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This book of 87 poems is divided into distinct four sections, recording the poet’s memories of his sojourns at various places as an Ionian diplomat. He nets the modern landscapes into ancient history conscientiously, mentioning names of the historical personages. It would enhance the popularity of the book if he would also give, in the last chapter of this book, entitled as NOTES, a very brief historical information on these great persons, for the interest of those readers who are not very conversant with the Greek history. He also narrates certain personal events thereby providing an insight to his sensitive mind.
In the first section of eleven poems on India, the poet expresses, his impressions and reactions to situations perceived as odd by him during his forays into various places. At times, he feels appalled by human pride and prejudice, which he expresses in a philosophical vein in his bewitching poetical style. He is deeply touched by the slavish meticulousness of Indian servants. He is enchanted by the sylvan surroundings of his residence on a rainy day. He took keen interest in the daily lives of the village folk, the absolute authority and power of their past rulers, their temples and the landscape in general. His mild sarcasm about human nature is, perhaps, at its jovial best, wherein he brings out as to how there is ever a tendency to avoid facing the struggle of life by preferring to remain in the womb itself rather than being born in to the world.
In the section on Rome, he is distracted by the crowd in a square, the cars speeding through it, but feels relaxed by the sight of a single sparrow in the palm. In spite of the very many historical sights all over Rome, he would not like to ignore its airport. He avoids giving any reason for it, saying that love is not guided by reason. He touchingly describes the lamentations of an innocent child at the death of its sparrow, which used to playfully hop around her. In Geneva, he sketches the natural scenery of lake and the mountains. He describes the disciplining of a baby daughter by her mother, who points out to her that a baby younger to her behaves more sweetly. On a snowy day, he worries over the survival of a winter robin scratching at the frosty pane and an eagle with its ravenous cry closing in fast. He further humorously wonders at his love: for Isabel, smoked ham and aubergines in cheese, all in equal measure.
In Geneva, he recalls meeting Daniela, an Italian researcher of his own age whose subject of research he could not make out, but remembers a bout of drinking he enjoyed with her and her boyfriend on their invitation on the eve of her planning a holiday because the grant had run out. On another occasion, he was shocked after his conversation about Catharine’s wheel of torture during a session of copious drinking and on the top of that expecting to receive kindness in future on account of the sacred remembrance. For his stay in a hotel at Manila, he succinctly recalls: his working in an air-conditioned room on a hot monsoon day, the residents and their guests relaxing in a bar-served garden by the side of a blue pool. He wonders at his folly that in-spite of his infatuation with Imogene during his youth, he never could bring himself to communicate it to her. He mocks at the speech of Carter, on the occasion of his farewell on November 5th,1980 at Geneva, wherein he quoted a professor saying that Reagan had promised to return America to Americans, especifically adding that Reagan did not mean to include Sioux Indians. He wishes silently that his girlfriend stops loving her other friend as he is acutely aware that any advice voiced by him will carry no weight. In the peace of Fluntern Cemetery he recalls how quarrel- stricken Dublin seemed. He fondly hopes that his silent love for his beautiful darling will be responded to. At Modena, he finds the silence as steady as a stubborn sail in the wind. He notices a rose-window that glitters because of early morning sun-rays, expects the spontaneous but clumsy flow of verse on receiving the imagined kisses but he has to wait endlessly to hear the footfall of the beloved The pilgrim, according to Dante though unlike the soul, appears to be one with soul who ever remains untouched and the pilgrim ever unhealed during their journey. He versifies the musings, of Pericles the Athenian statesman general, about the beauty of the city and the sacrifices of the soldiers. Finally he recalls with sadness the sweet and philosophical advice of his departing beloved ‘Dreams adulterate the wine of truth: take the failure neat.’
In Copenhagen, he enjoys the colours of the autumn trees along the coast at Horsholm, Holte. At Langelinie, he is fascinated by the statue of a belle with an expressionless visage. At Fredericksberg he reminisces the pain of a fiancée in the bygone era vis- a-vis the awareness of a modern beauty of her own worth. At Brussels he is sadly nostalgic on coming across not a single known person. At Sankta Sunniva he watches a woman patiently baling her wood before alighting from her sea-craft, worried that unless the sun came through the clouds she will have no fire at night. He thinks of Sunniva the fabled beauty of yore and the lady of Selje, whose remains were buried in the Bishope’s church. As a passenger in transit, he calls up the memories of various observations made by him like: the shops all over happily accepting dollars, gaining entry to the opera by presenting a docket which was available from the automated parking lot, at Klampenborg the caucusing of a large cluster of birds, and in Singapore the ferrymen jettisoning blackened matchsticks into the waterway come to his attention. His brief encounter with two companions one an Indian young man and the other one wheelchair- bound who, though originally from Ireland, had settled down in the Gangetic valley of India. While boating by ghats, he fondly recalls the advice of the boatman, ‘Trade in the softest of currencies, the non-transferable roubles of the heart.’ In this section, Ithaca perhaps is the most philosophical poem wherein he states: however turbulent, full of strife and struggle may be the life of an individual, like that of Ulysses as an example, the small flame in one’s heart, which he names as Ithaca, is never extinguished.
He reminisces his fearful fall in a deep snowy fissure while skiing on the slope of Alps, when it was already dark and the possibility of rescue even by a helicopter was remote. In Paris, he remembers his useless argument with an uncompromising lady and his encounter with a ninety-four years old Fitzpatrick a veteran at Loker Hospice Cemetery. He likens Concord aircraft to a beast of prey because of its poise before take-off and roaring across the runway during take-off so speedily and bolting through the clouds to a clear blue sky where its flight is soundless. He recalls the unsavoury procedure of crossing through Berlin Wall into the East Berlin. In Carraroe, he dwells on the desolate ambience of a highly commended hotel of his stay at Dresden except for a butterfly like waitress serving wine in precise quantity. He recollects: the sorrow of his deceased mother at the death of Uncle Vincent, her observation of hamburger buns, chips, onions, etc., being carried in shopping bags at Greenmount Road. He is unable to decipher a plaque having a date ‘in 1932’ written on it, in a church visited by him for solace at Dresden which, in the past had been destroyed by aerial bombing. He enjoys the music in Elbterrasse, from Cats, as if it was an elixir, and departs from it after strolling by its monuments, noticing the special path- signs to show the way to foreigners. Finally the Ionian Diplomat takes leave of his personal poetic narrative by affectionately recalling the love showered on him by his Ma and Dad.
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