Katerina Anghelaki Rooke – Selected Poems

II
my time is
a waste of time
in nature.
I don’t become younger
I don’t age
nothing of my heart
touches the stars.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562965

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763521

Red in Black

Comrade
He had an exquisite aura
that only a few of the ones
who met him could recognize
we’re walking side by side
in the busy path of the park
a new mother was pushing tenderly
the stroller with her baby
who was crying as if singing
a future tune, the sun was
warming the dress of the mother
loose and freely falling over her
as if to cover her baby bump
a couple of months after childbirth
the breeze blew as softly
on her face and the curtain of the stroller
as my buddy and I walked side by side
on our regular afternoon stroll
when suddenly a four year old boy
stopped his bicycle in front of us
as if he wanted to say something
and my comrade, a fate’s wish
you could say, let his glance dive
deep in the eyes of the boy
no word was uttered
neither from my buddy
nor from the four year old boy
who only stared at my friend
as if magnetized by his eyes
from which tears stared flowing
and I, upon seeing his tears, wondered
what could had happened when my friend
guessing my wonder, stopped
he took my hand and said
one day even this innocence
will be defiled by the system

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1771713208

Wheat Ears

Poseidon
And the days of Poseidon began
as I exhumed a band of sunrays
and to the chickadee
I gave the chirp
ancient brutes
clashed in my mind
clarity squabbled
opposite riddles
over my thoughts
light against the secret darkness
that dwelled in the battle
of attrition: one winner
the desert monolith
was all I inherited,
may my linage be blessed,
for the pain and pleasure I tasted
in my early days
the absolute and inexplicable
the desirable and the repulsive
one thread
one pair of scissors
two fingers
and Poseidon dictated
all my moves
seven wonders of the world
before my eyes
and the seven plagues
that were to commence later
my first concept was my love
always vague and irrelevant
while my concept of hatred
always definite and controlling

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKHW4B4S

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

To Orpheus
This summer, under the constellation of the Lyre, we remain
sceptical.
What was the use of enchanting Hades and Persephone with
your song
and they returned Eurydice to you? You, doubting your powers,
turned back to re-assure yourself and she vanished again into
the kingdom of shadows under the poplars.
Then, stooped by the powers of the impossible, you
taught the ultimate solitude of truth to the Lyre. For this neither men
nor Gods forgave you. The Maenads tore your body to pieces
by the banks of Hebros. Only your Lyre and your head, swept by
the currents, reached Lesbos.
What then is the justification of your song?
Perhaps the momentary mixing (a false image the least) of light
and darkness? Or perhaps that the Muses hang your Lyre at
the exact center of the stars?
Under this constellation, in the summer of this year, we remain
sceptical.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F9X3VPN4

The Qliphoth

excerpt

For I must concentrate—I am making a strong black record for eternity.
Lucas will know it, one day soon. It is my legacy.My uttermost Will. This time
I must get it right.
So I sleep with the black notebooks as my pillow. It isn’t easy to reconstruct
my Holy Lore. I need the resources of the British Museum Reading Room, the
Bodliean Library, whatever. But the Oakhill doctors think that mad people
prefer Readers Digest. I have rely on my hand copied archives; my dictations
and visions from the Inner Plane; or memories of memories. I’ve been starting
all over again for years.
For Poll Pottage dispersed the treasures of the Lore. So shall she burn by
aeonic fire and be crushed by thunderstones in the End-Times! That woman
has caused me so much extra work, it’s worn out my astral body. It’s not just
the scriptorial battle fatigue, an ague in my old claws. No, this channeling is
hard and bitter work.
But today the woodentops must have under-dosed me. I’m still functioning.
Herewith a taster, a private view, just one sample of my wares drafted from the
black notebooks, a typical Nicholas Oscar Beardsley production. My methods
are multifarious. Last night I got up to no good underneath my smelly blankets.
This sample of the Teachings happens to take the form of an unusual
radiophonic transmission from the dead.
I do this trick as follows: take one transistor radio—the British-made “Roberts
Rambler” is probably the best, because of its plywood chassis, good for natural
vibrations—and hide it under your pillow. Press your ear very close to the
speaker. Tune close to BBC World Service on long wave, but allow the signal
to drift on the edge of intelligibility. Keep the volume to the minimum of audibility.
Listen for the radio years.
Soon, beyond the urgent twaddle of world events, the stratospheric squeal of
lost souls, the muezzin wailing from their burning mosques, all the rest of the
global anthem, you will hear, filtered through hiss and static, a voice. It is
clipped, brisk, extremely British,military, dry as sherry, so very reassuring . . . it
is getting louder already . . .
“. . . in 1910, I made the acquaintance of a military attache, posted to Central
Asia in the service of one of the great European powers. Despite our inevitable
differences, we shared the comradeship of bearing arms, and a common
interest in arcane matters. I was intrigued by his knowledge of esoteric
Tibetan beliefs and practices, especially when he told me that at a ‘gompa’ or
spiritual college north of Lhasa there was a ‘gyud pas’ or ‘high teacher’ who
had the gift of astral disembodiment.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

Poodie James

excerpt

ENGINE FRED DROPPED, cleared the
gondola car in stride and came to a
stop 30 yards beyond his pack and
bedroll. Not bad form for an old man,
he thought. He acknowledged the
brakeman’s wave as the caboose passed and turned to find himself
in front of the jungle he had not seen for 15 years. Beyond were
sagebrush and bunch grass where he remembered orchard. A
chimney rose above the farmhouse’s tumble of charcoal debris.
The outbuildings were falling down. The only intact structure in
sight was a pickers cabin with a few apple trees around it. Among
the rocks and bushes of the jungle, Fred found the ashes of a bonfire,
a can with evidence of beans, a six-month-old Saturday Evening
Post and a lean-to of scrap lumber and flattened cans.
Darkness was falling. He retrieved his pack and set about gathering
wood.
Poodie sat in the doorway of his cabin with his back against the
frame and watched the moon begin to float up, big and white as a
dish pan, behind the plateau east of the river. Look at my apples.
He liked the thought. My apples. The moonlight is washing over
my apples. In the field that had been the orchard, a cat prowled,
crouched rigid as stone, sprang, held a mouse between its paws and
began to worry it. Nighthawks made their final sorties of the evening.
Ripples on the river ran silvery with moonlight. Poodie wondered
what the sounds were and was glad to be without them.
Tonight, what I see is enough. He closed his eyes, suspended in …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868

Antony Fostieris – Selected Poems

The Allegory of Spring
I saw him again.
Spring was upon us,
he turned and spat on the earth:
green, thick saliva,
full of caterpillars and worms
that took the shape
of a leaf’s stem
he sprouted a red cone
he called the butterflies around
he performed the first creation
like a parody
he swallowed the pill of pollen
his dark mind steamed momentarily
yet his threat looked like a movement of air
like a simple dance, repeated
in the ancient
allegory of the seasons.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763653

Jazz with Ella

excerpt

Paul shook his head and glanced up at the statue’s grim face. “It’s illegal to use a false passport.”
Jennifer didn’t believe she had heard the words correctly. “You’re talking to me about illegal! You’ve done lots of illegal things lately—jump ship, stay in non-permit areas…you don’t know how many Soviet laws you’re violating.”
“But, Jen, I’m the only one that gets in trouble for my actions—and I’m prepared to take that chance. You’re wanting me—and others—to take part in a conspiracy. Defrauding border guards, smuggling illegal aliens. And if he replaced me for the rest of the trip, then all the students would be involved. Is that fair to them?” He glanced over at Ted and Maria who returned his look anxiously.
“So that makes it worse than what you’re doing?” Jennifer found that her breath was coming in gasps. “You’re putting us all in jeopardy by leaving. They’ll ask us who knew and we’ll have to admit that we could have stopped you…or we have to lie about it.”
“No, you couldn’t have stopped me.”
“Keep your voice down. I understand now that nothing we say can stop you. I’m prepared to take that chance, too. Will you help us? Will you talk to Vera? I couldn’t in all conscience walk off with your passport if I thought it would get you in worse trouble.”
“As crazy as that seems, you may have come up with something. At least I wouldn’t be interrogated. If I can get a Soviet passport no one will ever know.” Jennifer could feel herself relaxing a little; this scheme was so right for everyone.
“I’ll talk to Vera,” he went on. “She’s supposed to meet me here—somewhere. She said she’d find me.” He glanced about nervously.
“Thank you, Paul, thank you. This could change my life.” As Jennifer said it, she knew it was true. She had cast her lot now—with the man who up until two weeks ago was a total stranger. Of course, there was still her marriage to Michael back home in Canada. The divorce would be inevitable. She resolved not to think too much about that until she returned.
“You can’t tell Natasha anything,” she said. “Just come on the tour today. Act normal. And we’ll have to huddle with the others who know you’re leaving. I’ll need their help.”
“Whoa…this is happening way too fast.” Paul staggered a little, then found his footing.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

In the Quiet After Slaughter

excerpt

Sgt. McManus, as promised, delivered Fender to hismotherwith the
promptness of a pizza. Mrs. Rhodes, when she opened the door that
night, thought she was hallucinating. Reeking of animal scent, face and
hands coated in a layer of slime, Fender had the beginnings of a moustache
and appeared to have grown a few inches. And though he had
been in hiding for most of the summer, he seemed especially vigorous.
His weight gain puzzled the policeman considerably.
It later came out that Fender had used the hour The Fugitive aired
on Tuesday evenings to switch hideouts, moving from one refuge to
another as the populace gathered around their TV sets. Employing a
stealth rare in one so young, he inhabited an abandoned car and then
a child’s treehouse. He camped out in the brambles that grew along
the banks of Still Creek and took advantage of the Bartons’ garage
hideaway. The night of his apprehension, Fender was returning to his
new abode, a raccoons’ lair under the school portables. In his pocket
they found peanut butter cookies baked by the Widow Nighs.
Fender Rhodes accompanied the social worker Lois Daniels to the
group home. He stayed two years. It was said he learned to tolerate
the routine there and that he became a talented billiards player.
Eventually, however, the approach to mental health care evolved. It
was now thought progressive to integrate Fender into the community
that had formerly sought his detention.
A young man now, tall and broad in the shoulders, Fender has
returned to his old street corner. He has re-established business relationships.
I understand he leaves telephone poles alone, although he
has been seen anxiously eyeballing the heights of an old favourite.
If you take a drive through the Project you can see him most days.
He’s probably there now. Maybe you’ll find him discussing hockey
standings. Or — not that anyone would believe him — describing
what it’s like living with a family of raccoons.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00731WSPE

Übermensch

Requiem
He then stood before the throne of the king.
He laughed at the king’s tarnished crown and said
to him in a solemn voice: in the thick mud of
your thoughts sits the white dove that will lead you
where people live, let go of the rock you’ve hanged
from for eons, embrace the courage of the defeated
soldiers, cry like a newborn, nature gave you tears
for your benefit, the world isn’t yours, nor anybody
else’s, flesh is your strength and fear is your tool.
I am the forerunner of thunderbolt, a heavy
raindrop from the black cloud, that is nothing
other than the Übermensch.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3746914

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BGFRGLVH