https://anthonyhowelljournal.com/2017/02/27/from-inside-my-new-book-of-poems/ –
@redactedinc just posted a piece about Israel’s “Pearl Harbour”. Well, Redacted, in 2017 I published “From Inside”. One poem in this collection is called A PEARL HARBOUR DAY. Another poem talks about the PNAC – which you also mention in the same piece.
I guess I sold about three copies. LOL
I think it’s easy this way round. Click for my latest slide-show
My first eyes shut drawing, Thailand – April 2023
Click for my new slide show APHRODITE AND ARES
Since starting to draw with my eyes closed in March 2023 I have been investigating the myth of Aphrodite, Ares and Hephaestos. See Vulcan’s Net and LIW.
In the Iliad, as in the Ramayana, wars are caused by the abduction of a woman. And yet, in ‘real life’, war seems especially male. However, myth places Ares and Aphrodite in the trap of the net made by Hephaistos (Aphrodite’s crippled arms-maker husband) which Hephaistos places over the marriage bed. The myth is well told in the Odyssey – see Vulcan’s Net for Chapman’s translation of the tale.
I refer to this story in Book 1 of The RUNIAD – the epic poem I completed in 2025. The link takes you to the Heyzine book where you can read this work in progress.
Aphrodite (or Venus) is the goddess of beauty. She can be a celestial beauty – as in Botticelli’s Venus – a perfect example of the Fibonacci Series and human attractiveness. She can also be Aphrodite Pandemos, the goddess of prostitutes.
Ares (or Mars) is the god of war. He is not a master of strategy (his sister Athene is the goddess of wisdom in war). Ares is a brutal exponent of mayhem. He is a mercenary and a thug.
Hephaestos (or Vulcan) was born deformed, and his mother Hera threw him out of heaven. When he crashed into the earth he broke his leg. So he is both crippled and deformed. However he is the maker of all weaponry and the other gods are indebted to him for their beautiful winged sandals, javelins, helmets of invisibility and so on. He trapped Aphrodite’s mother into giving him her exquisite daughter as his wife. But Aphrodite was always a whore from the hips down. She has intercourse with Ares because he showers her with gifts. When caught with Ares in the net, release comes only when the bridal price has been paid back to Hephaistos – which leaves a giggling Aphrodite free to go off and open a brothel on Cyprus.
War, beauty, the arms industry. All so intimately entangled.
A prisoner may be offered a choice: become a mercenary and risk death but be released from jail.
A woman may make a choice: become a prostitute and renounce love for anything but financial remuneration.
The mercenary on rotation seeks a woman in the brothels of the capital.
With my eyes closed, I wanted to draw subjects that cannot be seen clearly – as in the “fog of war”, as when sexual passion “clouds judgement”.
I’ve no sense of proportion, and sometimes the sheet is turned through 90 degrees or 180 degrees. I am limited in my perception. I am a blind observer.
The investigation continues…
There is also Norman Walter’s book THE SEXUAL CYCLE OF HUMAN WARFARE published during World War 2. I can’t recommend this book too highly. It should definitely be republished.
And here is a contemporary Aphrodite.
Brilliant interview with Vanessa Beeley, the only journalist to be trusted on Syria.
I used to visit the souks of Syria buying kelims, and I fell in love with the country, as I fell in love with Serbia – back when it was part of the wonderful Yugoslavia – which the West destroyed. Just as, being a ballet dancer originally, I admired and always will admire Russians, and found such a welcome in Saint Petersburg.
x
Then with the rich harpe came Pontonous,
And in the midst tooke place Demodocus.
About him then stood foorth the choise yong men
That on man’s first youth made fresh entrie then,
Had Art to make their naturall motion sweete
And shooke a most divine dance from their feete
That twinckld Star-like, mov’d as swift and fine,
And beate the aire so thinne they made it shine.
Ulysses wonderd at it, but amazd
He stood in minde to heare the dance so phras’d.
For, as they danc’t, Demodocus did sing
The bright-crownd Venus’ love with Battaile’s king,
As first they closely mixt in t’house of fire.
What worlds of gifts wonne her to his desire,
Who then the night-and-day-bed did defile
Of good king Vulcan. But in little while
The Sunne their mixture saw, and came, and told.
x
The bitter newes did by his eares take hold
Of Vulcan’s heart. Then to his Forge he went,..
And in his shrewd mind deepe stuffe did invent.
His mightie Anvile in the stocke he put,
And forg’d a net that none could loose or cut,
That when it had them it might hold them fast.
Which having finisht, he made utmost haste
Up to the deare roome where his wife he wowd,
And (madly wrath with Mars) he all bestrowd
The bed and bed-posts, all the beame above
That crost the chamber, and a circle strove
Of his device to wrap in all the roome.
x
And twas as pure as of a Spider’s loome
The woofe before tis woven. No man nor God
Could set his eie on it, a sleight so odde
His Art shewd in it. All his craft bespent
About the bed, he faind as if he went
To well-built Lemnos, his most loved towne
Of all townes earthly. Nor left this unknowne
To golden-bridle-using Mars, who kept
No blinde watch over him, but, seeing stept
His rivall so aside, he hasted home
With faire-wreath’d Venus’ love stung, who was come
New from the Court of her most mightie Sire.
Mars enterd, wrung her hand, and the retire
Her husband made to Lemnos told, and said:
‘Now, Love, is Vulcan gone; let us to bed;
Hee’s for the barbarous Sintians.’ Well appaid
Was Venus with it, and afresh assaid
Their old encounter. Downe they went, and straight
About them clingd the artificiall sleight
Of most wise Vulcan, and were so ensnar’d
That neither they could stirre their course prepar’d
In any lim about them, nor arise.
x
And then they knew they could no more disguise
Their close conveiance, but lay, forc’t, stone still.
Backe rusht the both-foote-crook’t, but straight in skill
From his neare skout-hole turnd, nor ever went
To any Lemnos; but the sure event
Left Phoebus to discover, who told all.
Then home hopt Vulcan, full of griefe and gall.
Stood in the Portall, and cried out so hie
That all the Gods heard: ‘Father of the skie,
And every other deathlesse God,’ said he,
‘Come all, and a ridiculous object see,
And yet not sufferable neither. Come
And witnesse, how, when still I step from home
(Lame that I am) Jove’s daughter doth professe
To do me all the shamefull offices,
Indignities, despites, that can be thought;
And loves this all-things-making-come-to-nought
Since he is faire forsooth, foote-sound, and I
Tooke in my braine a little, leg’d awrie—
And no fault mine, but all my parents’ fault
Who should not get, if mocke me with my halt.
x
But see how fast they sleepe while I, in mone,
Am onely made an idle looker on.
One bed their turne serves, and it must be mine.
I thinke yet I have made their selfe-loves shine.
They shall no more wrong me and none perceive:
Nor will they sleepe together, I beleeve,
With too hote haste againe. Thus both shall lie
In craft and force, till the extremitie
Of all the dowre I gave her Sire (to gaine
A dogged set-fac’t Girle, that will not staine
Her face with blushing though she shame her head)
He paies me backe. She’s faire, but was no maide.’
While this long speech was making, all were come
To Vulcan’s wholie-brazen-founded home—
Earth-shaking Neptune, usefull Mercurie,
And far-shot Phoebus. No She-Deitie,
For shame, would show there. All the give-good Gods
Stood in the Portall, and past periods
Gave length to laughters; all rejoyc’t to see
That, which they said that no impietie
Finds good successe at th’end. ‘And now,’ said one,
‘The slow outgoes the swift. Lame Vulcan, knowne
To be the slowest of the Gods, outgoes
Mars the most swift. And this is that which growes
To greatest justice, that Adulterie’s sport,
Obtain’d by craft, by craft of other sort
(And lame craft too) is plagu’d—which grieves the more
That sound lims turning lame the lame restore.’
x
This speech amongst themselves they entertaind,
When Phoebus thus askt Hermes: ‘Thus enchaind
Would’st thou be, Hermes, to be thus disclosde,
Though with thee golden Venus were repos’de?’
He soone gave that an answer: ‘O,’ said he,
‘Thou king of Archers, would twere thus with me,
Though thrice so much shame—nay, though infinite
Were powrd about me, and that every light
In great heaven shining witnest all my harmes—
So golden Venus slumberd in mine Armes.’
The Gods againe laught; even the watry state
Wrung out a laughter, but propitiate
Was still for Mars, and praid the God of fire
He would dissolve him, offering the desire
He made to Jove to pay himselfe, and said
All due debts should be by the Gods repaid.
‘Pay me no words,’ said he, ‘where deeds lend paine;
Wretched the words are given for wretched men.
How shall I binde you in th’Immortals’ sight
If Mars be once loos’d, nor will pay his right?’
‘Vulcan,’ said he, ‘if Mars should flie, nor see
Thy right repaid, it should be paid by me.’
‘Your word, so given, I must accept,’ said he—
Which said, he loosd them. Mars then rusht from skie
And stoop’t cold Thrace. The laughing Deity
For Cyprus was, and tooke her Paphian state
Where she a Grove ne’re cut hath consecrate,
All with Arabian odors fum’d, and hath
An Altar there at which the Graces bathe
And with immortall Balms besmooth her skin,
Fit for the blisse Immortals solace in,
Deckt her in to-be-studied attire
And apt to set beholders’ hearts on fire.
This sung the sacred Muse, whose notes and words
The dancers’ feete kept, as his hands his cords.
Ulysses much was pleased, and all the crew.
x
x
From Book VIII of The Odyssey by Homer – translated by George Chapman in 1614-15
x
Drawings done with the eyes shut by Anthony Howell
Just click on this link to my Three Novellas
The link opens my flipbook which can be read for free. And do please share that link with friends who enjoy reading.When the link opens on the cover of the book you see a little arrow at the bottom corner right. Click on it and the pages turn. I suggest turning off the sound and enlarging to full screen.
Over 800 readers already! And these novellas are picking up 100 readers a week. I am so pleased. Thanks to all of you. And do please share the link with your friends. My aim is to gain a wider readership. Reviews welcome. And I suggest turning off the sound when reading the text.
In Beautonia, the tale of Briar Rose – or Sleeping Beauty – is lifted out of the context of Grimms Fairy Tales and given a twentieth century setting and a Balkan location. The emergent tale thus becomes enigmatic. Is it perhaps a parable concerning some contemporary predicament?
Bellamy’s Stroller conveys us into an animated panorama based on Hogarth’s illustrations of eighteenth century England, where the life of the theatre and the theatre of life are forever getting confused. Events swing from triumph onstage to tragedy in reality and the story culminates in a scene derived from Defoe’s History of the Pirates.
In The Surrogate, the Amphitrion of Plautus – a comedy – is turned upside down and retold as an intense psychological drama from the point-of-view of the abused wife of the hero. As she advises her future daughter-in-law against marrying her firstborn son, we are drawn into the terrifying events which preceded his birth.
Many of my printed publications can be found at Tangoshiva on ebay.
I am also preparing a flipbook of my novel Major Stede Bonnet – Gentleman Pirate.
A silent slideshow, drawn with the eyes closed. Part of the LIW Project: a revisiting of a myth:
Venus, Vulcan her husband and Mars, her lover.
Vulcan trapped them in flagrente – in a golden net.
The tavern had a large parlour located at the back of the building, while the tavern itself was located about five miles away from the border.
This parlour was where the life class Pavel was teaching took place. At the time of the conflict, about fifty people were engaged in drawing there. The model was a lovely young woman who was the wife of one of those who were participating. The parlour was not very large, and although there was a waiting list for it, there was simply not enough room to take any more than fifty in the class at any one time. Apart from the model, all those taking the class were men.
The tavern was the last before the border, and the only one between the border and the cities to east of it. Those cities were a considerable distance away, and the border was only to be reached via a gorge. The tavern was located at the end of this gorge, or at its threshold – were you to be travelling from the border towards those cities. However, nobody was travelling in that direction. Everyone was heading for the border.
In this sector, the major responsible for the efficiency of the recruitment squads had learnt that Pavel was an artist from the sergeant of the squad which had dragged him out of his studio; a studio located deep in the woods.
Pavel had hoped that his studio would never be discovered.
When the major learnt that Pavel was an artist, he was removed from the armoured troop transporter just before this vehicle, packed with fresh recruits, left for the front to the east of the cities.
‘Although some might consider me a cold-blooded authoritarian, I do appreciate art,’ the major told Pavel. ‘And I will take it upon myself to delay the recruitment of any man who displays a talent in this regard. But how are we to discover which men are talented and which are not?”
It was thus that the life class had come about.
Everyone knew that this class was a risky business. Heat-detecting sensors in the drones used efficiently by the enemy might well pick up on the warmth generated by fifty men in the back parlour of a tavern, however remote that tavern might be. However, the chance of a direct hit on the tavern was less than the chance of extermination in the grey zone into which the recruits were to be herded at gunpoint, so the option to join the class was popular among those apprehended in the woods, or at the exit to the gorge.
Once a day the major inspected the class and its results. If a drawing struck him as displaying talent, the major appropriated the drawing and the man responsible for it was allowed to continue participating. Only one talentless individual was suffered to remain in the class. This was the husband of the lovely woman who displayed herself naked to the sketching men.
Though lucky in his wife, the man had not an iota of artistic talent. He drew her either as a medley of sticks or as a more or less rotund shape with some sticks attached.
His ineptitude did not go undetected. And so the major had ordered that the man be ejected from the class and sent to the transporter with immediate effect.
At this, his wife had relinquished her pose and begun to put on her clothes.
The woman was indeed lovely. The wives of the other men fleeing from the cities were thick ankled, overweight and plain.
While priding himself on his appreciation of art, the major had a somewhat naïve grasp of aesthetics. Much to the chagrin of other talentless individuals, her husband’s lack of ability continued to be tolerated, both by the major and Pavel.
You could say, such is life.
Imruil – A naturalized version of his ode-book – one of the seven ‘suspended odes’ of pre-Islamic Arabia – came out in 1970 from Barrie & Jenkins, whose editor at the time was Christopher Maclehose.
A SELECTION OF LYRICS FROM IMRUIL Where She Dismounted Droppings like pepper-tree pods, these courtyards Haunted by the white gazelle. Place between here and there and there and here. Nothing takes root now, nothing. Only the sand may nibble these flagstones. Vanity builds such effective monuments. Look, as much as north wind covers South wind reveals. There is never enough sand. One Who Slices Bitter Gourds Friends who depart have their caravan routes To keep them occupied. Platitudes are all one may expect. Patience is a virtue. Soothe the heart with tears. Listen, I have wept patiently. Where may I sleep among these ruins? The pale thorn throws scant shade. Even in the few hours left me. The wind brings tears to the eyes. Remote Caravanserai Mother of Cloud, the maidenly rains Drift westwards; to the east An emaciated crone hoes the topsoil. This is grief, the legendary, tears Of desire for what is, after all, Hardly lamentable: the wail That greys a man’s fine beard, Drenches his girdle, rusts his sword. Feasting the Girls Idiocy! My camel sank to its knees, Stabbed in a frenzy induced by the giggles. My saddle was made their trophy. Well May you blush, sir, just as I would, Were I younger, teased with the meat, Garlanded with tassels of fat. Delicious! Pleiades Plump eggs are nested in those litters Few design to raid - as if they were Stone cold or not for the asking To be had whenever the hen and her brood Go peckety over the vast dark yard. Unaizaki threads the brilliants, Taking care to match them all in order, So they form a necklet. “Wear it And feel feathery.” Behind the screen She shivers in her nightie. “Who?” Ridge above Ridge “Paws to yourself, please. What’s so clever In going on your belly beneath the goatskins, Nosing for goods the ostrich buried? I’ll carry the lamp: when we’re dazzled You make the blunders, but who takes the risk? The vixen. She has to drag her brush To cover the traces. Don’t play the fool If you want me to do the same with the fringes Of my cloak. What is out here But dunes, and dunes more firm by far Than any mounds a girl like me can offer? And you still haven’t told me what we’re after.”
This led to a life-long interest in Arabic poetry and ultimately to my versions of the Iraqi poet Fawzi Karim – published by Carcanet.
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