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    A Book For Pandora
    A Book For Pandora
    A Book For Pandora
    Ebook98 pages28 minutes

    A Book For Pandora

    By Kathryn Rossati

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    About this ebook

    The poems in this rich and imaginative debut collection speak of people, life, loss and love. They weave threads of myth and fairytale into commentaries of society, explorations of self, nature and humanity. 


    Some surreal and sinister, others playful and light, the poems in A Book For Pandora encompass an array of flavours that will delight any reader.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNext Chapter
    Release dateFeb 4, 2022
    ISBN4867456950
    A Book For Pandora
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      Book preview

      A Book For Pandora - Kathryn Rossati

      Part One: Shadow Dance

      The Vision

      As the weightless wings brush my face,

      fluttering against my vision,

      I feel the path open up again.

      A shallow wave licks my ankles

      and fills the rock pools

      with miniature lifeforms

      that have no idea I'm here.

      Like full lips parting,

      the wave draws back.

      My feet follow,

      ignoring the jagged rocks

      that threaten to pierce the skin.

      In the distance,

      I see the family beckon to me,

      holding out their hands for me to grasp.

      But I'm bodiless,

      my grip lost

      to the horizon.

      Once again,

      I must turn away.

      Our Sweet Fortress

      We build up walls

      to hide our little cocoon

      of love,

      with bright threads

      woven into a snug blanket

      and a casing of polished ebony.

      The heat of the sun warms us

      as time passes,

      grasses grow up around us

      and wildflowers bloom year after year.

      Our hands are constantly entwined,

      and will be

      until they are hands no more.

      The Demise of a Splash of Green in an Otherwise Grey World

      The hard droplets pound

      away at the pavement;

      the dainty daisies growing in the cracks

      stand no chance

      against this sudden onslaught.

      They fall flat,

      squashed not only by the weight of the rain,

      but crunched by wheels and feet,

      all rushing past as though

      they

      are the ones

      whose petals

      are being washed

      into the dark drain.

      The River Guards

      A gathering of columns,

      decorated with bright, orange blooms

      that cascade their scent

      on the decayed air,

      stand bold against the grey river.

      To them,

      Satan is just a song

      that drifts down on the wind.

      But for those who sail,

      unwillingly,

      beyond the columns' reach,

      the song is more

      a delighted warning of what awaits –

      hellishly reminiscent

      of the jaw-jarring scraping

      of human fingernails on a blackboard,

      drawn so fiercely across

      that the nails are ripped away

      from the cuticles.

      The song instils anxiety into every

      body.

      What kind of creature

      could possibly make such

      a sound?

      Propaganda

      Red sweeps across the heavily veined

      fingers clutching tightly

      at the bulbous purple node;

      a ruby mass fails to plug the seam

      that widens with each breath.

      The stain soaks deep

      into the carpet fibres,

      already building its resistance to being cleaned.

      A perpetual reminder,

      unless covered by a rug

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