MY BROTHER AND I.Poem.Robin Marchesi.

 

 

 

Awaiting aeroplanes for separate destinations

 

My brother and I

 

Walk together

 

Through the old streets of Palma.

 

An advert tempts us toward an exhibition

 

Showing 15th century instruments of torture.

 

We visit, instead,

 

A commemoration.

 

Old photographs from World War Two.

 

This war began 1939

 

Who cares now?

 

Aliens

 

We leave the cathedral gallery.

 

Born in another time, we fight another battle.

 

 

 

My brother and I,

 

Holding court on a park bench.

 

Two from one womb,

 

Immersed by our own private, interlocking, part.

 

The family from which we came,

 

And the families before us,

 

That keeps us a part,

 

Off springing our own branches.

 

It seems a miracle

 

And yet so common,

 

This touch of the centuries.

 

 

 

How many other brothers and sisters,

 

Together have trudged these cobbles,

 

Wondering if they have the where with all,

 

To sustain, their remaining years,

 

Without instruments of torture,

 

Or World War Two?

 

Neither pilot, nor inquisitor,

 

Knew of ‘crack’ ‘d ozone layers.

 

All the battles each generation faces.

 

It’s only ourselves we punish with oppression,

 

Not just the oppressed, but so too, the oppressor.

 

 

 

Cultures divide, civilizations decay,

 

But my brother and I, bonded in blood,

 

See colour beyond set definition.

 

Look at all the brothers and sisters

 

In the world, who stood their ground,

 

Countless times in countless years,

 

That we, two, at this millenniums end,

 

Can be united,

 

Awaiting aeroplanes for separate destinations

 
 

Me
 
Robin Marchesi, born in 1951, began writing in his teens, much to the consternation of his mother, the sister of Eric Hobsbawm, the historian.

In 1992 Cosmic Books published his first book entitled  “A B C Quest”.

In 1996 March Hare Press published “Kyoto Garden” and in 1999 “My Heart is As…”

ClockTowerBooks published his Poetic Novella, “A Small Journal of Heroin Addiction”, digitally, in 2000.

Charta Books published his latest work entitled “Poet of the Building Site”, about his time working with Barry Flanagan the Sculptor of Hares, in association with the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

He is presently working on an upcoming novel entitled “A Story Made of Stone.”
 

 http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Journal-Heroin-Addiction/product-reviews/0743300521
 
http://www.illywords.com/2011/09/down-the-rabbit-hole-a-glimpse-into-the-wonderland-of-barry-flanagan/
 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Konoso Para Tarasa Anemoiyereya. Richard Vallance.

HAIKU KONOSO PARA TARASA ANEMOIYEREYA f

ENLARGE VIEW: Editor.

***

Linear B, the very earliest Greek script, was used by the Mycenaeans and Minoans from ca. 1450 – 120 BCE for administrative, financial and accounting purposes only, at least so far as we know. No literature as such has survived on the some 6,800 Linear B tablets and fragments.  So Richard’s haiku is in effect the very first poem (or literature for that matter) written in Linear B in 3,500 years.

BIO:

Richard Vallanc Santorini Grreece May 2012

Richard Vallance, meta-linguist, ancient Greek & Mycenaean Linear B, home page: Linear B, Knossos & Mycenae, http://linearbknossosmycenae.wordpress.com/

PINTEREST Boards: Mycenaean Linear B: Progressive Grammar & Vocabulary, http://pinterest.com/vallance22/mycenaean-linear-b-progressive-grammar-and-vocabul/ and, Knossos & Mycenae, sister civilizations, http://pinterest.com/vallance22/knossos-mycenae-sister-civilizations/ Also poetry publisher, The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire. Friesen Press, Victoria, B.C., Canada. © August 2013. 35 illustrations in B&W. Author & Title Indexes. 257 pp. 315 sonnets & ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese & Persian. TBP October 2013 http://vallance22.hpage.com/

 

***

robin@artvilla.com     editor@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com

 

 

Oxford in the Twilight of My Mind. Poem. Toni Calvello

Toni Calvello Picture
Old Oxford town
rolling into view.
*
From the tour bus window
I vaguely remember the distant past;
I remember the neighborhood,
the houses,
the stores.
*
Could it be
you were my home in the past,
quaint old Oxford?
*
The place I  remember,
the monastery,
quill in hand,
scribing for a living,
*
the scent of lavender
wafting in the breeze
across the open court yard
to my open window
as I gaze out at the Jabberwocky Tree.
*
Did I walk these grounds before,
stroll lazily through the forbidden garden,
worship in the cathedral–
*
the cathedral whose stones
speak of an ancient past,
whispering secrets
while sunlight illuminates
the Rosetta window,
beckoning me remember this shrouded place,
a place hidden in the optical illusions
of my imagination?
*
Oh, Oxford!
If I had my way,
I’d come home again;
home to you and the wonderland
buried deep
*
in the recesses
*
of my mind.
***
Toni Calvello’s work has appeared in many national and international journals including Haiku Society of America, Poetry Life and Times (Great Britain), Arabesques Review (Algeria)  Paterson Literary Review, Edison Literary Review, Chiron Review, and Voices of Israel. (Israel). She was awarded Honorable Mention in a haiku contest held by Haiku Calendar Rokovnik — Ludgreg, Croatia
 
 
 
She teaches in the Intellectual Heritage Dept. at Temple University and the Writing Rhetoric  Depts. at University of the Sciences Philadelphia and Rowan University.
***
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

My life as a coble (for DA). A Poem by Marie Marshall.

 

I examine my bones, tibia,

fibula, made new each morning,

as things of wonder

to crawl my fingers over;

*

it has been this way since birth,

a boat launching, clinker-built,

ribs and thighbones my strakes,

that way I can be beached

high on life;

*

humerus, ulna, radius,

from keel to hog to apron,

from garboard to sheer,

the face of each land is beveled,

and the resulting, exulting song

is the little tremor of the water

as I force through;

*

I can’t remember the day

I was first beached,

but it must have been with

the groaning of new planks –

they say boats, before they’re built

exist in a putative sea,

that it is the karma

of the best trees to know chainsaw,

plane, and ocean, to be water-tight

without caulking, to be painted

red-below-white-below-black,

to have a girl’s name;

*

I love wriggling cargoes of fish

and hate fire;

*

I look down on the carvel-built

with their oakum and pitch,

the fast, twisting Lateen whores –

always have, always will;

tarsals and carpals

have taken on the torque

of the currents and undertow,

I tack ceaselessly, new rope coiled,

uncoiled, coiled while I see

white houses cling to cliffs,

white birds describe the sky;

*

drifted in, drifted out,

harboured on a dayglo ball,

bumped and scratched,

the slap of halyard on mast

playing amongst the mathematical

music of the marina;

*

such times of inertia,

barely lifting, barren

in the bob of flotsam,

held against the times

of chop and roll;

*

there is a god of cobles,

half-boatbuilder, half-commodore,

that’s who answers the marine radio;

*

sternum, vertebrae, no heart,

no soul [to speak of], so

when I am beached the last time

I’ll be a perch for gulls,

no shame in that, no shame

to have blistered paint

and a faded name,

no shame at all, nor to forget

my mother who was a tree,

my father who was a rove-punch;

*

the white houses are still there,

voiceless beyond the rattling diesel

and the rasp of tide against the cliffs,

the land is still here, and each day

a different sea reflects a different sky,

there’s no shame in that;

*

the white, broken wake,

the forgotten messages it writes,

there is no shame in that either;

*

up and down, up and down,

ankle to skull, woman to girl,

new, pine-smelling timber

to beached hull, there is no shame

in any of this;

*

sit and sing in your accents,

tell stories, I won’t hear them,

no shame, I won’t want to,

it’s my life as a coble,

not a telling and a hearing of stories,

and that’s a fact.

 
 

Marie Marshall
 

Marie Marshall is an Anglo-Scottish author, poet and editor. Her first collection of poems, Naked in the Sea, was published in 2010 and reviewed in Sonnetto Poesia that same year, and her second collection, I am not a fish, in 2013. Since 2005 she has published over two hundred poems, mainly in magazines and anthologies, but the most extraordinary places in which a poem of hers has appeared include on the wall of a café in Wales, and etched into an African drum at the New Orleans Museum of Art. Her first novel, Lupa, was published in 2012. She is well-known in Scotland for her macabre short stories. Her web site can be found at mairibheag.com. Of writing poetry and sonnets she says, “I did not start writing until 2004, so I am very much a twenty-first century writer. I write anything, any kind of poetry that I feel the urge to tackle ― sonnets included.”

***

robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

Sections of Seam. Poem.Laura Lamarca.Audio Kate-Taylor-Davies

Donec_Alius_Diei_Cover

Audioboo / Sections of Seam by Laura Lamarca.

 

She could remember those 8pm skies,
that slumbered with a tamarind tinge
and the rustling of rainfall
as it slid inside her pain.
Their expressions etched themselves
on musical scores, that they wept
on blank-paper pages and
candle-smoked hopes that she’d kept.

They were a lighter shade of lust,
following fantasies of a deeper thirst,
that went just like water
through the skin of their sighs…
but they’d blown baby kisses
through betrayal’s fresh scent,
while forever crawled inside cavities–
yet neither chose to repent.

They’d risen through varying odours
of oregano’s subtle hues,
whilst his roaming tabletops had turned
on red buses and lying dreams
and the screams of her silence
settled, to give her second sight…
when thoughts wandered to Her–
the queen of his night.

Envy engraved itself into her palms
shivering sorrow through shared regrets,
while her self-worthiness withered
to such a saddened state.
Yet fate flexed her fingers
within forgiveness’ flame,
whilst the need of their connection
plays a dangerous game.

She’s mistress of her own heart,
yet lets him breathe through her veins–
like TV addiction
and many smudges of soft.
She adores him…yet holds back
because she’s taught herself of

the fear of deceit’s discovery
and his inability to love.

***

About The Author

Laura Lamarca is a 39 year old widowed mother of three teenagers originally hailing from the northern county of Lancashire, but now residing on the South coast of England.


Laura is a professional poet and author of three books of poetry and one Chapbook to date, the latest book was released in December 2011 by GJBPublishing.co.uk titled “Donec Alius Diei”.


Laura Lamarca


Laura is also the creator of 18 globally recognized forms of formal poetry, these include “The Licentia Rhyme Form”, the “La`Tuin” and the L`Arora” forms. She has also recently created 3 more forms…these are the “Jordec Verse”, “La Dan Form” and a collaborated and highly technical form with Poet Jem Farmer titled the “LaJemme”.



In her spare time, she teaches the art of expression through the written word to pupils all over the world at no cost to them. She also writes hugely for charity and actively supports charities that raise awareness for cancer, third world plight, dolphins and gun and knife crime.
 
She has the belief that there is a brighter day for all, given the compassion and commitment of others…one voice can raise a thousand voices, a thousand voices can raise the whole world.  She is of the belief that ultimate truth does not exist, that everything is personal perspective and probable outcome.

***

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com

robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 

Infusoria.(The Voyage of the Beagle) poem. audio. Ian Irvine

Audioboo / Infusoria (poem).

 

Having swum in the ocean of stars

calling them Gods—their campfires, their monumental

sorrows, our bliss at a faith-conceived heaven—

we are driven back by heavy gales.

*

Few living creatures inhabit these broad

flat-bottomed valleys, abode of kingfishers

grass-hoppers, lizards—not much else

a ruined fort in a dull brown landscape.

*

Relief to find a small stream threading

clefts of rock, greening, here and there,

otherwise barren soil. Onwards then, to a flat plain

stunted acacias—until a flock of guinea fowl.

*

Anxious panorama of time: jagged cliffs,

lava-rock, distant mountains enveloped in

dark blue clouds. It’s coming: the storm

of the modern. The monkey likes bananas.

*

I’m collecting dust: the air is ion charged,

flashes of lightning, the will to see

the infusoria: African sunsets, the question

of microbes, my lens, my imperfect vision.

*

And then another island—fertile, volcanic

red cinder hills, everything slopes toward the

interior. But I will paddle the rock pools

notice: sea slugs, cuttle-fish all arms and suckers.

*

Having swum in the ocean of stars

we are driven back by heavy gales

It’s coming, the storm of the modern,

anxious panorama of time.

*

The air is ion charged.

***

Ian Irvine Photo

Ian Irvine is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer. His work has featured in many Australian and international publications, including Fire (UK) ‘Anthology of 20th Century and Contemporary Poets,’ (2008) which contained the work of poets from over 60 nations.His work has also appeared in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies, and he is the author of three books and co-editor of many more (including Scintillae 2012, an anthology of work by over 50 Victorian and international writers and poets). He currently teaches writing and literature at Bendigo TAFE and Victoria University (Melbourne) and lives with fellow writer Sue King-Smith and their children on a 5 acre block near Bendigo, Australia.
 
Links related to his work are as follows:

 
http://authorsden.com/ianirvine

http://www.scribd.com/IanHobson

 
 

robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 


				

There I Sat at Copper’s Point. Poem. Eric Mellen

Lighthouse 2

 

 

 

 

There I sat at Copper’s Point

 My head lowered between my tattered brown britches’ knees.

 My shift was over, (barefoot) watching that lonely lighthouse,

 sandy beige, the same color as my beach hat,

 and then, on the windiest day in September,

 

I remembered.

Zoo.  A delicately conscientious zookeeper’s assistant,

those sunny days, wild you could say.

I ran from cage to cage, feeding–

orange.

tigers, orangutans, monarch butterflies,

all waiting for the feast

and treats

which they got.

Hot.

The team of cheerleaders,

the mist-machines cooled

their cheery faces, sweaty

and sentimentally proportioned.

 

I once gave a rose to one

but was shot down.

Bang!

A thousand thoughts collected into one emotion:

that disparaged rejection.

I knew it only too well.

 

 

The hell, sometimes grieving

sometimes relieving me of the boy

I was meant to be.

And then, there she was.

“Sarah”

was her name, and no rose for her,

not yet anyway.

This time a cool chat

relieving me of my duties.

 

I could go into detail.

But suffice it to say,

all the animals reveled in harmony

with me

that day.

 

“Blue”,

Our love–

oh, the romantics would not have thought

of a more eloquent combination of words to describe it.

 

She died yesterday,

And now I reside in this lighthouse

where we stood alone, and outside the window

I cast a view

and recognize

the “Blue” that is everywhere around me.

***

Bio:  Eric Mellen is a young freelance writer who currently writes poems and short stories.  He has been published by Nostrovia! poetry and is currently pursuing multiple publishing opportunities.  When he is not writing,  he is studying to under the psychology curriculum, and plans to one day become a clinical psychologist.

***

Ellen 2

 www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com

robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 

Prometheus Bound.Frederick.L.Light.Translation.Audio.Jack Nolan.

Prometheus image

Prometheus Bound Aeschylus Translation by F L Light Rapid Traffic Press New York. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book. Prometheus Bound: Translated by F L Light ISBN-13: 978-1477684016 ISBN-10: 1477684018 All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2012 Frederick Lazarus Light, lightforth@gmail.com

*

After Zeus has learned that Prometheus stole his sovereign property, fire, and conveyed it to mankind, he orders Hephaistos, under the direction of Power and Force, to bind his adversary to an arduous crag of most difficult remoteness on the earth. As the Titan responds to this punishment, the reader is inspired with the fire of individual affirmation, devoted indomitably to life and liberty

Prometheus Bound Audio Jack Nolan 15 minutes

*
Persons
Power and Force
Hephaistos
Prometheus
Daughters of Ocean
Ocean
Io
Hermes
*
1
Enter Power and Force, leading Prometheus in chains.
Hephaistos comes with them.
*
Power: Upon the northernmost finalities
Of earth, in Scythia intraversable,
By men untraced, of no man’s realm a tract,
On this sequestered precipice recessed
Alone, we’ve mounted, where, Hephaistos, be
This duty yours, by dictates laid upon
You by the Father: here his shackled lich set fast!
This vaulting overreacher in revolt
With fettered punishment now fasten here
In this immense removedness on high,
Leaving him with adamantine tautness
Reclusely manacled to rock. Your flower,
In every art effectual, lucent fire,
He reaved and to the mortals gave. This fact
Therefore by forfeit to the gods he must
Avow, in shackles schooled to suffer Zeus
And learn in painful awe what lordship is,
Philanthropy disowning in effect.
*
Hephaistos: Force and Power, in the behest of Zeus
You’ve done your part, no longer stayed. But I
Lack mettle, truly loath that ligatures
Upon a kindred deity must be laid
With muscled rigor in this brumal rift
Where winter reigns. But for all that I must
Begin, emboldened by necessity,
By absolute exigencies; for who
May lightly heed the word of Zeus without
Reward? You, of ascendant prospects, son
Of right-proposing Themis, now I pierce,
Against your will and mine, with bronze constraints
Of indissoluble abuse, annealed the best,
Your members to this far recess, reserved
From men, where voice nor form shall human be.
But under Helios, desiccated scathe
2
Beneath his arid glance you’ll bear and lose
The bloom of youth. When Night behind her vestment of
The stars shall veil this blaze, you’ll savor peace,
And when the sun on dawn-frost comes, the thaw
May grateful prove. But everforth abide
In vitiated weariness, effete at length,
For not yet born your liberator is.
Such mede you profit in, philanthropy
Maintaining. Not of Heaven terrified,
Olympian odium never daunted you,
A god among the gods. But honors out
Of measure to the mortal sort you sped.
So this sore ledge you’ll suffer like a ward,
Where insultation is insomnolent
Forever, as you stand in sleepless rue,
Not left to bend your legs. With sacred cries,
Your liefest prayers, lamenting pain, will not
Be heeded. For the head of Zeus in zeal
Is hateful, hardest to his foes. And those
Empowered lately fulsome power inflict.
*
Power: Why tarry here, affecting sympathy
In vain? A god in basest odium deemed
No friend, whom gods detest, wherefore not hate?
Since mortals gracing, mordant grief to you
He meant, your prize betraying, all for men.
*
Heph: Kinship is numinous in creatures, like
Devout companionship not lightly deaded.
*
Power: Indeed. Yet to play deaf impossible
No doubt when Zeus imposes on your will.
*
Heph: The hardiest cruelty never palls on you.
*
Power: No good will come, this god lamenting. Leave
This vanity where nothing you’ll achieve.
*
Heph: How loathsome seems my liefest skill.
*
Power: Why loathe it? Lightly sure, these latest sores
Are not imputed to your sacred forge!
*
Heph: Yet for another would the work had been!
3
*
Power: Unless to rule the gods no labor is
All grace, and none has liberty save Zeus.
*
Heph: I must avow it, in this work enforced.
*
Power: With shackles hasten or be stung by Zeus,
Who will observe you lagging in abuse.
*
Heph: The cuffs are here about me, for him bent.
*
Power: Cast pressure in the chain about his hands.
With hammered concentration maul them in,
Compressive rivets bringing home in rocks.
*
Heph: The work proceeds, not missing in dispatch.
*
Power: Your starkest, sorest stroke! To fasten be
Your stress! Leave nothing loose by limb. He is
Prodigious, legerly deliverance
Seeking, howbeit fixed in boulders fast.
*
Heph: This arm is bound, intractable in bonds.
*
Power: And stitch the other, tack it sure. He’ll learn,
Though for mechanic prudence most renowned,
What little prescience lights his brain compared to Zeus.
*
Heph: In censure of my crafty junctions, none
But he due reprehension might impress.
*
Power: Now put this wedge’s pointed jaw within
His breast, amain to breach it with a blow.
*
Heph: Remorse, Prometheus, I avow for thee.
*
Power: Again condolences aloud in dole!
Again you dote on the Olympian’s foe.
Erelong, you might, bethink you, mourn yourself.
*
Heph: The sight you mark upon your eyes should smart.
*
Power: I see him patient, duly pained, with dole
Proportioned. Now his loins with girdles lap.
*
Heph: It must be done, but instantly your charge
Is overhard, on duty to enlarge.
*
Power: Behests be heard. I’ll bid you harder. Goads
Should bite. Now bending down, encompassment
About his legs begin, with links intent.
*
Heph: In present see the bronze is wrought, in fine
Perfected, without much mechanic pain.
4
*
Power: But with your sorest strength these rivets strike.
Our critic in this work is rigorous.
*
Heph: Your leer and tongue alike are loathable.
*
Power: Be then regardlessly not tough, but leave
Tendentious constancy to me nor grudge
What moody dourness may be mine in Power.
*
Heph: Let’s go. The wrap about his limbs is wrought.
Exit Hephaistos.
*
Power: Go profligate yourself forever here,
To men, as evanescent as ephemeral,
The prizes meant for gods conveying. Will
Your muscled dolors fall away by mortal hands?
You were, Prometheus, by the gods misnamed,
For now a true promethean you require
To set you from this fabrication free.
(Fxeunt Power and Force.)
*
Prometheus:
O aerial mercy all for life on earth,
O swiftest taking wing, you sudden winds,
O mobile rivers melted from the hills;
O roundge of Ocean risible in scope to rise
Like cacchination on a shore; 0 Earth
Omnimaternal, and thou god in ken
Of all, by sight to compass land and sea,
Lord Helios; thus I cry you, crucified
By gods, observe the torture I abide.
Behold, embodied with indignities
To bear this teen, millenia timed, a doom
Allotted, eldritch hourly whilst I howl.
Such is the bondage, abject sacredly,
That this new master of Olympians has
For me discovered. Pheu, pheu, everforth
To pine as now in pain, and thus I moan,
No term foretelling of the dire at length
Ordained, in full extended to the fine.
5
What’s this I say? All that shall be, I’ve known
Betimes correctly, never to abye
A sudden daunt. So with the lightest grace
Of patience left to me, this fated dole
I must support, aware a sacred force,
Necessity, will not be checked. I can
Neither bear silence nor unsilenced truth
Sustain about my lot. This falls by me
Because I granted fiery guerdons to
Mankind; this yoked affliction, over me
Enforced, ensues therefore. By Zeus unseen,
My trace was furtive to the source of fire.
A fennel stalk I filled therewith. For men
Didactic light then blazed, all daily arts
Evoking, and a mighty furtherance
To them it proved. For such a peccant fact
I’ve earned this pain, here overborne, constrained
Under the pervious skies with perceant nails.
Eala, ea, ea!
What sound by wing, what scent would come about
Me, not perceived by form? Is it divine
Or human or a cross of both? Upon this rock,
Peripheral afar, what advent might
Ascend in search of pain to see me peak?
Or what in meaning might proceed? Alas,
In gyves behold me girt, a god benign,
My fate abusive, to the Father Zeus
A foe, by all in loathing held that haunt
The sovereign’s hall, for having charity
Too much on men conferred, with love confirmed!
Pheu, pheu, the whirring hither, once again
I hear it, likely of a flock. Upon
Their flicker, lightly vibrant, now the air
Reverbs. But fear ensues, whatever comes.
*
The daughters of Oceanus on a winged car come forth.
Chorus:
6
No dread avow. Our advent, drawn
By love, this ledge surmounted. Leagued
In flight, a winged agon we maintain.
Our father’s leave uneathe we have.
With all traversing speed, at length
In Zephyr’s hand, ascent continued.
In depths recessed beneath our dome of caves
The clang of ferric clatter could
Be heard. Our deepest pudor, verecund
In Ocean, was effaced, affrighted thence
Thereby. And thus unshod, ascending
On this car, we shot to you.
*
Prometheus:
Aiai, aiai,
Of breeder Tethus, of prolific geneses
In broods of goddesses, you all are born,
Of Father Ocean, whose insomnolent
Domain of currents the circumference
Of earth completes, conducive to all tides.
Observe me, by these fetters see
How on the uppermost abyss of earth
I am held fast, the bleakest watch enduring.
*
Chorus:
I see, Prometheus; and upon mine eyes,
In spread suffusion like a mist, now tears come
forth,
Since under this embodied adamant
You’re bound to waste on these chasmatic rocks,
In caitiff insultation cadent seen.
For on Olympos the new helmsmen lead,
Where Zeus, with novel laws, would reign
Perforce awry; and what held good
Before in prime has been dissolved like death.
*
Prometheus:
If he precipitated into depths
Below terrestrial bournes myself in bonds
7
As low as Hades, loathly hosteler
Of liches in the earth, where Tartarus
Unpierced incarceration keeps, then no
God in malignant gloating or none else
Would at these wretched throes look down on me.
But now a hapless bauble for the winds I am
And grieve as much as Zeus rejoices at my grief.
*
Chorus: Gruffest in exultation, hardest grown,
Which god is pleased to see it? Who would not
Condole your subject dolor, who but Zeus?
A god too wreakful to surcease revenge.
By toughest constance the Titanic kind
He’d quell. Surcease before satiety
This god allows not till another’s hand
May his unseizable domain command.
*
Prometheus:
The time ensues, assure you soon or late,
Though here in twist the bonds are tied,
For torture binding with each turn,
When He, that marshal of the blessed,
Shall suffer need, myself in prayer
Seeking about the latest plot,
How it would shift him from the throne
And sceptre. Then his sweetest spell
Of sugared cant will savor ill,
Not win me over. Shall I then
Before his menace quail or at
Monitions tell? These violent gyves
Must be dissolved, and guerdons, just
In godly recompense, he must
Be willing to convey before
He learn the secrets of my lore.
***

F L Light in three categories of poetry has produced most of his work:

In epic his original works are Fighter Herakles Perforce, Shakespeare Undiminished, The Woman of Venereal Furies, A Book of Girds for Bob Giroux, and Cleopatra’s Kingdom of Idolatry. These are all in sonnets written. His translated epics are The Iliad in 1823 sonnets, and the Argonautica, about seven hundred sonnets.

In drama, he has written twenty eight dramas, all in his own form of Greek tragedy. Twenty four of them comprise the Gouldium, a series about Jay Gould and his enemies.

Light has also translated six Greek tragedies, four of which have been produced for Audible.

Light has published about thirty five books of couplets, most of them on economics. Shakespeare Versus Keynes is now in production for Audible.

Buckle &, Lucid Rhythms, Raintree Review, International Poetry Review, Cowboy Poetry Press, Mobius, Hrafno, and Troglodyte are some of the magazines he has appeared in.

****
***
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com