Wheat Ears

Grimace
And without any further delay
I accepted the unnatural grimace
of the deaf and I struggled to express
my sorrow as if it was all mine
while the rustle under my soles
detected the soft autumn whisper
circular tempestuous attitude
aroused to the point of aloofness
where the flower unfolded
its exquisite beauty
primal beginning recommencing
a floral innocent concept
martyr on the front line defining
the traitor who justifiably existed
life was meaningless without me
and again, as cleansed as the song
of my angel, I stood before my Fate
with my human need for justification

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

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

Memorial at Poros
Gods are always forgotten and if tonight we remember
of Poseidon as we roam the deserted shores of Kalavria,
it’s because here, in the sacred grove, one night in July
while the oars glittered in the moonlight and the guitars
of youths crowned with ivy, echoed from two boats,
here, in the pinewood, Demosthenes took the poison —
he, the stutterer, who fought until he became the best
rhetor of the Hellenes,
and then, condemned by both Macedonians and Athenians,
in one night,
he learned the most difficult, the greatest art: silence.

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

The Qliphoth

Gathering clouds are signalling instructions for a great escape. Jago’s drugs
have driven her into catatonia. Now Rocking Rod is haranguing her, jabbing
his finger at the Micky Mouse motif on his T-shirt. His full lips twist and
flex. Jago mechanically makes notes. I know this boy’s going to be lively. A
creature to go talk about with.
There again, the nut rocker might lively himself up so much that I never get
a chance to put a word in. Really I need to have words with my real
flesh-and-blood boy begotten by my ghostly embrace, no, no, my Power Poke
of Polly Pulchritude when she was young, fair, and unspoiled. I need to have
An Holy Word with my divine Son whose name is (honestly) Lucas.
Because I need someone, some living human body, to entrust with my Lore.
It must be passed on verbally, person to person. That is how the Qabalists
transmitted their secrets, word of mouth, a wispy whispering transmission of
spirit power. This record-keeping helps to steer the enormous energies hurtling
through my brain. It enables them to be preserved in the aether of eternity,
where PP and her dragons of dialectic can never destroy them.
Lizard-faced bitch.
Of course, PP, my alien wife-form, can use dialectic to justify everything she’s
ever committed—my committal, for a start. “Daddy’s sickness is simply the
underlying malaise of capitalism. A vast irrational belief system, based on supernatural
fantasy, obsessive commodity fetishism, and opiates of all kinds.” What a
thing to tell a little boy.When he’s being led away crying on a blustery day.
This afternoon is visiting time in the dayroom. Push back the chairs. Stop
dribbling your porridge. Turn up the telly. Eamonn will take round cups of tea.
Last week Beddowes had visitors, two worn women in smocks, and he shepherded
them out into the garden. Showing them his playing fields. I was busy, as
usual, notebooks on my knee, waiting for Lucas’s regular non-appearance.
“Of course, here at Oakhill, we have a vigilante programme of pastoral
care!” He farted importantly. The ladies looked anguished, but he gestured in
my direction.
“As you can see, my staff spend their breaktime keeping records and registers
up to date. Registers are the building blocks of a well run school. Along
with timetables, they are the blocks on which character is stretched.” Then his
face darkened, he began his favourite Shout: “I want men of iron! Fists of steel!
To crush the vermin destroying this learning-base!” As the tears came, his
grey ladies led him inside.
There are several versions of Beddowes’s crisis circulating on this ward.
According to Eamonn the Papist, he ended up locking a class in the woodwork
room and shoving burning rags through the window. Fight fire with cosmic
fire, say I. Sonny Boy Lucas will see the white-hot Light one day.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

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

Poodie James

excerpt

around talking and staring. She was polite, but she had to be careful
not to seem to encourage men like Jim because she knew what
they were thinking. The ranks of apples passed by. She thought of
the golden delicious as the golden apples of the Hesperides, Juno’s
wedding present from the goddess of the Earth. She never mentioned
such thoughts to her friends. They would think she was
being snooty. Talking about clothes and boys and movies was part
of what was so boring about this town, this valley. Poodie James
was a reader, but she couldn’t discuss books with him. She couldn’t
discuss anything with him. He couldn’t talk, which was why she
decided to visit him last summer. Maybe she should learn sign language.
She knew that he spent hours reading in the library. She
saw books in his cabin. She did not regret having gone to see him
there, but she had decided it would be foolish to go again. I do
know where babies come from. I was lucky. We were lucky. Poodie
was a dear little man, intelligent and funny, but who in town knew
that, or cared?
“More boxes, Miss.”
Good grief, Jim was still standing there, still staring. Marcie
gave him her biggest smile.
“Thank you, Jim. Goodbye.”
“Oh, “better get back to work,” he said, as if he had thought of it
himself.
The day’s run of goldens was ending. Marcie looked down the
line and saw the first rows of reds advancing. “Where the apple
reddens, never pry—Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.” That was
Browning sneaking up on me. I hope I haven’t lost my Eden. She
watched her hand pluck a red delicious from the mass of fruit passing
by and tried to picture that man in Spain.

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

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868