Warriors ( A Short Story )

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.

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Writer in Exile

Dexter Stevenson
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
contemplating suicide,
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
from himself.

Posted in Ennui, Excerpt from an published novel set in Latin America, Existential, Homage to Borges, Identity, Poetry Noir | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Les Autres ( A Short Story )

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
burn them,
so that they shan’t
trouble you again
when winter’s cadence sounds;

the gardens are shrouded
in snow
upon which no earthly foot
will fall,
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 , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Putt

Eye,

ball,

eye,ball

eyeball;

these last 3 feet

on the par 4 18th,

this putt for birdie,

this putt for the championship;

464 yards,

1,392 feet

traversed with inimitable ease

leaving just these last 3;

back to the practice putt,

stroke,stroke,

swish,swish,

the hole’s diameter expands

then contracts

yet all remains the same;

breath,

posture;

breath,

aim-point;

pressure,

breathe,

breathe,

eyeball,

eye,ball,

eye,

ball..

play..

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A Pile of Words x2

Of Words A Pile

 

They say poetry some,

is of  pile words a just,

rhymed not or whether,

general which of in,

jot don’t a give they,

are are they what words but,

shudder ears and reluctant though,

they as might,

night ringing on keeps,

into the poetry on.

……………………………

A Pile Of Words

 

Some say that poetry,

is just a pile of words,

whether rhymed or not,

of which in general

they don’t give a jot,

but words are what they are,

and though reluctant ears shudder

as they might,

poetry keeps on ringing

on into the night!

 

Footnote:-

These are the transcripts of Louis Kasatkin’s performance poetry recorded live at Destiny Church,Wakefield at 18:20 GMT,Saturday 13 October 2018 on the occasion of the Church’s 12th. Anniversary Celebrations.You can copy & paste the URL link to the video :-

 

 

 

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Manuscript Found in an Antique Dresser

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 , , , , , | Leave a comment

Intermezzo

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 , , , , , | Leave a comment