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.

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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?

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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.

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Extraction Point

Rotor blades are swiping the sky,

bronze and orange paint their

surreal stripes across the horizon;

throbbing humming whirring,

meld into cacophany;

Rotor blades are swiping the sky,

chattering clattering hammering,

smacking concrete jarring the senses;

squatting crouching striding toward

the doors yawning open,

huddled in shock huddled in awe;

the bronze and orange painting

their surreal stripes brighter than before;

seconds seconds minutes pass,

losing time time gone;

throbbing bursting choking rotors

rev their roar,

doors slamming slamming

shut as coffin lids,

whisps, plumes and clouds

of smoke curl and choke

scrawl their epitaph

over the city;

bronze and orange continue to bleed,

rotor blades are swiping the sky.

 

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Lakota

 

The bitter dusts of war

the bitter dusts of famine,

pierce men’s skins

swirling in their hearts

with a coyote chorus

of forgotten words,

forgotten peace;

The Winds of corpses

and the Winds of souls,

howl with their forgotten promises

across our empty hunting grounds

where the promises of Buffalo

gave way to certainty of steel;

The blood of our braves

and the blood of heaven,

moisten barren earth

placing a veil of green

on the lamentation of widows

and their inheritance of dreams.

 

 

Posted in 19th.Century American History, Allegory, Colonialism, Culture, Ennui, Existential, Identity, Imperialism, Nature/Environment, Nostalgia, Philosophy, War | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment