veil
as Scheherazade waits
to begin her tale.

At the Cafe du Monde
(or Kosmos, or Mir),
we can sing any song
you desire to hear...

But first, Evita
from Argentina
will captivate you
with her repertoire -

      
Danse Macabre


And I think - why not?
Just one last dance
with life, the emerald-eyed,
before retiring from the floor
where other couples glide.

My tango partner
clasps my spine
ambiguously tight;
we sweep through onyx halls
in soft, kaleidoscopic light.

Like larks we swoop
towards new dawns
with skies of rose and flame,
until my limbs begin to ache
as in an iron frame.

And now I glimpse
my partner's face -
his profile aquiline -
the gaze from soulless
topaz eyes now turned
full on his prey:

'Don't you recognise
your fate?'
I hear the stranger say...

I think -
why not?
Just one
last dance,
before he
spirits
me
away...


*  *  *

Ladies and gentlemen,
now Marquise
recites:

The Song of Athenian Gypsies

They occupy the periphery,
winter in wind-bitten alleys,
summer in panting diesel-heat
under hospitable plane-trees.

You observe them unobtrusively,
drink in their colours, wistfully -
swirls of flamingo and cochineal,
silver and lime, rose and violet.

They move with the grace of acrobats,
slender girls with tik-tak heels,
like wildflowers in gaudy fields
desired, devoid of coquetry.

Children of children raised
on the street, with incessant
sirens to lull them to sleep,
scorned and bedraggled, grubby,
street-wise, confront you with passion
and blame in their eyes - too unlike you
to feel comfortable with, in their vivid,
tenacious, precarious lives.

*  *  *

Spring in the City


Buds on the bitter-orange trees,
their perfume haunting, bridal,
brief - the sombre skies of birdless
winter gone...

.................. In the trolley-buses,
music - hungry-hearted refugees -
a Romanian accordionist and his son,
piping their broken song.


*  *  *


At the Kosmos Cafe
when candles dim,
the morning star
comes peeping in;
a cock crows
on the Acropolis
as lovers exchange
a drowsy kiss.


*  *  *

And so ends our season
in Monastiraki;
next week we reopen
in Thessaloniki. 



(to be continued)