To find love
first you must seek the island
where the mandolins
throw tears into the spray
and the sand throbs with the foot beats
of a dancing sun.
To seek the island
you need a voyage,
a ship piloted by dolphins
echoing the notes
of the far off whale's song.
The voyage is difficult,
a music upon the wind,
knowing that once you knew
or thought you knew
where you were going,
had been there, slept
within those island groves
beyond the surf
and sands of powdered skeletons.
Old steamer writes slowly
upon the ink-dark sea,
wave to wave heaving
drunken along a sea-lane's
promenade,
a mother's belly and your rebirth
Newly born under stars
you listen to the sailors' song
remembering nights of Ithaca,
imaginary women
and the bodies of sailors who float
eternally nine fathoms down.
Sometimes from passing ships
you may catch a glimpse of a waving hand.
These seas are full of signs,
sharks fin, flash plunge of diving bird.
In silent coves undisturbed insects
patrol the strand with each receding wave.
To find the island the journey is long.
There are always other islands
beyond the one you've reached,
white houses enticing from afar,
a quay, domed church, shrines among hills,
a monastery in which to die.
Remember; islands are persons
rooted in water, blossoming under sun.
Following signs you find your way.
Only you can interpret the symbols,
can tell upon which wind the music comes.
Secretly I think that no-one
has ever found the island.
It is always beyond -
the bazooki is always calling
if you listen closely enough
to the wires.
I think
the point of it all
lies simply in the voyaging.
When you are travelling
at each island
always remember to dance.