Seconds Out

In the red corner,

pensive.

Staring across a ring

a thousand

miles

wide.

Her adversary

only grins.

 

In the black corner,

weighing in

at the totality of life,

the grim reaper

flexes his bones.

A dry, ancient crackle

shivers her spine.

 

She wears

sorrow,

a dark veil,

a tartan skirt.

 

The reaper wears sequined shorts,

brazenly.

Emblazoned with his name.

Hanging

like

rags

from bony hips,

he shadow boxes;

queensbury rules.

 

The seconds are out.

She stands,

Bumps leather gloves

Together.

Wonders idly,

why the reaper

gets to use a scythe?

Review of Chronicle of a Death Foretold

This novella by Gabriel Garcia Márquez, one of the most influential writers of the twentieth century, who won the Nobel prize in Literature in 1982, paints a picture of life and death on the coast of Colombia in the mid-twentieth century. In doing so, he gives us a glimpse at the culture and attitudes of his home country at the time. If you can get past the impassive way it is told, then there is much to be discovered between the pages of this book.

First published in 1981, Chronicle of a Death Foretold tells the tale of the murder of a wealthy Colombian man by the vexed brothers of a woman he has allegedly deflowered. This man, Santiago Nasar, goes about his day unaware of the danger that the deflowered bride, Angela Vicario, has placed him in. Through interviews and conversations with the residents of the village, we are guided through the final hours of Nasar’s life and shown the multitude of ways the murder could have been prevented.

Nasar is somewhat of a lothario; Good at running his ranch, interested in firearms, drinking and has more than an eye for the ladies. Because of that, it is easy to see why no questions were asked when he is accused of deflowering Angela Vicario. The way information is relayed to the reader about Nasar is unreliable and contradictory. For instance, Victoria Guzman, the cook says, “He was just like his father … A shit.” The narrator’s sister, on the other hand, speaks favourably about him: “I suddenly realised that there couldn’t have been a better catch than him” and “Just imagine: handsome, a man of his word, and with a fortune of his own at the age of twenty-one.” This makes it hard to get a definitive idea of the character and feels like a barrier to having empathy for him. Nevertheless, by the end of the book I did feel sorry for Nasar due to the brutal nature of his murder and the number of times the death could have been prevented.

Angela Vicario, by comparison, is initially presented as quiet and beautiful, a little socially awkward and a little immature. It is her fear of her mother and brothers’ rage that causes her to utter Nasar’s name and by doing so, set the tragic events in motion. As potential antagonists go, Angela is subtle and not entirely irredeemable but because it is never revealed whether her accusation is true or not, she serves well in her role.

Thematically, the piece explores the nature of honour, as it existed in that society in the mid-twentieth century. It does so by showing how the villagers could have prevented the murder and stopped the brothers, but chose not to, preferring to believe that the brothers were justified in seeking retribution. While the novella has a historical setting, honour killings are still very prevalent in modern society, whether in Colombia, the United Kingdom, India, or anywhere else in the world and so the theme of the novella is still as important today as it was both when it was set and when it was written.

Márquez’s use of repetition, constantly bringing the awareness of the reader back to the murder with lines such as, ‘On the day they were going to kill him’ and ‘until he was carved up like a pig an hour later’ helps to heighten the shock and brutality of Nasar’s murder. His presentation of everything as cold, hard facts serves the narrative well and keeps the plot rolling along, despite its nonlinear nature. Personally, the shock of the murder was removed for me by a detailed autopsy scene halfway through which seemed out of place and took away a lot of the impact from the later scene.

Chronicle of a Death Foretold is powerful, darkly humorous and descriptive, though the dispassionate nature of the narrative sometimes jarred with the colourful and poetic descriptions of the village and its people. It also seems as if the villagers react in an unrealistic way when confronted with evidence that the murder will take place, such as when the butchers in the meat market are told by Pablo Vicario, “We’re going to kill Santiago Nasar” and even though they can see the brothers are sharpening knives, nobody seems even slightly concerned.

Yet, today in the media, we see inaction by witnesses and bystanders, content to record and capture on their smartphones, rather than step in and stop a tragedy from occurring, as seen in 2009 when a fifteen year old girl was assaulted and raped outside of a homecoming dance in front of more than fifteen witnesses. With this in mind, the themes and questions explored in this novella seem more relevant today than they did in 1981. Put down your smartphone, read this book and ask yourself, what would you do?

Feelings

I feel like I want to write shit poetry
That no-one wants to read.
I feel that the alcohol in my system,
Is the wisdom that I need.

I feel like I could fuck
For a thousand years.
When the reality
Is probably just one thrust.

I feel like love is a fairytale
Told when I was young.
That happy ever after
Is a lie; a song unsung.

I know that obvious rhymes
Are all I have to give.
That at times my feelings
Are just too strong to live.

I feel like when I’m gone,
The world will move on.
Barely remember my light
And how dimly it shone.

The Watchmen.

Living in the worst of times,
We’re piling up the dead.
We see it on the TV screens,
in black and white and read.

Facing our extinction
With an apathetic gaze,
Revelling in the chaos
As we face our end of days.

Now the future is the past
And it never stood a chance.
Distorted and aborted,
Without a second glance.

Those who would be kings
Are nailed to their thrones.
Committed to the violence;
Spied upon with drones.

Corporations profit,
From the madness of the show.
Lining oily pockets
With the suffering below.

And politicians sleaze
Through the alleys late at night.
power in their fingers
Gripped around a throat too tight.

And we watch it all unfold
Like a story never told.
And we let it all explode,
wrap up warm against the cold.

And we watch it all unfold,
blame the young or the old.
And we feel it all implode,
A black hole in our soul.

And we watch it all unfold,
We watch it all unfold.
We watch.
But we refuse to break the mould.

6/6

You know,
It’s funny
That on this day
When others remember
Those who lost their lives
On beaches far away,
That I just remember you.

It’s true when they say
That time dulls the pain,
But memories linger
And a certain sadness remains.
A meloncholy longing
To have known you longer
Than a childhood half lived.

Even though I have forgotten
The sound of your voice
And time erodes the features
Of your face from my mind,
When others remember
Those who lost their lives
I just remember you.

And Finally…

I saw it on the news today;
they found my body.
I was wondering where I’d left it.
Two days it had been there,
all alone and fly blown.
In its death it served new life,
a multitude of little breaths.
I rather like the irony in that.

Two days is a lifetime for some,
the end of a lifetime for me.
Ignoble in the extreme,
to have all those people
looking at my death mask,
my final gift to the world.
Roll up, roll up; come see the show.
From unknown to newsworthy.

They say that they knew
that I was having problems.
They say that nothing is that bad.
They say a lot now it’s over,
and I find that very sad.
They didn’t say anything
Two days before; didn’t want to offend.
Funny how two days can change everything.

Biting The Bullet

Sitting with the gun,
Staring at its dead black eye,
a cycloptic reaper.
The end of all things,
Just a finger stroke away.
Yet still I linger.

Do I greet the end?
Welcome the darkness gladly?
Stop the sorrow now?
Perhaps I should wait,
Pray for better tomorrow,
A much brighter day.

Can future hope be,
Enough to stay my finger?
A hollow promise.
A decision made,
Barrel against my temple,
I bite the bullet.

The girl and the lake

She reflects upon the surface
As the cold wet arms of the lake
Take her in their deadly embrace.
She feels the cold tendrils curl
Around her calves, her thighs, her waist.

The water pales her skin,
It darkens her lips
It shadows her pale serene eyes,
ecstatic in its aqueous grip.

The darkness envelops her,
the currents caress her
as the lake takes her under;
binds her in a fatal matrimony.

A cold, pale and bloated wife,
torn from her former life.
The lake is a jealous lover,
needy and clasping and hungry.
It pulls and it tugs; an insistent caress.

The flow of the undertow
balloons her white dress
as the life finally flows from her eyes
and bubbles rise from her throat
carrying the last of her sighs.
The lake is a jealous lover.

Afflicted

Life is an affliction
from which we never recover.
Enter the world screaming
And never stop.

Life seems fit to torment;
a torrent of dark abuses
gilded with a veneer
of calm civility

Smiling assassins;
sheep forced into wolves clothing.
We lash out at each other
to ease our own suffering.

Our oppressive pirouette
is deaths only distraction.
In the end, it equals us all.
from plus to minus:
an inevitable subtraction.