Welcome

Poems from ‘The Soul of A Young Man’

Lie Down In My Poem

I’d like for you to lie down in my poem
Sleep in the center of my verse
And awaken on the tip of my quivering quill.
On days when you are absent, I am like impoverished gold or rusted salt
I am like austral ice that clings to its transient existence.
Can I melt upon your breast? Will you allow me?

I’d like for you to lie down in my poem
Let flowers falling from your flowing hair blossom in my lines
Plant silver pears near my adjectives
And allow your beauty to radiate like dashes of fire attacking my running metaphors.
Will you bathe in the dew dripping from my syllables
Or maybe bask in the light glowing from my ink?
Did you know that your primeval moans shape the shaky structure of my poetic theorems
And that the frozen topaz fleeing from your inner thigh inspires my muse?

I’d like for you to lie down in my poem
Rest your weary body upon my rough consonants
Let your kisses trail my nouns like thirsty bloodhounds
And in the white seas separating my spacious words, dive for flourishing treasures;
Treasures lost by ancient Persian emperors.
Will you bear your chaste smile in my similes?
Please, my dear – don’t let my verse become muddied with despair.
Let it speak of heavenly smoke, dancing petals, beaming grapes and loves that will not break.

So, tonight, serenaded by the smooth voice of nightingales, fall fast asleep in my poem.

__________

The Immortal Greek Spirit

“From now on we shouldn’t say that the Greeks fight like heroes but the heroes fight like the Greeks.” – Winston Churchill

Until the blood from my pen runs dry, I shall worship the Greek body, the Greek mind and the Greek soul.
Until my tears land upon Greek soil, I shall forever live in exile.

In the Thracian hills, my Greek spirit shall rise.
My strong soul shall spear the Persian hordes.
They shall feel the wrath of the Greek soul – Yes, that immortal soul.
Under Thermopylae’s hot gates, Spartan valor will reign supreme.
Unified Greek blood shall form rivers of freedom – Rivers that satiate a man’s spirit.

In Aegina, I shall sleep in beds of olives,
And on the silver beaches of Naxos, I will dance until dawn with noble peasants.

In the Corinthian countryside, the moon’s fire shall awaken my Greek spirit.
In Paros, my bold blood shall be replaced with rich wine,
And in Sifnos, my carnal lips shall be the playthings of Greek goddesses – we shall worship Dionysus in the dark lustful hills.
From the peaks of Mount Olympus, I shall hoist old rocks until I am proclaimed a pagan God,
And in Athens, poetry shall be the only language.

Until the blood from my pen runs dry, I shall worship the Greek body, the Greek mind and the Greek soul.
Until my tears land upon Greek soil, I shall forever live in exile.

__________

Italian Musings

“I know that I shall never really be happy again away from Rome” – Jacob Burckhardt

The night fluttered and fled like a notorious nightingale, while the sun flitted
between velvet clouds and dying constellations.
It is in these dawing moments that I shudder for my Italy: my second
soulmate.
Where are the gypsy lips of Navona, the grand embrace of Peter and the
silken Tuscan sky?
Have you not heard the poetry uttered in an Umbrian sigh?

In Florence, I drank florid colors … In Rome I caressed baroque marble
And in Venice, I swam between Lovers.
But now, I inhale noxious fumes, I endure Anglo grunts – and I see
contemporary tombs.
Where is my delectable Latin?
Fit only to be written on golden satin.

The children of Dante mill about in piazzas and converse in cafes,
yet I am far, far away.
Not a day passes without painful pangs of Italian dreams: the sun’s glitter,
the moon’s gleam.
This aesthetic fiend misses lazy Positano nights and Ravello’s ravishing sights.
Even if I leave this confining room, tis no escape for this exiles gloom.

Only Italy’s distant shores can resurrect my melancholy soul.
Only Italy’s rhythm can appease my dancing body,
And only Italy’s grandeur can assuage this existential mind.
Oh Italy – wild son of Greece – pity your meager suppliant.
Oh Italy, clasp me to your statuesque breast!

__________

To The American Poet

Arise… my dormant American poets.
I want verses of felt.
Stanzas threaded with fine silk.
Words that ooze honey from the old oak,
And syllables drawn from the glistening spring.

Give us rhyme schemes lined with stolen gold.
Lines that bleed a savage truth,
Subjects stolen from grand Italian operas,
Passions inherited from tragic Greek Heroes,
And poems woven from oriental linen.

Sculpt works from the rotted wood, the aged Earth, and the gypsy Moon.
Write from the poignant pain, the lost love, the violent void, and the stormy
solitude.
Ignore the vicious vulgarity of Ginsberg
And leave the dilettante Leary to his base habits.
Rather … Dance with old man Neruda in the Chilean hills.
Travel with Whitman through shooting leaves and raw grass,
And fight with fiery Garibaldi under the Sicilian sun.

Tell tales of Parisian lovers, Persian Kings, and wild Bohemians
Sing songs of salt, sand, and sap.
I implore you – Please awaken the lost passion within your red, white, and
blue souls.

Arise… my dormant American poets.
__________

Tonight I Will Write

Tonight, I will write verses of solitude and odes to sorrow.
Under the sad moon, I will dream of my lost love.
Dream of her simple smile and dream of her voice which floats like a lost brook
in the English countryside.

My soul aches like the old rock that bears the cold sea.
My butterfly has flown far, far away
And without her, my soul is a weathered sculpture – broken and incomplete.
My heart has forgotten its rolling rhythm – tainted blood pumps through this
dying body.

I’ve loved her since the first day – Yes, the first day.

My shattered soul does not accept that she is gone.
It does not concede defeat.
It compels me to wait in caves of golden ivy.
Minutes turn into hours – hours into days.
When will she arrive?

Tonight, I will write verses of solitude and odes to sorrow.
That first touch, that opening word, that unknown smile.
Even the most blazing star cannot compete with her fire.
Once again, I wish to burn from her kiss.

If my eyes never gaze upon her, I will gouge them.
If my ears never hear her sweet voice, I will sacrifice them to the rippling sea,
And if my body never touches her, I will starve in the southern hills.

Tonight, I will write verses of solitude and odes to sorrow.
Under the crystal moon, I will reflect upon the shade of her skin and the subtle
curve of her lips.
Under immense constellations, I will inhale the scented jasmine coloring her hair,
And between feverish volcanoes, I will search for her erupting heart.
Our love has evaporated like the morning dew;
Will it fall again tomorrow?

In the distance I hear a song – a simple song – a song of despair – a song of
longing and a song of sorrow.
I have forgotten the words and the rhythm, but I sing.

Yes, I sing.

__________

3 Poems from ‘Poems of Blood and Passion’

Natalia

Natalia -
Whose name I want to proclaim in blood and flowers,
Whose sex is a field of roses entwined with whispering wine,
And whose touch is truly divine.

Natalia -
Whose back is separated by twin sheets of Brazilian moonlight,
Whose thighs are as mysterious as a Cuban night,
And whose eyes are rays of sumptuous sunlight.

Natalia -
Whose kiss is a delicious wish
Whose hair is a perfect strand of flaring wheat
And whose embrace is an explosion of savage heat.

Natalia -
Whose breasts are a shower of flowering azaleas
Whose breath is scented with incense and petunias
And whose legs are filled with sparkling vistas.

Natalia -
Whose quivers are a bonfire of sapphire
Whose screams are choirs of desire,
And whose love is wood-fire lit by a Persian lyre.

Natalia
Whose lips are a bastion of heaven
Whose silence is a dance of passion
And whose soul I must possess.

__________

Untitled

How I want to celebrate every element of her body
Every aspect of her soul
And every valley in her heart!

Her eyes – two sunbursts bursting with myrrh.
Her breasts – two mountains separated by a glorious glen.
Her legs – two stalks of liquid lava, burning me with every touch.

Who else brings her forgotten flowers from distant lands?
Who else secretly scrawls her name in blood and lightning?
Who else shields her hands with ancient sand?

Her skin – as golden as the Moroccan skyline.
Her sighs – stolen from planetary skies.
Her soul – a cauldron of fire, wheat and desire.

Who else serenades her in lush, lusty glades?
Who else saves strands of her hair as if they were strings of silver?
As if they were countries of bronze?
Who else showers her body in wine and kisses?

How I want to celebrate every element of her body
Every aspect of her soul
And every valley in her heart!

__________

Forbidden Kisses

I want to drench you in kisses of amorous amber
Caresses dressed in french-chocolate,
And glances touched with dancing jasmine.

I want to lather you in wild dew
Smother you with ancient haikus
And subdue you with delicious Italian-views.

I want to bathe you in berries dripping with light
Ignite you with flames of starry starlight
And excite you with sights of erotic delight.

I want to bring you Moroccan rings
Tales of Tuscan kings,
And Cupid’s immortal wings.

Oh, what pleasures burst forth from your lips!
What treasures are hidden within your sighs!
And what ecstasies are unveiled between your thighs!

Yet our very existence is a high offense.
For our kisses are forbidden
And our wishes criminal.

But how do I console my yearning Soul?
How do I control this aching hole?

Why cannot I carry you through blue-seas teased with pleasing desire?
Why cannot I express my rippling, raging fire?
And finally, my dear, why must my consuming Passion expire?

__________

An excerpt from ‘American Bards & The London Reviewer’

In Bukowski there is very little poetry.
But this vulgar hack has hacked his way into literay fame.
More of a Barfly than a bard -
Yet, his is now a celebrated name.
Have the literati no shame?

Bukowski slobbers:
‘what a world, you think: eat, work, fuck,
die.’

Maneos composes:
‘What a world, you think!
The Grecian dancers,
The Italian gardens,
The Tunisian light
And the Parisian lovers.

What a world, you think!
The symphonies of Mozart,
The sonnets of Shakespeare,
The frescoes of Fra Angelico,
And the selfless suffering of Christ.’

Bukowski slobbers:
‘think of the beds
used again and again
to fuck in
to die in.’

Maneos composes:
‘Think of the beds
used again and again
to consummate the consuming love
between two lovers.’

Bukowski slobbers:
‘if I bet on Humanity
I’d never cash a ticket.’

Maneos composes:
‘I’d bet on Humanity
Even if wise society
Mocked my naivety.’

Bukowski slobbers:
‘humanity
you sick
motherfucker.’

Maneos composes:
‘humanity -
as resilient
as the scents of spring,
or the storms of the storied sea.’

Bukowski slobbers:
‘barbaric, senseless days total
in your skull;
reality is a juiceless
orange.’

Maneos composes:
‘Aesthetic, Passionate days tally
in your Soul.
Reality is a bruised daisy.’

Bukowski slobbers:
‘there is no god
there are no politics
there is no peace
there is no love’

Maneos composes:
‘I Hope for a God
I Hope for a less divisive Political discourse
I Hope for Peace
I Love.’

Bukowski slobbers:
‘then one day
we heard
a voice from the house
‘YOU GOD DAMNED
WHORE!”

Maneos composes:
‘The one day
We overheard her young lover say
Beneath the richly-wreathed moon
‘You are as Beautiful as a Rose
in full bloom.”

Bukowski slobbers:
‘but I caught her and
grabbed at the bottle.
‘give me that bottle, you
fucking whore!”

Maneos composes:
‘But I pinned her
against the dresser,
‘Give me a thousand kisses
then a thousand more,
and then a thousand on top of this -
as many kisses as there wisps of sand
in the wind-kissed Kalahari.”

Bukowski slobbers:
‘what a whore
what a hunk of rock.’

Maneos composes:
‘What a Goddess!
An empress blessed with twirling tresses
Whose bronzed flesh is so luscious
that I am delirious -
Delirious as a drunken Satyr dancing with Bacchus:
Flushed with both Ecstasy and Agony:
Crushed with Passion, Paralyzed with Lust, truly,
A beautiful tragedy, a sweet-bitter reality,
For my longings, my sufferings, will surely be the death of me!’

Bukowski slobbers:
”YOU GOD DAMNED WHORE,
WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT
ANYTHING?
SITTING THERE ON YOUR
DEAD ASS AND
SUCKING AT THE VINO!”

Maneos composes:
‘I ache for your kisses!
Like a dying well for a single drop of water
Like a starving beggar for a single scrap of silver
Like a weeping Tragedy for a single note of laughter.

I want to mark your skin with the sins of Passion!’

Bukowski slobbers:
‘it was all right with me, I didn’t want to be
liked by them, I didn’t want to fuck them or
marry them or
even date them.
I found none of them
Beautiful.’

Maneos composes:
‘My lovely butterfly,
you are a Renaissance of Beauty.
Can I close
your wild, wild eyes
with kisses of wild rose?’

Bukowski slobbers:
‘girls remind me of hair in the sink, girls remind me of intestines
and bladders and excretory movements; it’s unfortunate also that
ice-cream bells, babies, engine-valves, plagiostomes, palm trees,
footsteps in the hall . . . all excite me with the cold calmness
of the gravestone;’

Maneos composes:
‘Girls remind me of diaphanous diamonds
Of dew and fire bejeweled with forgotten Grecian-garlands
Of limb-loosening singing drifting in
from the low-lying woodlands.

It’s also fortunate that ice-cream, babies, forests and glens
all excite me with the same impassioned intensity of an inviting glance
from a full beautiful maiden.’

Bukowski slobbers:
“ah, jam it up
your ass!” she
screamed at
me.’

Maneos composes:
“Ravage me with kisses,’
She panted in between caresses,
like a panther exiled in an exotic jungle.’