Poetry Book For Sale


Eight-Pointed Verse

A collection of poems dealing with the national, and personal, psyche of the Maltese Islands. It is a book which seeks to create mythologies out of everyday, mundane, Maltese habits, lifestyles and traditions. It is the first book of poetry to aim towards a National mythology, so lacking on these islands.

Despite its focus on Malta, the book is very relatable, by readers of any nationality. Its poetry is inspired by movements such as Surrealism, The Generation of '27 in Spain, by Romance poetry etc. It is a universal, cosmopolitan poetry, taking unique models to deal with pastoral, rural, and traditional aspects.

The book is divided into several chapters, eight in total, covering a range of themes such as: Romances in Malta, the North of Malta, the South of Malta, language, religion etc. The title is an ode to the Knights of St. John, who spent over 200 years in Malta, and, like the poems, were a European, cosmopolitan order that were based in Malta, and like the poem's aims, enriched Malta.

The book is 59 pages of binded paper. (Publishing in Malta is extremely expensive, and publishing poetry is even harder, so this is the author's attempt to succeed in poetry despite the difficulties.)

Three sample poems:


An Interview For No-One

"I have learned what no one
Has wanted to learn."
Whispered the herdsman
Who knows no cities.
"As pre-history is a climax
For some cultures,
So it is for me.
I have made cattle into
Sustenance, and sustenance
Into struggle. The struggle,
Not against my humanity
But against that which threatens
My humanity, has led to
An elaborate simplicity.
I even love, without knowing
That I am loving:
A perfect brushtroke."

"There is nowhere more serene
Than the Buskett."

"There is nowhere nearer the dead
Than the cliffs of Dingli."

No scholar ever gave
Philosophy to the herdsman.
The herdsman gave his
Philosophy to everyone.
What excites him most
About learning from life
Is the thrill of passing it on.
His daughter once married
A man from the North,
And at the wedding
You could see him
Dispersing his advice
To his new, extended family.

"Life begins in autumn
And ends in spring.
In between are merely
Bus rides."

"I am in my own right
A respected playwright.
My children always act out
With vigour my scripts;
They reap and sow,
Milk cows and kill rabbits,
With the admiration
Of gentle steeds."
What does he think then,
Of the Manoel's decline?
"Valletta doesn't exist to me
It is only a name
I have to remember,
And forget as soon
As I get off the bus."
Then, as if confessing to a priest
He admits to me:
"All I say, I say with sincerity."
Finally he heeds:
"All that is in inverted commas
Should be read as if in brackets."

(From the Chapter Romances Of The South)


Requiem At Spinola

"Where are the fishermen
With the boats of Osiris
That lived off this sea?"

The man asks as he puts his arm around her.

"They have never been here:
We have never seen them,
This is the foreigner's sea now."

Replies she, settling into his embrace.

"Wouldn't it be amazing
To see them, in a horizon
Still in its infancy?"

The wooden bench is warmed by the sullen vocals.

"Would you live here
If this island
Was a hundred years younger?"

The sea reaches the foot of the stars.

"I have known this island
For a thousand years
There's nothing left to see."

She kisses him, tears trickling down their lips.

(From the chapter Roses In The Square)


Opals Of Palm

The palm trees renounce the West
And I join them every time I look;
They said: "Where are we to go?"
I'm going to the desert of my eyes.
- "We have no eyes, nor friends" -
So I'll go travel on my own,
Exiled from myself, doomed to roam
The labyrinths of what I've been.
Like the violet flower I have sprung
From the cliffs, the winds have always
Pushed my head down and all I saw
Were the silent waves crashing against the rocks.
Bruised onions washed up on the shore,
I still taste their bitterness of salt:
I'll turn it into alljoli of cherubs.
The West wants flowers for its hair
- I want them for my verse.
The quiet wind makes me feel silent,
Like I'm sleeping in a dream,
And there's nothing like it to remind me:
I'm a man. Without metaphors, without prayers,
Like the Medina seen through the heart.
The roots of the palm trees crawl up
To my feet: don't tell me what you want,
Here is my left eye, ripped from
The weeds of the western fields.
I'll cover it with the princess' lace
And let dreams build altars in the alcove
Where I cannot see them.

(From the chapter Gospels Of Dialogue)



The book is priced at 5euros.

For more information contact Justin Fenech at justin3@di-ve.com

Or on 99219968