Running. Days spent running. Long days running away. Far, far away from that Hill. Senlac.Where Harold Godwinson fell. All that remained of his Housecarls, all that evaded the keen eye and whetted blades of those Normans was here in this rout.
They are seized by fear as they broach the deep autumn green of the forest with the day darkening about them. They trample into the swirling grey and brown. Heaving past trees so gaunt, so erect everywhere flecked with its shadows.
They feel feral eyes lurking, they smell that stench only warhorses make; the tang of their salivary breath as their stalking footsteps are tramping heavily on foliaged ground.
Warriors, masterless curs with their master dead, are breaking, staggering into a run. The run of hearts and minds now fleeing and pounding all at once as if seized by a madness. Their fevers fired by diagonal shafts of sunlight and arrows. Threading and piercing. Whispering their death, clattering and cutting.
Bone bared, sweat-browed fighters are now falling amid the dense. And of all the summers that are to come, those summers no longer are theirs but the forest’s.
lime green ascot
and redundant cigarette holder,
never shook Hemingway’s hand;
never came to write the
great American novel,
never realised the fecund
potential of his literary dreams,
instead he was anthologised
in limited circulation magazines
from Baffin Island to Crete;
After the War,
a solitary screenplay was
optioned but never produced,
he had known the people
who had known the people
on the lot at R.K.O.;
They had Joseph Cotten
or was it Van Heflin,
test for the part
of George Meredith,
dissolute foreign correspondent
John Huston was interested in
directing but made,
” Treasure of the Sierra Madre ” instead;
Dexter Stevenson’s prolonged sojourn
at the Hotel Nacional caused
much embarrassment in later years
for the proprietor and guest alike;
the raison d’etre for the hospitality
had since passed away into legend,
no-one now remembers Stevenson’s
deserted clifftop assignation with
that victim of the pill-bottle
her infamous golden locks
her winsome ” pooh pooh pah dooh ”
something he didn’t get away from;
Here deep in the labyrinth,
D.S. finally got away
Posted in Ennui, Excerpt from an published novel set in Latin America, Existential, Homage to Borges, Identity, Poetry Noir
Tagged Existential, Homage to Borges, Homage to Film Noir, Horror, Identity, Memory, Poetry Noir
The unexplained disappearance of the reclusive author had never been properly investigated,at least not to the satisfaction of his fans,his readers and most of all his adopted son,the wannabe reporter on the local rag.
For years this state of dissatisfaction festered amongst the interested parties,who if nothing else managed to commemorate the renowned scribbler’s vanishment with an annual pilgrimage of sorts.
Then one year with the weather being particularly inclement,even for the usually desolate Scottish lochs, only the reporter had made it to the venue,the deserted house.Whereupon finding himself alone resolved in an instant to make a foray into the abandoned domicile to perhaps, in his own mind, satisfy an unquenchable curiosity.
Nothing actually came of that quixotic foray,nothing that is apart from a chance discovery,in the drawer of an antique dresser of a manuscript.
A suicide note perhaps? may be not.A last will and testament? no one however questioned its authenticity when it was scanned and reproduced in the local weekly under the adopted son’s byline.The absent author alluded to his own ineluctable disappearance in the form of a poem.Simply perhaps to add to whatever mystery was bound to ensue from his vanishment.
When winter’s cadence sounds,
burn their pictures
the photographs of the dead
so that they shan’t
trouble you again
when winter’s cadence sounds;
the gardens are shrouded
upon which no earthly foot
and the door chimes dormant
hang suspended by a thread
of your own disbelief;
an imperceptible menace
waiting for a breath,
a snap of cold winter’s
air to cut the thread
and send it crashing,
crashing onto the floor,
where you shan’t hear it
except in your imagination’s
ear firmly fixed on the
sound of winter’s cadence.
Posted in Allegory, Ennui, Existential, Horror, Identity, Philosophy, Poetry Noir, Uncategorized
Tagged Ennui, Existential, Horror, Identity, Memory, Poetry Noir
these last 3 feet
on the par 4 18th,
this putt for birdie,
this putt for the championship;
traversed with inimitable ease
leaving just these last 3;
back to the practice putt,
the hole’s diameter expands
yet all remains the same;
Words etched in time,
fade even as I gaze at them,
wondering who wrote them?
when were they written?
who were they written for?
and that final question that
even History cannot answer;
were the words ever read
by anyone before me?
or am I the first reader
and maybe the last?
shall I keep this manuscript’s secrets safe?
or should i betray them?
Posted in Allegory, Culture, Destiny Poets, Ennui, Existential, Identity, Philosophy
Tagged Allegory, contemporary society, Culture, Ennui, Existential, Identity
Voices on a phonograph
flutter across a deserted apartment,
their cadences lose themselves
among the zig – zag alleyways
on whose rooves silhouettes are painted
by passing airships on
bright timeless summer days;
In a nearby park
the oompah band plays
snatches of some Strauss melody
enthralling lunchtime crowds
attired in their finest holiday fashions;
And in the apartment
where someone used to be,
only a discarded telegram remains,
and with that emptiness inside me
I get up and leave;
leaving just the mirror
and the silence.
Posted in Allegory, Culture, Dystopia, Ennui, Existential, Identity, Philosophy, Poetry Noir
Tagged Allegory, Dystopia, Ennui, Existential, Identity, Memory