Tales from a Greek Island
 
A Lovely Review for American Ikaros
Long legged buzzard. Achordeia. Picture by Keith
Bonelli's eagle. Achordeia. Taken by Keith
Passing Birds
An Actress in the Village
Avlona on a Cold day
Minas Prearis died January 2013 RIP
Minas Prearis
Ein MUST.
Selection from Reviews of More Tales from a Greek Island
Rain
More Tales from a Greek Island
More Tales from a Greek Island
Triumph for Our Frogs
Elections May 2012
Where to buy
Three Days of birds
Notable Birds of North Karpathos and Saria
More Tales from a Greek Island
Living on less
The Crisis
A poem for Kevin by Ruth Padel
More birds
Birds around the village
The new cover
Kevin Andrews-An Appraisal
Tales in German
Roy Chapman Andrews
Ellinoamerica Review
The Flight of Ikaros
Bonelli's Eagle (Hieraaetus fasciatus)
Eleanora's Falcons
American Ikaros The search for Kevin Andrews
Balakas
Vananda
Rembetika
Spring Opening
Its not all Fun and Games
Scholar Gipsy? The Search for Kevin Andrews
Sometimes Things Work Out
Gabriella
Africa in Diafani
The Search for Kevin Andrews
We get E-mails
coffee
Going to the Doctors
Music in the Village

A poem for Kevin by Ruth Padel

July 2011
This poem was written for Kevin shortly after his death. It is from a Summer Snow a collection published in 1990. Ruth clearly knew Kevin well.


Unhoused
(for Kevin Andrews)

I wanted one glass tonight
of champagne, to your swim.
For having known you. But you'd laugh -

- no drink here without food
between six and nine. And bring
curd cheese from neighbours round the corner,
salad picked on hills, island liquor
you weren't supposed to touch.
'Half a glass,' you'd say, an impatient
accurate centaur, forgetting your pills.
'You come so seldom.' Only you knew
the dark padding loneliness. Your rough links,
copper spots of warmth in winter,
weighting like Agamemnon's gold
neckbone I never felt outside your house:
I couldn't afford them. Only a bracelet, a ring.

You'd know what to do with a neolithic axe
but what happened when lightning struck?
Those fits: I'd sit near, uselessly gentle.

The blue hands on your wall, meant
to keep off the eye - maybe they worked.
Who knows what might have happened?
How else could you go? Burnt scrub
on exposed Cithaeron that Easter
crackled with gods. You said, 'I like that -
crackling with gods.' We're born
to such hopeless houses,
strangers to what we love.

You shared what helped. The I Ching.
Dowland on pie-crust records. (I sent more -
they melted and warped in the mail.)
Goat-pipes. All your presences were real:

tangerine smoulder on a tripod,
books and the wood that held them,
iron tools on the plank by the stove.
Each had its history and smell.
When your grandchild was born
you twisted a bronze wire anchor.
I delivered it to the world
where you buried your gold.
The self you were goes into hiding
off Cythera, for God's sake, in a force
seven storm. Whatever happened,
there was that sweet smile after, floating back,
an assured child from an unshared reach.