The Sorcerer's Complaint

by Brett Rutherford


for Barbara Holland

There is no use deceiving her.

Her hooded eyes, in shadow, see

each shade and its dim penumbra.

Drinking lapsang souchong

tea at my Sixth Avenue loft,

she spies the nightshade, the wolfbane,

purpling the herbal window sill.

At pre-dawn hour when all others slumber,

she skulks by, just when my illegal pet

happens to dangle a tangible limb

out and then down the fire escape, three floors.

No one was meant to see that tentacle

as it lowered trash to the waiting can!

When she joins in my poetry circle,

my Siamese cat athwart her lap-book,

her balletic toe lifts up the carpet,

revealing last night’s chalked-in Pentagram.

“Really!” she chides. “Demons don’t answer calls

that easily, and I should know.”

From sidewalk she called, “Are you on fire, or what?”

that night my more musty conjurations

failed to clear the chimney top and gasped

out every window of my loft.

“Nothing to see!” I shouted down at her,

“A meatloaf did not survive the oven!”

Somehow one shard of carbon-clot

detached and followed her, and stayed —

I let it, to punish her being so much

in the way of learning my business.

Yet she is obstinate. My tea and talk

are just too much to her liking, so back

she comes, her raccoon-collar coat turned up

against the cloud that hovers there,

on my command. Week after week,

that black and personal drizzle hounds

her Monday walks through Chelsea streets.

Umbrellas are of no avail;
they leak into her mouse-brown hair.
Wind blows the rain sideways at her

as she hurls herself among
bus shelters and doorway awnings.

There is no waiting out the storm.

The manual of sorcery explains:

it is easier to start bad weather,

than to stop it.

[Revised May 2019].

(c 1972, new version Nov 2018)

The Doll With No Face

By Brett Rutherford

One tea-and-cookies Sunday, she had more time
to spend with me, the youngest son's first child.
As I sat, lap full of Classic Comics,
grandmother Rutherford rummaged away
in the unseen kitchen. "Where? Where?" she asked.
Wood drawers slid. Cabinets squeaked open.
"Ah! Don't slip away — I found it again."

She cleared the tea table. "More, please!" I asked,
and held the tea cup out. She poured, I poised
the full teacup and watched the pot vanish
onto a sideboard. She put a bag before me,
soft, suede, brown the color of the oak leaves
that still clung rabidly to the trees outside.

It was tied with a leather cord, cram-full
of objects that tumbled out. Small things first:|
shiny white shells, water-worn colored agates,
black arrowheads, a bronze scrap verdigris'd,
a miscellany of seeds and pods, dried
leaves and petals long past the hint of hue.

"It's like my rock collection!" I offered.
"Agates like that I get from Jacob's Creek."
She pushes that one aside, holds the black
arrowhead in the palm of her hand, "Sharp-
edged black glass, good for arrows," she said.
"That's how my mother explained it." She ran
the edge along her cheek. I shuddered then,
and told her "Obsidian! Volcanic
glass. I find it in the road-fill. Aztecs
used it to cut out hearts. Sharp as a saw
a surgeon's saw." — "You know too much for ten.
Your teachers don't understand you, I hear.
That's why I can say things no one should know
until they're old, and far away, remembering."

She reached into the bag, removed the doll,
an almost weightless thing of cornhusks.
It had a dress, blue-printed calico,
delicate red shoes, a beaded hat, braids
made of corn-silk, blond white. Its rounded head
was pulled tight with cloth, but hard as a stone —
no eyes, no ears, no nose, no mouth, no name
one could call it, or any name one wished.

"Boy: these are the things my mother left me."
She left a long silence for that to sink in.
"Things that my mother's mother left to her."

"The family called themselves White. Took her
in, a young girl, Indian braids and all.
No one was what they said they were: Stouffel
White was Christopher Weiss in Germany.
Henry White, the son whose big farm it was,
had many children, hands to work and pray.
One more was easy to take in. A lot
of Mingos and Senecas were going West,
driven from New York State, driven from here.
Many who could pass, they just took white names
and settled out in the hills and hollows.
Some had their children taken out to school,
some women married whites who didn't want
an Indian man's children, so gave them up."

She went to the sideboard, a drawer pulled.
"Here" — a stern old woman in widow's black —
"is how she looked when she came to live with us.
I never called her anything but 'Ma",
or 'Mrs. Trader' to the neighborhood.
Ten years they had lived in Allegheny,
across the river from Pittsburgh, chairman
of some company board he was — died there
and she came on home. None of us did church
except for Christmas, and neither did she.

"You didn't talk about being a Mingo.
It was bad enough when the first war came
to never say the White name came from Weiss.
But then she just told everyone: not White,
not Weiss, she was an Indian, plain and true.
We laughed. She tried to change her clothing then,
bought beads and buttons and Indian scarves.
My husband was furious. Our children
were called names and ridiculed, but instead
of a thing of shame it became a pride.

"One day she sat on the front porch with me.
She had this brown bag and the things in it.
'Sharp-edged black glass — this is good for arrows,'
she told me, as one by one she brought out
the rocks, the shells, the copper shard, this flint
she said came all the way from Michigan.
This from our fathers' fathers, a bone thing
from a raccoon's private parts, and magic.
She had a name for each thing, and a place,
all in her mish-mash Mingo-Delaware.

"Then came this doll, this doll without a face.
I never saw her cry but once, and this
was it. She didn't let me play with it,
just held it on her lap and said, 'Listen.
Remember. My mother gave me this doll
the day she left me at the White farmhouse.
She'd be away a while she said, and I
must look at her face, then at the doll's face,
then at her face and at the doll's again,
till when I saw its emptiness I saw
her grieved face, her deep black eyes,
     her forced smile.
Just keep the doll with you till I return.

'The Whites were kind, but I worked hard,
Kept to myself and sang my own music,
played in the woods with the named animals
I knew from my mother's teachings. Three girls
I played with, not quite as sisters. They scorned
my poor clothing, my stubborn braids. Ma White
took all my clothes one night and gave a hand-
me down dress and underclothes and new shoes.
I was less an outcast now. No Sunday
Church for me, but we would play with our dolls.
Their dolls had porcelain faces, with eyes
and noses and ruby lips and blushes.

'My doll — it had only my mother's face
that only I could see, and I just smiled
as happy with my little one, as they
with theirs. Summers I'd play apart, out past
the last corn-rows where the deep woods began.
Mrs White called me but I wouldn't come.
I waited— one day each summer — she'd come.
A whippoorwill call in daytime, she'd come —
there'd be no embrace so wondrous, no eyes
so deep and dark and arrowed with sad tears,
nothing I wouldn't labor through so long
as she came with basket and moccasins,
dried fruit and candied ginger, a handful
of found rocks and feathers and agates
that looked like sunset paintings done on stone.

'Up and down and across three states she went.
Trails ran north-south and west-to-east:
Salt Lick Path to Braddock's Camp; Braddock's Road
white-written over what had been Nemacolin's Path.
She knew her way, and scavenged and traded,
did God-knows-what to get to see me each June.
When strawberries came, I knew she'd be there
calling at the wood's edge for her daughter.

'Three years it went that way. I grew. Sisters
and cousins of the Whites tormented me
for my strange ways, weird songs, and for the doll
that had no face. At night they'd turn it round
so that it wouldn't face the other dolls.
They said it gave their dolls bad dreams. I hid
it beneath my pillow, then in a box
where I feared it would suffocate. Ma White —
I could call her 'Ma' as long as the 'White'
was attached to it like an apology —
came back from town one day with a present.
A doll it was, a newer, cleaner, bright
of eye, five-fingered, five-toed, black-haired and
silver-shoed princess. She'd put to shame the dolls
my sisters had nearly wrecked with playing.

'Soon I prevailed at a porch tea party,
where my doll, Abigail, now reigned supreme.
White sisters scowled, knowing no comeuppance
could come their way before the Christmas tree
restocked the dolls with the latest fashions.
My doll was lecturing her inferiors
on the new rules of the White doll order
when, from my corner of my eye, I saw,
between two cautiously-parted branches
what might have been my mother's eyes.

'I didn't turn to look. Girl-chatter blocked
the call of the day-time whipporwill, once.
Maybe twice I heard it, but didn't go
to the wood's edge where I always met her.
Then she was there, in full sight, eyes all wide
in a wordless 'See me, daughter' greeting.
And then. O my daughter, and then,
ashamed that my sisters might glimpse her,
sun-burnt and moccasin'd with her traders'
basket and pack — I turned back to my doll
and — I — pretended —not — to — see — her.'

"This is how my mother lost her mother.
She never saw her again. In bag
she hid away the doll, the arrowheads,
stones, feathers, dried blossoms and raccoon bones.
No longer could she see her mother's face
on the wrapped rock that was the corn-doll's head.

"She hid who she was, until the time of remembering."

Photo: Portrait of Mary White Trader.

At the Grave of Homer

by Brett Rutherford

On Ios the itchy-haired boys,
picking at head-lice like monkeys,
hectored to death the dotard Homer
as he stumbled sea-ward, hands up
to catch sun's east-west wandering,
ears to the waves to ken the echoes
and tides that guided him daily
from arbor to sea-park and home
again. "Old Man," they taunted,
"You know the gods. What color
is the hair of Aphrodite? How tall
was Aias when he stood in armor?"

Calmly, he answered them: "Bright
as spun gold. Tall as a ten-year oak."

I Dreamt I Was Dante

by Brett Rutherford

I dream in mezzanotte silver-gray,
donning the robes of aging Alighieri,
sandalled and aching with brittle legs,
heeding the call of Thanatos,
waking or sleeping?
I do not know! I feel the dew
as on my ankles, but these feet are numb,
the bony knobs and claws of an exile.
My limbs are brown and scourged
with years. An umber moon,
senile amid the drooling clouds, tilts
earthward and winks at me,
the knowing eye of eternity,
changeless and blistering.

A cypress grove, its rippled leaves
cat-furring the rigid columns of sky-
supporting trunks, the blue drear tears
of trees unbearable in daylight: how cool
they are, how wise reflecting in dew-cups
each one the tiny faces of moon and Venus
(so must we mortals, in mirror'd shields
look on the Gorgon face of Love!)

Among the trees, close-packed, a maze
formed by the slab-walls of quarry stone,
blocks of an unfinished temple to gods
the fall of an empire extinguished,
now a limestone catacomb roofed by a vault
of stars. The maze invites my errant feet
to tread its ever-regressive avenues.

At the far heart of the stone-cypress maze
in a niche cut out of purest marble,
on a pediment of onyx, Beatrice waits.
She is already dead, and I will die
before I can ever find her resting place.
That is the journey, and there is no Virgil,
and although I have read him, his silver lines
fade now to dust motes in my memory.

First H.P. Lovecraft Waterfire, Providence

by Brett Rutherford

It was in his honor, really. The band,
by god, was actually from Yuggoth.
Upon the bright stage at Steeple Street, two
rugose cones were induced to shimmy-dance
as cowled Keziah looked on approvingly.
Most of the audience, unwashed
or overly manicured, jeaned or dolled-
up for later dates at the hookah-bar,
were quite oblivious to what or whom
the puppet orchestra gave its homage.

This was H.P. Lovecraft’s first Waterfire,
art-sound-and-puppet spectacle amid
a river lit by flaming wood braziers,
as the hooded and torched participants
chanted a well-rehearsed chant to the Elder Gods,
seventy-two strong. Could Howard, misanthrope,
have ever imagined the echoing call
from bank and office tower, of words like
“Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ia! Ia! Yog-Sothoth!”

or that a truck-size Cthulhu would barge up
the Providence River to the waiting cove?

One outraged preacher confronted the crowd:
“I rebuke you! I rebuke all of you
in the name of Jesus Christ!” And the band
played on, and the chanters chanted on,
and the stars sped on in their cold orbits,
and perhaps two lips, that smiled too seldom
curled up and inward to a skull-teethed grin
somewhere in a grave along the Seekonk.

I tried to be a celebrant, really,
but repellent hordes of ordinaries
made walking on unthinkable. Mothers
with babies. Multiple babies. Twin prams
the size of original Volkswagens
prevented my passage on the narrow,

cobbled walk. I tried. A great hound snarled, lunged,
and then, like the tricephalic hellhound
Cerberus, an apparition with three
leashed mastiffs confronted me. Then I whirled
into a noxious cloud of cigar smoke,
a toxic cloud and a man within it,
who would not let me pass. Backwards, sideways
I stepped then, as two autistic children,
one wrestled to fidgeting by his father,
the other hurling across the sidewalk,
thrust flailing limbs into my rib-cage.

I climbed a grassy slope to elude them,
looked down from afar. Most natives looked like
an undulation of stumbling spheres clad
in motley of random, unwashed laundry.

Then I came eye to eye with three young men,
(three dozen tattoos at least among them)
watching from the bed of a pickup truck,
smelling of gun oil, vomit and whiskey.
Binoculared, they eyed the Waterfire,
the celebratory burning braziers,
the fire-attendants’ barge, the silent passing
of real and faux Venetian gondolas.

Have these men have ever heard of Lovecraft?

“Saw a boat with an octopus,” one said.
“Yeah. Just flatboats with oars. The damn water
is only three feet deep ’less the tide’s up.”
“So jus’ where the hell is the Hovercraft?”
the man with binoculars demanded.
“They said there was gonna be Hovercraft!”

The Tea Party: A Childhood Memory

The Tea Party

by Brett Rutherford

Scottdale, PA, childhood on Kingview Road. (Revision of an older poem.)


New neighbor girls have settled in.
We hear the squeals and screams,
the mother-calls and father-scoldings
through the open windows.
An angry hedge divides us in back,
though our houses lean together,
shingles and sagging porches
almost blending, identical
weeds abuzz with the same
busy-body bumblebees.

The low-slung church

of solemn Mennonites

sits glum and silent

across the street.

The girls' names are Faith and Abby,

ten and seven in stiff blue dresses.

Their parents seldom speak to us.

Just up the hill, behind a fence,

white-washed and cedar-lined,

Charlene and Marilyn,

the Jewish girls

live in the great brick house

(anything brick

is a mansion to us).

I play canasta with Marilyn (my age),

learn to admire her parents,

watch as they light

the Hanukkah candles,

move among them summers

as hundreds congregate

at their swimming pool.

Their mother loves opera,

but not, she says,

not Wagner.

One August day,

an invitation comes,

crayon on tablet paper,

for tea with Faith and Abby.

My mother says, Be nice and go.

I sit in their yard

with toy furniture.

The doll whose daddy

I'm pretending to be

has one arm missing.

The tea, which is licorice

dissolved in warm water,

is served in tiny cups,

tarnished aluminum,

from a tiny aluminum teapot.

I want to gag

from the taste of it,

but I sip on and ask for more.

Now Faith addresses me.

"I'll dress the baby

and we shall take her to church." —

"Oh, we don't go to church,"

I told my newfound Mrs.

"Never, ever?"

"Not even once?" —

I shook my head —

"I've never set foot inside a church."

"That's just what Daddy told us!"

Abby exclaimed. "You'll go to Hell!"

"You'll go to Hell and be damned!"

the sisters chanted,

"You'll go to hell and be damned!"

"What else does your Daddy say?"

I asked them. "He says

you'll go to Hell and be damned,

because you're atheists and heathens."

Faith looked fierce,

She poured more tea

and made me take it,

as if it were holy water,

as if I would drink

baptism by stealth.

She raised her cup daintily,

glanced and nodded

at the fence and the cedars.

My eyes followed.

"Charlene and Marilyn

will go to Hell, too,

right to the bottom

of the flaming pit,

because they're Jews

and murdered Jesus.

Would you like ice cream now?"

The Cemetery at Eylau, 1807

THE CEMETERY AT EYLAU, 1807

by Brett Rutherford

The Battle at Eylau, East Prussia (now Bagrationovsky, Kaliningrad, Russia) As told to Victor Hugo by his uncle Louis-Joseph Hugo.Adapted and expanded from the Victor Hugo poem, "The Story of Louis-Joseph."

1.

Eylau, the graveyard in Kaliningrad, Eylau in East Prussia:
Eylau, the battle rather. Louis-Joseph was then
just Captain, and had earned the Cross, not that
it mattered in ’07 when men in war were naught
but shadows and numbers to those who counted.
He would never forget Eylau, a quiet spot
(East Prussian then), mist-clotted fields,
scant woods. The regiment before a ruined wall,
an angry old belfry frowning down Lutherly,
gravestones one could not read, slabs a-crumble
and flat, sunken and swelling in humps of grass.

Beringssen, superstitious, shuddered to stay here,
but the Emperor would not retreat, not now, while
the threat of blizzard hunched in the clouds.
Napoléon himself went by, sunglassing the sky,
calling orders as he ant-scanned the horizon.
The word spread fast in spiderweb gossip, soldier-
to-soldier: “A battle, for certain, tomorrow.”
They saw the shapes of women and children, fleeing,
huddled forms with knapsacks, potato-brown.
He looked along the ditches’ edge, anxious to hear
the rumble of horses and wagons — but silence.

In the wall’s shelter they made a campfire.
They made giant soldier-shadows, coming and going.
The colonel summoned him: “Hugo!” — “Present!” —
“How many men are with you here?” — “A hundred.” —
“A plague! That’s far too few. No matter then —

You take them all.” — “Where, Colonel?” — “Go down there
and get yourselves all killed in the graveyard.”
The captain laughed. “Down there! That is
     the very place to die.”
He had a gourd, a decent wine. He drank.
He passed it to the discerning colonel,

who savored, nodded. Their eyes met. Each understood.

A chill breeze harrowed the empty branches.
“We’re never far from Death,” the Colonel conjectured,
“Much as I love my life.” He raised the gourd again.
“Much as I love the real, we who know wine like this
know very well how to die.” Grimly, he laughed,
then swept his hand over the graveyard slope.
“Yours is the point they will menace the most.
No matter the cost — hold on. The battle’s real crux
is here.” Climbing to the wall-top, he scanned the ground.
“Have you some dry straw, at least, for bedding?” —
          “None, sir.” —
“Then on the ground it is.” Soft graves, headstones,
a sunken spot or two, they’d find a way.
— “My soldiers can sleep no matter where,” he boasted.
— “And how’s your drummer-boy?” —
          “As brave as a rooster!” —

“That’s good. So let him crow, and beat the charge
at odd times, day and night, run to and fro
so it sounds like an army is crowded in here.” —
“Did you hear that, boy?” called Hugo. A tow-head raised
from a snow-bank and cried, “Yes, sir! Fear not!
I can make enough noise for a Roman legion!”

Taking him aside, the Colonel ordered:
“It is imperative you hold this graveyard
till six tomorrow evening. Hold ground,
be you alive or dead. And thus, farewell.”
He gave a swift embrace and firm salute.

2

Leaving behind the merry fire, they scaled
the crumbling wall to down-slope cemetery.
The old gravestones and their death-headed mounds
peaked with snow-clumps, rolled on and on like waves.
The snow was far deeper than they expected.
In tattered cloaks they sank to its chill-bed.
They slept well, as men of war learn slumber
without a thought of waking, or dying.

He woke at dawn. New snow had covered him
and made his lips icy. He sat up like a revenant
from the grave-mound he had chosen, poor Johan H-
who, dead, had no choice in the manner of bunking.
He was head-to-foot in a snowy shroud.
He stood up and shook it off, shivering.
A bullet breezed by his ear. “Ho!” he shouted.
“Lookout, what see you?” — “Nothing, sir! Nothing!”
“That nothing was no housefly. Sound the reveillée!”

Up popped the nine-and-ninety heads of men
from the Lutheran ground that had never seen
such an Easter rising. The sergeant called, “To arms!”
Red dawn was split in two by inky clouds,
a bloody-mouth leer at humanity,
sun-rise, Death-rise, the lamp of War. “To arms!”

For all the horn-call and drumming, the pots-
and-pans clamor of readiness, they in their turn
got only silence from the unseen enemy.
The shot he heard was but a random thing,
much like a ballroom orchestra player
who by chance picked up a horn and blew it.

Though blood was iced, they were warm for battle.
On the plains, the silent armies waited.
The graveyard-men were set as bait and lure ,
on which the enemy might spend and waste.
They gathered along the protecting wall,
each one prepared to bleed for every foot deterred.

3.

And then it came on: six hundred field guns
roared their iron mouths, booming and thundering.
Lightning and fire-burst flashed from hill to hill.
Then Hugo’s drummer beat the charge, in answer.
A colossus of trumpets answered back.
Down came the leaden shots upon the graves,
as if the very tombs were their targets.
Starlings and crows exploded in black clouds
from the shaken church’s crumbling steeple.

One corpse but lately dead popped up half-height
as a mortar exploded his fine monument,
a preacher from the look of him, black-raimented
with a bony hand stretched out in admonition.
Skulls rolled through the snow like aimless billiards.

Then a day-defying darkness seized them.
Dawn would not give to day, the sun was shamed,
smoke rolled onto and up the slope, to wall,
o’er-reaching it, up to the church itself.
And then, in clot of gun-cloud came more snow,
a steady, head-pounding downfall of heaviness.
Soldiers against the wall were whitened ghosts,
others upon the ground a rose-burst of bleeding.
Down on the plain, fires rose from the smoke-sea —
villages now plundered were set a-light.
’til the whole horizon seemed one vast torch.

They stood against the wall, and they waited.
Till six o’clock tomorrow! the Colonel had said:
How could they make their shivering presence matter?
Not crouching this way like hares before a hunter!
“Morbleau!” said the lieutenant next to him,
“Our chance may come, and may come but once.
Let us advance now —” and then a bullet
ripped through his throat and he fell trembling, dead.

Napoléon, the Emperor, had set them here,
they knew not why, except to be a puppet show
of easy things to shoot at, a hundred armed men
pretending to be a thousand, by dint of din.
What would he tell the men? Their only goal
was to survive until a gold watch clicked on six.

He raised his sword, swinging it this way-that way.
“Courage!” he bellowed, choke-full of rage and manhood.
Out and apart from the others he stood.
He felt it not – not the thing that ripped him,
his hand limp, sword on the ground before him.
“No matter, for I have another hand,” he laughed.
He used his good hand shake the numb one,

counting fingers, all there, thanks be to God!
He took up the sword again. Soldiers’ faces blurred;
some seemed to sink and falter. “Ah, my friends,
we have left hands for the Emperor, too!”

Too soon, the boy’s drum-beating stopped. He found
the staggering drummer. “No time for fear!” —
“Six hours I’ve drummed. Six! I’m not afraid.
I’m hungry,” the drummer boy protested.
The ground rose up — like an earthquake, it seemed —
the drummer was gone — Hugo’s sword was gone.
A cry went up to heaven, coarse like crows:
Victoire, it cawed. Victoire! Victoire! Victoire!

“Let anyone who lives, stand up! Report!” —
The drummer stood. “I’m here. I didn’t die!”
The sergeant from behind a tree: “I’m here!”

The Colonel rushed in on horseback, red sword
edged with the blood of retreating Russians.
He approached, saluted. “Who won the battle, sir?” —
“You did, you, Captain Hugo. How many still live?”
And Hugo answered, “Three!”

[Revised May 2019].

Oct 25, 2018

Subjects: Eylau, Napoleon, Victor Hugo, translations

Greek and Latin Poetry -- Free Books to Download

From The Poet's Press Links Page, here are links to my recommendations for free books you can download of Greek and Roman poetry. Everyone needs a Greek slave, and a Roman master.

GREEK AND LATIN POETRY

Amos, Andrew, ed. Gems of Latin Poetry. A collection of poems in Latin from various eras (including British poems composed in Latin). An excellent bilingual resource with the original Latin, prose  or verse English translations, and commentary. Odd items include a poem attributed to Julius Caesar, a Latin poem condemning Milton's works to be burned at the stake, and Latin love poems addressed to Lucrezia Borgia. A treasure trove for those searching obscure and interesting Latin poems to translate or paraphrase.  From the Internet Archive in PDF and other file formats. 

THE CLASSICS, GREEK AND LATIN: The Classics, Greek & Latin; The Most Celebrated Works of Hellenic and Roman Literature, Embracing Poetry, Romance, History, Oratory, Science, and Philosophy -- A handsome series of books published a hundred years ago, edited by a transatlantic group of scholars and translators, intended to present the great Greek and Latin classics to the general reader. The volumes are a mix of prose and verse translations. Here are the volumes that contain poetry:

• Andrew Lang's prose translation of Homer's Iliad. PDF and other formats from The Internet Archive. Lang's style is arcane, and does not compare well with Samuel Butler's prose version (see below). 
• Andrew Lang's prose translation of Homer's Odyssey. PDF and other formats from The Internet Archive. 
• From the same series, a compendium of Didactic and Lyric Poetry from the oldest Greek poets, including Hesiod, Callimachus, Sappho, Anacreon and Pindar. 
• A collection of some of the best-known Greek Dramas, including Prometheus Bound (translated by Elizabeth Barrett Browning), Antigone, and Medea. 
• Prose versions of The Poetry of Virgil, including The Georgics and The Aeneid. 
• The Works of Horace, translated into English prose. 
• Here is the pinnacle of Latin poetry in the volume titled, Amatory, Philosophical, Mythological. This volume includes selections from Lucretius, the great philosopher-poet, the satirist Catullus, the magisterial Propertius, and the first four parts of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 

Richardson, Leon Josiah. A Guide to Reading Latin Poetry. This brief, practical guide explains Latin meters and helps the beginner learn how to read Latin aloud, and how its classical meters work. A stodgy old book, but very useful. 
SAMUEL BUTLER'S PROSE VERSION OF HOMER'S ILIAD. Published in 1898, here is Samuel Butler's fine translation of The Iliad into clear and readable prose. This is an elegant rendering, highly readable, and far enough from our own time that Butler's everyday English sounds just slightly removed and grand.
THE RETURN OF STATIUS. Perhaps it is time for the scorned Roman poet Statius, author of the epic Thebaid, to make a comeback. He is the Stephen King of Roman poetry, full of extremes, the product of Rome at its peak of power and flowering of decadence: "Who can sing of the spectacle, the unrestrained mirth, the banqueting, the unbought feast, the lavish streams of wine? Ah, now I faint…" Here is the Heineman bilingual edition of Statius as a starter on this voluptuous poet. For a taste of the 18th century take on Statius, here is a 1767 English translation of The Thebaid Vol 1, and The Thebaid, Vol 2, whose introduction includes some comments on the critics' disapproval of Statius's unrestrained writing.

The Witches and the High-Court Judge

I promised some Magickally-talented friends that I would make a "helping spell" in the ongoing hex against Judge Kavanaugh. Here is my modest effort, based on a 1609 poem by Ben Jonson.

THE WITCHES AND THE HIGH-COURT JUDGE

by Brett Rutherford

after Ben Jonson


WITCH 1
I have been all day looking after
a Funnel for His Fundament,
for he is like to Bouffe a Biere
as to pour it in his gullet.

WITCH 2
I have been gathering wolves’ haires,
The madd dogges foames, and adders’ eares,
to hie me to the Brewerie
and mix them in his favor’d Bieres.

WITCH 3
I last night lay all lone,
on the ground to hear the Mandrake groan,
and plucked him, to make a Dolle
that hath no Manhood on it, None at all.

WITCH 4
And I ha’ been choosing out this Skull,
from Charnel Houses that were full
and I shall make a Lykeness Doll
that screameth, “I am a Man of  Yale!”

WITCH 5
Under a cradle I did crepe
By day; and when the childe was a-sleepe,
I marked it with the will to tell
That he would four times eff with her anon.

WITCH 6
I had a dagger: what did I with that?
Killed an infant to have his fat.
I’ll carve his name along the blade,
and hope he finds it, nick of time.

WITCH 7
A murderer, yonder, was hung in chaines;
The sun and the wind had shrunk his veins.
A strip of flesh I’ll offer him up, a rag
from the convict to replace his robes.

WITCH 8
The screech-owl’s eggs and the feathers black,
The blood of the frog and the bone in his back
I have been getting. We’ll make him drink
ere that we walk him to the Devil’s Train.

WITCH 9
And I have been plucking (plants among)
hemlock, henbane, adders-tongue.
If he be ever so fond of an Ale,
we shall wizen his innards, head to tail.

WITCH 10
I crept back in a house again, I killed
the black cat, and here is the brain.
Once he has tasted this, his memory
will never again be quite the same.

WITCH 11
I scratched out the eyes of the owl before;
I tore the bat’s wing: what would you have more?
His robe will leap up, so he canna’ see.
If Justice be blind, he blinded must be.


DAME
All, gather all, and bringe him hence.
With him bent o’er, we’ll funnel him
all full of poppy and cypress juice.
All, add the ingredients, all.
There is a mile of intestines to fill.

And while we are here, let every orifice
serve as our Devil’s Treize-Angle.
Into each ear a hornet’s nest I’ll stuff.
Here, sister, is dung well dried
that will cling to his nose-hairs petrified.

That termite nest, well-greas’d by Toads
will just about fill his booming maw.
What judgments he’ll pass! What Odes
he will sing to his clerks and aides!
Not a word he says will be understood.

And as for that Implement he lov’d,
the Mighty Handful, Marriage-Plowe,
we’ll wrap it now in briars. What fun
each time he looks in lust at a maid!

And last and most, ye Coven hags,
be comforted to know he loveth Biere.
Biere that every barmaid and man
shall be compelled to pisse-anoint,
Biere that shall bloat his ulcer-belly,
Biere that shall pass like vinegar a-boil
through his thorn-wrapped passage.

CHORUS
The four-times Eff that thou hast done
shall now be done to thee.

Thus Witches Twelve, unnamèd  We,
shall run a Train on Thee.

Subjects: Witchcraft, Supreme Court, Kavanaugh, witches, hex, Ben Jonson

Getting Your Eye

GETTING YOUR EYE

by Brett Rutherford

Your eyes eluded me again today.
Do not protest they looked for me
when I was not alert: my sole
intent was to discern
the hue of those haunted entrances
to your attention. I failed
again to catch them at home.

A momentary glimpse, between
a blink and a downward glance
showed a dark orb that flitted by,
a ghost traversing your cornea,
gone before I could capture it.

The appetizer came and went.
The main course was finished off
A costly dessert arrived. You smiled.
It slowly vanished in dainty bites
displaying your every perfect tooth.
I have memorized your ear-tracery.
I could draw your nose, the part
of your raven hair. But of the orbs
that guided the eating – nada.

Next time I shall come with a hypnotist,
a color chart, a spectrograph,
to map the shade and boundary
of your irises. That done,
I shall apply my finer arts
toward collecting the rest of you,
for there is a blank in my book
of love-spells that reads:
"Enter eye color here (Mandatory)."

Magic is unforgiving.

Subjects: Love poems, eye color.

The Bubble

Falling in love with someone who later "discovers Jesus" is painful, and the ending is not a happy one. Jesus almost always wins. I found a "juvenilia" poem from my freshman years at Edinboro, still rife with rhymes (a perversion that Whitman wold cure me of), but I was able to touch it up so that I am no longer quite so embarrassed. It's the thought that counts.

THE BUBBLE

by Brett Rutherford

We rule an earth but microns thin,
you and I — we ride on separate
hemispheres in yinyang nevercatch
pursuit — my love and your fear,
spinning and tiding a fevered
planet. A Titan, Kronos, grows
within, grinds nostrils on the pane
of the mind's cool underside:

this shadow of a shadow shouts
its name is God, it slobbers
catechist, Faith-fanged.


The reason'd Sphere is hard —­
a perfect tomb for fiends,
but now our Bubble breaks apart
in demon arm-and-leg flex,
and simple Truth is lost to air.
I love in vain. You flee in terror.


Kronos is loose in the world.

The Thing, unchained, must have its lust
and wrenching out its prison bars,
slays lovers, knocks thrones to rubble,
grinds genius back to dust.
Its vacant eye usurps the stars.


I go to a place of exile.
There is no room for you
and me, and a rampaging deity.

God-love destroyed our love.
God-love destroys everything.
So, let's be only Truth
in one another's eyes
Let's summon Things As They Are,
till every Demon dies.

At the Edge of the Lake

I saw the lake, my lake, again, a few weeks ago [October 2018]. This brought me revisit up this early poem, "October 1967" from The Pumpkined Heart. We all thought the world was coming to an end soon. The Vietnam War divided the country. People were threatening "hippies" with violence. In this "nature poem," written amid the violence of San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury, about the remembered lake and the carillon music from the bell tower, I felt the isolation and anxiety. 
Edinboro State College's carillon bells (real or a recorded) could be heard from afar. I remember going to class hearing "Musetta's Waltz," and coming out of class in the dark hearing Anton Rubinstein haunting melody, "Kammenoi Ostrow." The memory of the Rubinstein music against a fall-winter horizon bleak enough to be Russian, stayed with me.
Now I have rewritten this and added some current allusions, so that it is of 2018, although 95% of the poem is my 20-year-old voice speaking with the trees.  This poem had been excluded from my Anniversarius autumn cycle, but this revision is now counted as part of that grouping. [Revised and expanded again, May 2019.]

ANNIVERSARIUS 44:
AT THE LAKE'S EDGE

by Brett Rutherford

Scorched by the blind frost, the maple leaves are dead,
and men who love not autumn herd them up,
with rake and barrel and ignominious shroud
of plastic trash bag, or they are trucked to a fenced-in
municipal recycling center, a death camp, really,
bull-dozed and stripped of identity,
chopped to mulch for next year's garden.


Bird flocks rise in arrow-shaped vectors,
riding the west winds up to escape us.
Leaves fall; they flee.


While all this leaf-holocaust
this flight-to-south abandonment
by nations of birds goes on all day,
while long night chill crisps cornstalk
and the irises droop, dying,
why are you doing nothing about it?


Abandon your sheltered room, I charge you:
gaze through tree-bared acres 
to the dark line of leaden pines,
mark how the shadows grow bold in the slanting dusk
(it is a warning!), mark how the wind
now sighs like one who cannot be consoled
by hopes about the coming election. Death
weaves through the browning, rigid cat tails.
Bored, they lean sere and childless
by the drained swamp; soon their roots
will meet a gravel barricade, soon
water drained, a concrete wall no seed
can scale, nor root circumference.


The blasted oak wears its dead leaves
as a stubborn beard, while maple and birch
stand naked and appalled. Bulldozers
wait like mastodons at glacier-edge.
(There are plans, and trees are not part of them.
You and I are not part of them, and a third 
of the insects are already gone.)


From an old brick tower the carillon bells
play Kammenoi Ostrow, a plaintive song.
I go to the shore of the lake.
I stand amid the blasted maples,
sere fathers as old as any gravestone here.
A few leaves I have rescued dance
around my feet in a defiant dust-devil.
They will return with me
to join my curiosity cabinet
of preserved loves, gelled moments.

Autumn is not and never will be
an ending. Autumn piled on itself
is a bottomless leaf-pile. Plunge in!
Stand here amid the dying bell-tone,
as wind that tasted tundra slaps
your face awake with icy needles.
Kammenoi Ostrow fades to silence.

Where does one make a stand for life?
There is nothing north of you,
and little cause to bird-flee southward.
This is the edge of the world.
This is where the first snow falls.

Subjects: Edinboro, Kammenoi Ostrow, autumn poems

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zC8ah61cMNw