- Non-Erotic Poetry
- The Curse of Cassandra
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Click here(From THE POEMS OF DR. NASDI PHILBAHD)
Cursed like Cassandra, doomed to forever
tell the truth but never to be understood,
cast off as a lunatic and locked away
by your own royal stock, deemed mad,
yet always to reappear throughout history,
literature, theatre, in the art of centuries,
and now reborn wholly unto modern science.
I see you in the cornada, your body gored,
the fatal blood as it soaks your blouse,
hear it in the moan of those who adored you
less in life than in death. Yes, it is true, and
now they mourn your lifeless form as you pass
through on your way to the grave and eternity,
praised little in life but exalted in death.
I taste the curse upon my tongue, a toxic
substance secretly implanted while asleep
by the agents of the stealth regime. Oh yes,
I am fully aware of the visitors of night and
welcome the demons of darkness who call
as I am falling like a curtain between
the forces of consciousness and sleep.
You come driving gold spikes into my head,
your glowing embers scorch out my eyes
leaving nothing but cold, empty holes,
you peck like ravens at my tattered remains,
and yet I welcome you into my ravaged soul,
your stars of burning brilliance that dazzle
and entice with the sign of eternal existence.
Tell me, what gods have I angered? Why must
I suffer, entombed like doomed Fortunato,
my screams frozen silent in unheard anguish
upon the avenues of isolation and despair?
Yet, the voices come to me and they direct,
so I pick up my scalpel and cut to reveal
all that they have directed me to see.
- COMMENTS
one question, Steve, what is a poet with real poetry doing in a place like this? Real Stanzas, real word craft/ Cursed like Cassandra/tell the truth/lunatic and locked/ tongue, a toxic/
etc.
A fine reworking of the Cassandra mythology. Told in this fashion and setting, it seems far more graphic than what the Ancient Greeks might have portrayed. A very compelling piece.
Dtawn into the madness as if it was inside my own head .... your voices speak to me ..
you bring me on a walk along the fine cut left by the knife, just before the skin along the edges shrinks back in horror to reveal the madness you've laid open. Nice to see your poems again, mr porter.