Old Stories - Melancholy Poems

 

When the river 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'm shackled on the Circle Line
rereading the same adverts all the time.
There are all kinds of people on the train.
Many sleep, some stare into space
and many more 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."