Showing posts with label narrative poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label narrative poetry. Show all posts

Monday, 14 August 2023

Għera

 

“Leħen il-Malti” is a yearly publication by Għaqda tal-Malti – Università. This literary society and its annual journal were founded in 1931 by Rużar Briffa and Ġużé Bonnici, two medical undergrads with a love for the Maltese language who would eventually become leading figures in the history of Maltese literature. Leħen il-Malti is still going strong, publishing prose, poetry and academic articles by young and/or emerging writers, alongside pieces by more established authors. 

Alas, last week I was informed that neither of the two poems I submitted for this year’s edition was accepted for publication.  Rejection naturally brings disappointment, but I’m still thankful that pieces of mine were included in the past three years, and happy to learn that works by authors I admire (some of whom are also friends) will be featured in the forthcoming edition.

In my view, there’s little point to writing if it is not shared, so here’s Għera (“Nakedness”), one of the two poems, finding a home on this blog.   The illustration I chose is a painting by English artist Joshua Goodfellow.  It’s called “Room” and is taken from the painter’s series “The Uncanny”. I think it fits the mood of the poem - a bit weird, surreal but also strangely hopeful. 

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Monday, 27 May 2019

Theseus

Henry Fuseli: Ariadne Watching the Struggle of Theseus with the Minotaur (1815-1820)

Theseus

A dusk filled nether-land I roam,

torch brandished high against the gloom,

a length of cord to lead me back
outside the Earth's infernal womb.

I dread the moment when I'll meet
the creature that I've come to seek.
Half-man, half-beast
A hideous sight -
ruler of this realm of night.

I lift lead-heavy limbs.
When will it end, this constant downward trudge?
Have I been here for hours or days?
Time itself loses its way
in the shadows of this maze.

My guiding flame is smothered by the fetid air,
puts up a valiant fight
then flickers weakly,
starts to die
in fits of
choking
smoke.

In the feeble light
of embers still aglow,
a dark mysterious lake no man has seen before
appears. 
Throat scorched, lips parched, 
I drag myself towards its edge
to slake my thirst.

I face the water's surface, 
still as glass.
There,
staring back at me,
smiling heinously 
the Minotaur I see.


Master of the Campana: Theseus in the Labyrinth (1515-1520)

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