Today’s Throwback Friday poem, ‘This Lost Shadow’, was my first-ever published poem, in the anthology ‘Melpomene’, edited by Gwendolyn Taunton. Melpomene is a collection of poetry, prose and short fiction named after the Greek Muse of Tragedy. The central theme of the anthology is the beauty found in sorrow and the darker sides of human nature. Melpomene is broken into four sections: Liber Veneficium (Book of Magic), Liber Maeroris (Book of Sorrow), Liber Fatum (Book of Fate), and Liber Mortuorum (Book of Death). Each section contains both new and classic literature dealing with these themes. Authors in this volume include Charles Baudelaire, Paul Verlaine, William Blake, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, Gwendolyn Taunton, Azsacra Zarathustra, Math Jones, Bernardo Sena, J. Karl Bogartte, C. B. Liddell, James WF Roberts, Christopher Pankhurst, H. A. Cledones, Tamas Nagyatadi Horvath, L. Alexander Carle, Bill Noble, Marg Howlet, Ivor Steven and Gene Banyard. Containing works both old and new, Melpomene offers a prime selection of works on the melancholic side of existence, the transformational beauty of the esoteric, occult secrets hidden in verse, sorrow, doom and the inevitable grasp of death. Melpomene will haunt the reader with a dark and unearthly beauty that is both forbidden and forlorn… >> https://www.amazon.com.au/s?k=Melpomene+by+Gwendolyn+Taunton&crid=3KH5IGU638GFK&sprefix=melpomene+by+gwendolyn+taunton%2Caps%2C903&ref=nb_sb_noss



This Lost Shadow
I’m writing this song for my body and for my soul.
I’m singing this song, about my return from the cold.
Why am I so tired? Is sixty so old?
Why am I so sore? Have I been far too bold?
I’m physically worn out and mentally torn.
I’m so worried about my every waking dawn.
I’m thinking of this quiet life, for you and for me.
I’m wondering if this vigilant life is too hard for me.
I’m pondering if this tragic life shall continue to be.
And feeling this bonded life, drifting out to sea.
I’m writing these words for everyone to see.
I’m writing this book about a single weeping tree.
Why am I so sleepy? Am I aging too quickly?
Why am I so sad? Who is looking after me?
I’m this furnace log, burning up with glee.
I’m this sinking boat, all about to flee.
I’m this overburdened camel, or a donkey maybe.
I’m this empty desert, a void, far as the eye can see.
I’m this broken branch, withering and dying, oh so slowly.
I’m this lost shadow, wandering this barren land furtively.
Ivor Steven (c) October 2025














