Russian wine
It must have been a winter when the old tanker
sailed through the Dardanelles into the Black Sea
that was full of ice flakes
the tanker was loading black gold at a town I have forgotten the name of, but I recall how spare the street
lighting was on a wide boulevard
We found a restaurant in a stern-looking building
possibly built with Stalin as architect, we had caviar
and drank excellent white whine
the nomenclature sat there in their suit that
appeared to have too much fabric, friendly
sorts who smoked all the time
The dull Soviet Union still existed in its dullness
and general sadness that is over now, people
who makes good wine can't be kept down
The ostrich hides her head in the sand
most birds hit the skies as planned
The woodpecker pecks at some woody-good-wood
while the hummingbird’s wings hum as they should
The robin comes out to strut her stuff
back in she goes, the ground's too tough
And, O, for a pair of cardinals
to fly to the edge of the Dardanelles
Flying creatures inspire and exhilarate, you see
except when they tinkle all over me
Ukraine or Russia
I was in the Soviet Union once, sailed through the
the Dardanelles into the Black Sea into Ukraine
The center of the town, a pompous avenue void of cars
Loudspeakers played military marches to strengthen the bond between the ruled and the rulers
The older seamen were looking for prostitutes, but there were none, it was a drab place that appeared as if it was grieving
It was a bit hazy, (I was so young,) I think we were at a naval club both men, and hefty women who wanted me to sit on their lap, they also gave me white wine, very sweet cakes, and a cigarette with a long paper filter.
The next I knew we were in Island, a wintry chromatically democratic land, where white wine was illegal.
shore leave
The ship, in the bay, had a load of grain from the fertile soil
of Ukraine, loaded in Odesa, and sent on its way across the Black Sea.
In the Dardanelles, a stop for inspections to see if the ship had
gods other than grain, not on the manifest.
She voyaged the Mediterranean to the Strait of Gibraltar, turned
sharply, starboard, up the coast of Portugal and anchored in Cascais.
Some of the crew was going ashore, shopping and drinking a few beers
as they waited for the launch on the larboard of the ship.
The ship was due to be unloaded in Lisbon on Monday, where other
crew members could go ashore and see the sight of the great city.
The lot, god’s will, for a seaman to be eternally outsider, passing
through, but only at home on the high seas.
68 years ago
68 years ago, I was onboard the world's oldest tank ship
wooden decks and looking like a sailing ship more than
a tanker in the Black Sea on the way to Odesa.
The sea had ice flakes, fishing vessels got stuck, and a Russian
minesweeper was on its way to help it was painted dark
blue and red; the sky was slightly overcast.
What I remember best was the silence, no TV. no noise
from constant communication in the cold air, above all
no mobile phones had yet to intrude.
Now, ships loaded with grain follow a mine-free lane
on the way to the Dardanelles for inspection by men
in uniform before heading for Africa.
Not destined for the famished population, not yet
the grain is stored in gigantic silos by trying governments
distributed by them at an inflated price, the poor
cannot afford the starvation continues unabated.
We have been here before, in the winter of 1949, people
froze to death when fishing and fell like nine pins when
spring came; few families had any furniture left.
68 years ago, I recall the unmoving stillness, now
there is a cacophony of angry voices protesting against
the burden they are asked to carry for our leaders.
The old soviet-union
It must have been winter when the old tank skip
Sailed through the Dardanelles into the Black sea
Which was full of ice flakes.
The ship was loading oil in a town I have forgotten
The name of, but I do remember it was sparse
On-street lights had a wide boulevard and few cars.
We found a restaurant in a building the looked
An office block, we ate caviar and drank white wine.
A place for the Nomenclature in ill-fitting suits.
The old soviet - union still existed in all its dullness
And general sadness, which I think is over now
people who make good wine can’t be kept down.
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