Adrift on the Magdalena | Poems of Despair

 

A Journey of Despair

My darling one,
there is no room for misfits like us
in the land of milk and honey.
They are closing down the border.

My wayward mistress’ eyes—
shadows fall across her wisdom
shaped by aged gurus of the East;
flung aside, she lies by the river
shivering with doubt and fear.

The Director | Poems of Despair

 

The Director's Dark Cut

My impulsive child
astride a white swan,
gallops away from Parnassus.
Calliope is incandescent.

Unravelling Worlds - a poem by Chris Zachariou

 

Toxic Love in Unravelling Worlds

Once, I was a poet.
Now I scribble garbled words
for pennies that no one ever reads.
The master will not redeem me—
I rebelled against the teachers of the metre.

A Summer Tale - a poem by Chris Zachariou

River at dusk, echoes of grief, and loss

Swallows still flew carefree
in the July sky — ironic!
Summer would be ending
at the start of August.

At the twilight of the day, we meet
in the silent garden of the obscured.

The Brownie Box Camera | Poems of Despair

 

A Face of Despair Behind Rusty Lens

“An old Brownie Box camera becomes
a mind's prison where memory fades”

I'm captive in a prison,
a Brownie Box camera—
old, rusty, silent.

It is locked but I cannot
—or perhaps I don’t want to—
remember where I put the key.
Do I even have the key?

Apology - Poems of Despair

Poems of Despair

You took my burden
from an early age
on your young shoulders.

Old Stories - Melancholy Poems

 

The rivers surged—first blood, your naked scent.

Ripe red strawberries in June,

bread and wine on Primrose Hill.

Rachel and Aysha - The Innocent Victims of War

The Golden Gate of old Jerusalem

Rachel screams.
A ripping pain mauls
her body but the cruel
abuser has no pity.

The Madonna of the River | A Coming-of-Age Poem

A Young Woman Swimming

A Young Woman Swimming

My green-eyed Madonna
writhes and screeches in the mud
with tobacco-chewing rednecks.

Where Did the Blues Go to Die? - A Poem by Chris Zachariou

 

A Blues Guitar Player

I waited at the station for the train
to St. Louis, but the train never came.

Songs at 4 am - a poem by Chris Zachariou

It's the twentieth of December.
The Jewish minstrel strummed
his chords at 4 am and nailed me
to the stave in every minor scale.

The old fool - a poem by Chris Zachariou

The London Yellow Circle Line 

I am a prisoner on the Circle Line.
On the train, there are all kinds of people.
Many are asleep, some stare into space,
and some grin like startled fools.

Lilith's revenge - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Lilith the first woman

“Her gates are gates of death,
and from the entrance of the house
she sets out towards Sheol”*

Thursday’s child gallops bareback
from the bleak wastelands of the desert

into Inanna's garden;
she sprinkles verses at her feet and whispers:
"On the seventh day, I will be your only lover."

I will always be her lover - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Passionate Embrace: Evoking Erotic Poetry

I live inside her twisted mind.
There was no choice. She left the door
ajar and casually asked me to come in—
youth can be so careless these days.

Sailing - a poem by Chris Zachariou

sailing to the edge - 

photo by Dorsal_fFn on flickr 

We sail our boat to the edge
with its hull full of words
and its mast made of dreams.

The deluded king - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Arkansas butterfly

The metronome strikes
a thousand beats—tic, tic, tic—
monotonous and dull;
a toc never follows a tic.
 

The Guitar Laments - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Federico Lorca

In Alfacar, the poet
dreams of gypsy stallions
in the Andalusian
hills and valleys.

Springtime - a poem by Chris Zachariou

 

there'll never be another springtime

In the season of dusk and sadness,
I recall flights of little swallows

heading down south

in the sleepy skies of summer.

A Mirage on the Water - a poem by Chris Zachariou

 

Passion's Embrace in the Water

Each day at noon, I cycled
in the pungent fumes of melting tar
to a pubescent mirage by the water.

The Summit

 

Solitude by a Misty Shoreline

I had lived all my life in the foothills
of the angry mountain, cowering in
worn-out scrolls and faded manuscripts.
The early prophecy for me was harsh.
‘You were never meant to scale heights’
his voice warned me when I was seven.