1974 and the Guardian newspaper
On a ship, where I was employed, docked
In Lisbon, a few days after the Carnation Revolution
The air was full of anticipation
I took a double-decker bus to the town center
A throng of cheerful people filled the narrow streets
At a paper stall, pornographic mags had moved in
getting the most out of newfound freedom
I ate Fesjoada tras montania (bean stew), drank
a bottle of Sagres beer, and later walked around
streets, but with so much noise, I bought
The Guardian newspaper, which I thought was
a harbinger of the truth
Back then, The Guardian was a fresh, brave paper,
These days, it is rather staid in the political line
pro-American, but it is still a better paper
than the Ghastly "Sun" and the Sunday papers
I still read that paper online, which has good art pages
But politically, we parted ways a long time ago
There's good and bad that happened in 1974-fifty years later nothing has changed
Luanda 1975
It was a fraught time in Luanda, the rebel army (freedom fighters)
was closing in on Luanda, leaving civilians exposed
to rape, murder and pillage.
The Portuguese army had dastardly skulked away and
General Spinola was in Lisbon playing politics
Colonialism was over, but there was fear of its ending
when hatred had to be sated.
Among the white population, there was a fatalistic mien
drowning their fear like the sinking Titanic, loud music, booze
and dancing, everything to live a little longer.
Then came the Germans (foreign legion) took charge
staved off the incoming, undisciplined riff-raff army
long enough for people to get on ships and planes to get
the hell out; as for the Germans found their way out to
South Africa.
The aftermath:
When hatred of the colonials subsided, the new Angola
found they needed the know-how of the settlers they
were invited back.
Today, thousands of Portuguese live to thrive in harmony
with the black population,
Green Gremlins were all the rage in nineteen seventy-four.
I am not talking about creepy fat-headed full bellied tiny beings.
I am talking about cheap cars with a V-8 and four on the floor.
Everyone had one, so common, most of us were tee-heeing.
Painted a variety of colors, and riding in them made you kind of sore.
We wore hip hugger bell-bottoms and had a hippie-like look.
This was in ’74, and believe it or not, this is no folk lore.
If you do not believe me, just look up a Gremlin in a picture book.
His palette was every shade of grey
Jet black one end snow white the other
And never did a stroke touch the canvas
Before endless moments of pondering
Like a crow in a tree
Surveying a frosted wasteland
Then swooping with purpose
Only when the prey was sure
I would watch in awe
Barely daring to breath
As the landscape took shape
In twists and swathes
Delicate dots and bold waves
Skeletal trees appearing
Against a bleak winter sky
Chimney smoke stains
From a distant town
Broken figures bowed
Against the harsh terrain
His head would tilt back
In tense contemplation
Fists clenched and eyes closed
Summoning the strength
To make his next move
Awaiting the muse
Inhaling the heavens
Clutching for inspiration
Then a sudden inhalation
And a whispered sigh
As his vision restored
And the brush led his hand
A world without colour
The death of hope
Questioning God himself
Channelling his demons
In exquisite form
It was still dark when I awoke
To the tinny clang of my travel alarm
The bedroom cold
And the day unwelcome
Israeli jets flying overhead,
Old folk quake in their bed.
Only practice runs they say,
Old folk remember that day.
When jets flew over before,
Turkey had decided to roar,
Old folk remember 1974.
© Dave Timperley 22 March 2017
I flew,
a modern man in a steel bird,
with all the arrogance of
ancient Icarus, but my wings
did not melt nor I swoon.
I flew high, very, very high
over Asian lands and homes,
and below me, very, very far
down where the bombs fell
like the rains of hell...
I saw the face of the moon.
It was the summer I would first choke
on second hand marijuana smoke;
I passed the swimming pool lifeguard test
and received my first real paycheck.
It was the summer I learned how to drive -
got my license on the first try;
And, by Saint Leonard’s pond I was blessed
with discovering what was up her dress.
Nixon had resigned;
I saw “The Exorcist” for the first time;
Paul McCartney sang “Band on the Run”
and we were having some adult fun.
It was the summer I smiled a lot;
The first jewelry that I ever bought;
I looked forward to each coming day
as my innocence slowly slipped away.
But summers must always end;
I saw her with my friend;
The ring was soon returned;
It was the summer my heart got burned.
Forty summers have since passed,
Of heart breaks, it was not my last,
But of memories, I must confess,
In regards of time, it has passed the test.
hippy ... love chips How beautiful was it?
The park by the beach with one caged panda and bedraggled peacocks...calling and flirting, as nature dictated
Displayed by the sea
Water
Lake
Filled with crabs loitering by the inlet flow
Who waited patiently to secure our sausagemeat on a string
And rose embaressed and wonky
Clutching by one claw
Cross as grandma ... on a Monday
Wash day
Scrubbing stains ..
How beautiful and memorable was that 1974 summers day
As we bobbed in boats, as our brave, mad ever so handsome hippy father
Stood precariously ( against the rules) and splashed our sodden frames with his cruel laughing oar
How gorgeous was mother and fathers glorious young white teeth
Which matched perfectly the beautiful lively tinkering forms of light
Which danced upon said lake
The very last time I saw her honestly... laugh with adoration at his jesting antics
Hoping to impress
Her...
Stretching his vibrant smile as a peacock in bloom
It was a beautiful moment
The last time I felt swaddled in the possibility of our family , hope and
Generous
Love chips
In mid-June's heat, we wait inside the bus,
and everyone has said their last goodbyes.
The Moorish boy I’ve come to know is sad.
He says he knows I never will return.
The bus pulls out (his face just fades away).
We pass through streets that now seem not the same
as those that we first rode down when we came
here six short months ago. It seemed so strange!
Madrid, my first impression of you was
how everything seemed dingy and so grey.
But staying here, I found your treasures, and
enjoyed your many charms that I unearthed.
I’ve walked among your people, tasted foods:
paella, soups and pastries and much more.
I’ve visited Retiro Park, seen art
in sculptures on your streets and in museums.
I’ve visited your shops, your restaurants
where dancers of flamenco hypnotize,
your ring for fighting bulls, your theaters;
your streets seem now familiar, almost sweet!
The group I came with, now like family,
chat happily about their going home.
But I alone am missing you, Madrid,
before I even board that giant bird.
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