
Very pleased that this has now been published in The High Window magazine!
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Added note:
The completed RUNIAD can now be read by clicking here
This final version contains my own illustrations

Very pleased that this has now been published in The High Window magazine!
x
Added note:
The completed RUNIAD can now be read by clicking here
This final version contains my own illustrations

And now I am drifting, drifting away from the relevance
Of impending affairs, even though there are whole towns
Burning down elsewhere, but here… here old men gather to chat
And play chequers, seated on plastic chairs behind pineapples and pears
Sold by one grizzled hippie, while people are swapping partners
As they dance amateur samba gaffiera in front of the palace
This evening – which feels more like noon to me, jet-lagged as I am.
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Everything is plural here in Catete: the blind, the bums,
The breasts, the bags, the bikes, the backs of knees, biceps, back-packs…
Rio is ideal for the flaneur. Imagine holing her!
Some of us go messy, others horny, but it’s too damn hot!
Over-dressy, corny lamé tee-shirts are the thing to wear
When painting toenails in the Sahara. Here the human torrent
Passes by in plait-extensions. Air-conditioned stores
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Lure you in for sneakers, pouches. Everything is multiple…
Arms in arms and polka dots, brilliant bottoms it’s a joy to watch
Until they disappear beyond the swiftly changing lights.
Macrame stalls sell skirts you would never wear in the street.
Her mascara stains her mobile. Tats, palms, beeps,
Charms to keep you nubile after thirty. The witches shake
A kind of rattle, fascinating Dionysus – who they then assassinate.
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(from the quarry for The Runiad – a work in progress)
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See also – https://anthonyhowelljournal.com/2025/04/02/the-runiad-books-1-to-21/

To read this epic in progress, please click this Heyzine link.
I suggest expanding the image and turning off the sound. Click the bottom corner of the page to turn the pages, and the bar below the book allows you to scroll to whichever book you want to read. Contents pages at the beginning tell you the page number of each book.
I’ve now got to page 511. But there are always lots of adjustments made and polishing previous books being done as I continue my journey.

The Fortnightly Review has migrated to SUBSTACK – and here is the link to my review

Books one to twenty of my epic poem The Runiad are available to read on this Heyzine link.
From Book 20
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This blessed Paul, Paul of Thrace, had opted to live in
The most remote cave in the wilderness, so that the Word could be
Heard by any, possibly fleeing from justice, more probably
Fleeing from injustice; yes, even if their flight took them to the
Furthest, most desolate reach of all. Paul had already lived
On earth for a hundred and thirteen years. Antony,
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At the age of ninety, occupied another place esteemed remote
(As he himself was wont to declare). Having successfully coped
With his demons, Antony was feeling good. He lived a life
Of solitude that earned him respect. When the thought occurred
That there lived no holier man in the waste; no one more hermetic
Than he, he slept the whole blessed night. No demons.
However, in the stillness of a later night it was revealed
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That there was, further into the wilderness, a hermit more
Hermetic than he: a certain hermit Paul, who hailed from Thrace.
And since Paul served the Lord in the most desolate of places,
Antony ought to pay him a visit. So then at break of day
The venerable Saint, supported by a staff, started out:
But what direction to choose he knew not. The point was simply
To start. Scorching noontide came, with a broiling sun overhead,
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But still he did not allow himself to be turned from the journey
He had begun. Said he, I believe in my God: some time or other
He will show me the fellow-servant He’s promised me.
He said no more. All at once he beholds a creature of mingled shape,
Half horse half man, called by the poets Hippocentaur.
At the sight of this he arms himself by making on his forehead
The Sign of the Cross, and then exclaims, Holloa! Where in these parts
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Is the cave of a servant of God? The monster after gnashing out
Some kind of outlandish utterance in words broken rather
Than spoken through his bristling lips, at length finds a clearer
Mode of communication, and extending his right hand
Points out the way desired. Then he rears, next he careers
Through the trees and vanishes from the sight of the astonished
Saint. But whether the devil took this shape to terrify him,
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Or whether it be that the wilderness which is known to abound
In monstrous shapes engenders also that hybrid strain,
We cannot decide. Anyway, Antony was astounded.
Mulling over what he had seen, he continued on his way.
Before long, in a small rocky valley shut in on all sides,
He meets a mannikin with hooked snout, horned forehead,
Cloven hooves like a goat’s. When he saw this, Antony
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Militarily seized the shield of faith and the helmet
Of hope: the creature none the less began to offer the fruit
Of the palm-trees to support him and, as it were, offer
Pledges of peace. Antony perceiving this asked who he was.
The answer he received was this: I am a mortal being
And one of those inhabitants of the desert whom the Gentiles,
Deluded by varieties of error, worship under the names
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Of Fauns, Satyrs, and Incubi. I am sent to represent my tribe.
We pray you on our behalf to entreat for us the favour of your Lord
And ours, who, we have learned, came once to save the world,
And ‘whose sound has gone forth into all reaches of the earth.’
As he heard such words from the creature, the aged traveller’s cheeks
Streamed with tears, the sign of his deep rapture;
Tears he shed in the fullness of his joy. He rejoiced over
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The Glory of Christ and the destruction of Satan.
Marvelling all the while that he could understand
The Satyr’s language, and striking the ground with his staff,
He said, Woe to you, Alexandria, prostrate before
Unholy beings! Woe to you, harlot city, into which
Have flowed together all the demons of the world!
What will you say now? Beasts speak of Christ, and you instead
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Of God worship monsters! He had not finished speaking when,
As if on wings, the Satyr fled away. Let no one scruple
To believe this incident; its truth is supported by
What took place when Constantine was on the throne,
A matter to which the whole world was a witness.
For one half-man of that kind was brought alive to Alexandria
And shown as a wonderful sight to the crowd. Afterwards
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His lifeless corpse, to prevent its decay through the summer heat,
Was preserved in salt and brought to Antioch that
The Emperor might see it. Just as freaks were brought to Peter
For his Kunst Kamera in Saint Petersburg. I love to trace
The trajectories of these souls, on earth, back in those early days:
The trajectory of Christopher, of the Centaur whom he meets,
Of Antony, in the vicinity of the cave of Paul of Thrace.

The interlock between the mob, crooked Jewish oligarchs, crooked Christian oligarchs, crooked US, British and European politicians, crooked Gulf dictators, crooked real estate moguls, crooked media magnates, crooked defense industrialists, and the security services – it’s just hamstrung by its own web – it can only resort to lies because attaining power by venality is all it knows.
Whereas those who stand against the rise of Banderite Nazis in Europe do rely on the protocol of international law and on telling the truth, the West simply cannot negotiate in like manner. Our whole system is just too corrupted. Those in power are too crooked to be able to do anything but lie. Therefore all negotiations will break down.
So this is an existential struggle – not just for Russia. It’s existential for us. Our Augean stables are mired so deeply in shit it will take the people, bonded together into one mighty Heracles, to cleanse the west – but I despair. I doubt that this is possible – without war.
We need to organise our resistance, because in the next great war the West will be the fascists, Israel will be our chief ally and totally Nazi. Yes, I know, this is deeply difficult for those of us with any vestige of integrity to get our heads around. But we must face up to this, admit it to ourselves, otherwise our culture is doomed.
Very excited to have obtained a copy of this wonderful film made by Jayne Parker in 2001.
Choreographer Anthony Howell
Starring Quincy, Marcus and Ruby
Composer and Trombonist John White
Dogs trained by Mary Ray and Karen London
Producer Sally Thomas
Thanks to the BBC
Further credits at the end of the video.
And here is my Homage to the composer John White

Thousands of farmers are expected to join a rally in Whitehall as they protest against the Labour government’s extension of inheritance tax to agricultural property.
The government intends to impose inheritance tax on farmers. Previously, farming businesses qualified for 100 per cent relief on inheritance tax on agricultural property and business property. Changes could undermine investment as farmers will be wary of increasing the balance sheet as they will be liable to pay inheritance tax on it. There are also concerns that it could affect tenant farmers if landowners no longer benefit from having a tax exemption for farmed land. While farms may have a high nominal asset value – the value of their land and business assets – the returns from farming are often very low, so farming families may not have the reserves to pay for inheritance tax liabilities without selling off assets.
If anything explains why Keir Starmer met with Bill Gates recently, this terrifying change to farming land rights is it. Farmers will be unable to hand on their farms to the sons and daughters. The traditional family-owned farm will disappear. Industrial farming on a colossal scale will thus be ushered in. All livestock will be artificially altered to increase yield and comply with ridiculous Gatesian obsessions – seriously endangering the well-being of consumers. Hedgerows, coppices and coverts, meandering streams, all the distinctive characteristics of British farmland will disappear. The rotation of the crops will abandoned, and within fifty years, Britain will be a wasteland.