Reaching Igoumenitsa

01:00 Tuesday morning--
outside three lights appear
in the darkness
where before were only black
hints of land, no stars
the utter dark of Ionian winter.

I blink at the lights:
but they are real, not reflection.
We pull silently into land
the ferry plying its massive course
amid the calm waters of the headlands
where I have been before.

Ahead the harbour lights appear:
yellow sodium, shadows and concrete waste.
Six cars huddle, some trucks,
as though seeking warmth in the winter night.

The ferry turns,
Spinning on its own length silently, inexorably;
anchors fall in muffled roar,
engines reverse,
in a moment the rear doors will open
as we reach Igoumenitsa

At Chrysaliniotissa

At Chrysaliniotissa
I stopped a while
in the quiet moonlight
that lit the yard.
Cars in the distance
rumble and die.
A night owl calls
on our side or theirs,
I cannot tell.
Above me
the stars, the moon,
Jasmine and mint in the air.
The blue-white flag
snapping
alive in the night,
her steel halyard
clank-clank-clanking
in the wind.
I look to my shadow –
my shadow looks to me.
Together, we rise
and leave for home.

(c) Philip Ammerman, 2006

Rain in Athens

Rain in Athens -
Friday morning, June 9th.
Waiting again at the gas station:
the roaring traffic,
the crashing pumps,
an attendant shuffling his dirty wad of cash
his broken syllables give lie
to the neon promise of glamour and speed.
Then home
to twenty six TV channels of garbage,
to bank statements and telephone bills,
to the garish ejaculations
of the fast food menus scattered by the door.
There is a curious freedom here,
a freedom our grandfathers gave their lives for,
a freedom we stumble across
in the late night footage
of pale limbs and faces desperate
with the foreknowledge of what is to come
etched in their eyes -
Arbeit Macht Frei and Babi Yar
and all the things we choose to forget.
A freedom we confidently relinquish
but for the morning rain.

(c) Philip Ammerman, 2006

Immortal Princeton

I'm late with yet another report, working yet another Saturday morning. Just remembered some immortal lines carved into a study carrell in the depths of Blair Hall, from freshman year at Princeton.

Here I sit
pissed, not elated.
I came here to study
but procrastinated.
But don't you laugh
not a moment more
'cause ten bucks has it
you've done it before.