The Ill-omen of Istanbul (A Dramatic Macabre Mythos in Poetic form))
About Achilles’ Arrow))


Poeta Laureado De la Ciudad de San Jeronimo Peru


I heard of a legend when I was in Istanbul, in 1996, it was of the Arrow of Achilles, lost someplace in Asia Minor; then I took a trip into Asia Minor, and went to Troy, and several other cities, thus comes this Poetic Mythos,



Part V
End: the Parting


It was raining, raining ominous red rain
When I awoke early in the morning—
Then, looking out my window came
A gray, gray dawn—ascending
Rising with the shadows,
Helen by their sides:
Happy I was, night had lift,
Took the cold, cold horror with it
(That brought me cold, cold sweats)
Shadows, shapes, imps and alike:
Like torn curtains, shifting away
All, now, in the distorted atmosphere
As I Looked out my window—gray light…

This cold horror that was leaving slowly
This red, red ominous rain: gray shadows,
Brooding: rippling drenched bodies:
I saw them gripping Achilles’ arrow
In a most brutish iron gripping way:
This red, red ominous arrow,
That brought horror, ringside:
Where within it, resided a legion of beings?
Of demonic raving, inept beings!
This red, red ominous arrow
That cast its spell on me…


Part VI
The Afterward


I sucked in my breath, cleaned up a bit,
And went down stairs for morning breakfast—
To join the group, with floundering suspicions;
Who never knew the whole of it,
Only that lull that stinging left jabs,
Like a weeping sponge,
Never more to know
But the pounding of the heart!…



Part IV
Night Arrows


I’m not sure, but I felt I was hallucinating
Or was I dreaming in my sleep—?
Brooding over the darkness of the cliff,
On its plateau, surrounded by its woods
Within its cave, where shadows hung like bats
Hung over me, incessantly, as I ducked,
Where resided Achilles’ assaulting red arrow.
Silent, I felt my red flesh devour me
The silence became Deafening
(Bewildered, bemused, and confused)!

Ineffectual pawing, were the shapes
Hammering, as if I was the stake—
I tried to shake them off:
Eerie evil: —I told my body to awake
At the edge of my bed stood several
Of these Cliff dwellers, faceless:
Was I still in a dream state?


—Sleeping, the Bed and Morning

I took a second glance at the clock
It was 3:30AM, where did the time go
Morning was close at hand, as this
Ghostly cult did their demonstration.
Then I heard a whisper, murmur:
“Where is the red, red Arrow?”
An evil face echoed with it—.
The tone almost battering me,
Impervious to my brain
It cast it spell on me—hostage
To frozen terror, gripping me,
Cold sweat dripping off of me,
Their smell rippled, swelled over me
With wild, Rhythmatical movements
Invoking: blood staggering to my heart
A driving force willing to murder me.
“Where is the red, red Arrow?” they cried,
[huskily] in this heart-stirring game.


The Arrow, Murmur and Helen


Under the bed went my hand in search
And found the cursed arrow—at last
The arrow had a murmur: in a language
I had never heard, said, in chamber tone:
“We are the legion that Christ cast into the sows,
Taken out thereafter, now cast into this vile iron
Red, red arrow!!” so spiraled this sounding drum
Of a voice, that begged to be released,” and there
Beside my bed was the lovely and Helen naked.

As the woman lay on my desecrated bed,
Chanting to the arrow, as it inflected slashes,
Painful scratches, gashes: she bore them all:
“This was not a dream,” said the beauty queen,
Helen of Troy, dancing, wild and chanting,
As the slobbering ecstasy went on, with the
Blemished, devilish black browed snarling ghouls.


Gray Dawn


I did what I had to do; gray dawn crept near
Hence, I lifted up the arrow
Unmistakably, they stopped chanting,
The arrow had a murmur: Helen, in my bed,
Now she pulled me in, Death was immanent,
I had done what they wanted—sinned,
—I then threw the Arrow at the six,
All voices emerged with, a salivating madness.



Part III
Alien Artifact: Achilles’ Arrow



The arrow was but an artifact to Solomon,
Old Solomon the Muslim, from Cairo;
One with a bloody, deadly lineage, and legend;
But I wanted what was beyond the myth,
Beyond the connections of the Trojan War,
That had killed Achilles’, and brought Troy’s ruin:
This Alien artifact, with human ken.

As we traveled through Asia Minor, strange were
The days, nights, visions and dreams:
Coming repeatedly, hideously vivid at times,
And there we were in the drums and fire,
Arrows shooting everywhere—so the battles
Bellowed across my mind, hour after hour
As we traveled to find the ‘Cave of the Arrow.’
And in doing so, I left my tour of sorts,
Those folks I had come to know, in Istanbul.

I had left the tour for a spell, and when I had
Returned, was asked, “Did you find
What you were looking for?”
And I said, “Of course!”


The Cult/Aboriginal Ghouls


The fact roused, that we were being followed
Uneasiness came to us—tourists on the bus!
No one made a connection to me, with them,
With these undesirable black-clocked barbarians;
This race following the bus, from far behind
Following us, these aboriginal ghouls, unfazed:
The arrow was perhaps their amulet for witchcraft
And the imprisoned demonic beings, but toys!
—the captured living dead, Amulets to worship:
In this most frightening, unseen hypogeum.

Perhaps they felt I might set them free
For I had taken their Pandora’s box (you see);
But my interests were not in rituals, or alike:
Such as dancing in hotel corridors, as they….

In my sleep, I still dreamed of red ominous flesh
Burning scorched to oblivion; black magic;
Slaughtered women and babies, nightmares.

[Then:] while in Samaria, I walked swiftly
By the docks: Merchants swayed,
Eyes silently engulfed— eyes weighing me
Followed by the cult’s silver pale moo.
Their Voices, angry— decreed:
‘The Arrow’s not yours to keep.’



Part II
Haunted, and Old Solomon


The morning after my arrival, I set out
To the valley where within, resided
A towering cliff, in search I went
For this legendary red iron arrow,
A few hours up and over the rocky slopes—
In the valley beyond Troy’s reach
Here, face-to-face I stood in the cave
Douse in sweat: Solomon pointing to the arrow
Underneath the rock—protruding…
There I pulled it out, took it, paid my guide well,
As he cursed the arrow from hell,
Then left, as he had come [Solomon]—.

There in the cave: signs of savage feasts
[Sacrifices: had taken place]: animal, human bones,
Bits of stone weapons—broken Skulls…all around;
Skulls, unimpeded bones; carvings on the walls
An ancient written language, to me unknown
Written in red flesh, by human bones.




Part I
The Demonic Arrow


I was standing beneath the half ruined walls
Of the city-fortress, legend calls Troy—
Felt the temper of the forces that once fought here
The dead seemed all around, red ominous flesh
Cloaked with horrified visions, and the arrow
That damn arrow, inside my mind.

I had learned the present valley inhabitants
Half invisible, ghoul filled souls, children and all
Were the aboriginal cults, Troy’s leftovers?
A degraded indigenous race; so others told me:
But Solomon knew well, they had a pack with hell
They were the keepers of the arrow.

“I told you, it’s a demonic haunted item,” said
Solomon, of Cairo.
“What is so evil about it,” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” said old Solomon, “I will take you to
the slopes, to the cliff, to the woods, to the
cave, there you will find your mad dream.”


And so it was [and so it began]: the Journey.


Part one and two written 6/25/06, evening; part three and four 6/26/06, at EP Café; Part five and six, written 6/27/06, at home in Lima; revised 1 & 2 July 2006.