Poems from Travel Journal 2015


I’m trying to write about spaces
so difficult to distinguish
and encapsulate in words
just when in all my languages
words are slithering and absconding
pushing each other forward
in the wrong order
sending me to a thesaurus
where none of the exactitudes
properly fit.

Space is what I read,
but how can I recreate
a room or a sky
its power to expand
contract take off the lid
or remodel the walls
of the space inside me, Continue reading


Imagine praying to the plaster statue of a young man on a motor bike, with dark tinted goggles and a gun stuck in his belt. A santo malandro, or thug saint, one of a ‘court’ of spirits in the virtual queendom of María Lionza, a Venezuelan deity of popular origin. The first images of the Queen herself were pastoral, a beautiful young woman against a background of nature, ‘protector of waters, goddess of harvests’. The distance from one image to the other – from the lovely nature goddess to the rough city delinquent – covers a little over a hundred years and the tumultuous historical and political developments in Venezuela during that time.

First, however, I should define the premises of a spiritualistic cult. This one, though such a European term is used to define it, and it was influenced also by the spiritualist movements of the late 19th century in Europe, has strong roots in indigenous beliefs and practices. The acrid-smelling cigars, for example, that are used to help achieve contact with the ‘other’ dimension are a native inheritance, and smoked even by young children, who can be seen at the cult’s altars puffing away with their eyes half closed. Continue reading


Dogson in the forest, painting by Clide Eliche


For many years of my life I was obsessed with a race of ‘dog people’, and sometimes they still visit me, although I’ve mostly written them out of me. They are not hybrids, but dogs – or maybe wolves – that acquired consciousness at some point in evolution, and bear the same relation to canines as humans do to apes. I have a mythological explanation for their awakening, as recorded in these stories. They are good and bad like all conscious creatures, but I think of them as wiser than us, more in tune with earth and with stronger sight reaching into a future which in their hands could be just and happy.

I have written many versions of their story. The narrative poem ‘The Marriage of Wolf and Ship’, also on this website, is the latest, and compresses into a myth the birth, destruction and possible resurrection of sensitive life on earth, with the Wolf as ancient awareness.  My last effort at a coherent story, ‘The Yellow Tree’, is a short novel for adolescents about a part ‘wolf’ girl born in an ancient matriarchal city which is taken over by violent human males, so that she escapes to her ancestors in the forest where, after  a disastrous marriage, she has the child – a girl – who will renew their civilisation.

That novel is partly a rewriting of a story I called ‘Queenbitch’, not written with children in mind, where the dog-woman at the end is an ancient hag who still has the power to seduce Dogson, a hybrid hero who also finds his way to the city in the forest in search of the secrets that will let him save his race. ‘Fragments of a Myth’ tells the story of Dogson’s mother and of his life and battles and apparent victory. ‘Kali: After the End’ is an account of renewed conflict, where a heroine with cybernetic implants cooperates with age-old werewolves to defeat the despotic, alienated order that is forcing its own time stream back into reality.

The matriarchal (should I call it feminist?) slant in the stories is strong.







Queenbitch is a matriarchal figure, a female who believes in the spiritual superiority of her gender and the rightness of sexual freedom. This is part II of her story, a sporadic diary she keeps over the long years at the ‘Navel’, the dog tribe’s city in the forest. Too much of part I, which recounts her youth in the doomed city of Cynopolis, is reworked in ‘The Yellow Tree’ for it to be worth repeating here.






You see, Book, I’ve had to learn a whole new way to measure time. There, I’ve written the first words after a change of world. I hope I’ll keep it up from now on.

Poor book, you’re not the clean and beautiful object you once were. Several times I thought I would have to abandon you, when I was running from fierce males, or when I was almost too weak to carry you, but I always managed to hang on to you. And here we are. Your cover is darkened and scratched, and your pages scruffy at the edges, but what is written in you is as clear as the day I wrote it.

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Light is love without attachment
Gianfranco Spavieri





Her name is Kali and she was born in India. She is now head guardian in one of the biggest remaining cities in the south of the north. She has no peace. Wired to her workstation almost every hour of the day, she has to put down outbreaks of contamination all over her area, as well as decide on the compatibility with the Renewal of proposed developments, keep up with news from elsewhere, and deal with eruptions of memory and vision, her own and from the common store.

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Never mind the journey. It was the mixture Kali is becoming used to of exhilaration and discomfort, worry and suspension of anxiety for the future. She spent a lot of time during flights and waits tuning in to the Navel and following what Dharma and Dance are doing. They had been afraid the forest might have overgrown the place, but the Tribe’s old spell, Continue reading



The Yellow Tree is a novel for adolescents, with a matriarchal slant. The story involves two races of people: the Lupaka tribe, who are descended from wolves, and the humans of the city of Kynopolis. The city’s royal clan are hybrids, partly Lupaka and partly human.

Kynopolis is an imaginary place, not far from the southern shore of the Mediterranean, in an unspecified but extremely ancient time. A priestess of the Goddess predicts a special destiny for the girl Vio, but she is lively and rebellious and has a privileged life as a member of the royal clan, and she refuses to believe her world will change. Continue reading




Vio first heard of her unusual fate when she was still a little girl. She was making mud houses in the garden, on a hot, lazy afternoon, when her nurse, Gora, called her inside.

“What do you want?” shouted Vio. “I’m busy.”

“You’re going to the Temple with your mother. Come and change your dress.”

“I don’t want to,” shouted Vio.

Continue reading