A Life Of fiction XLVIII

For those of you new to this WordPress site, this site is about me and my writing – and a little about my role-playing, as well. It gives readers a chance to sample my work before purchasing it on the Kindle store; and gives me the chance to say a little about the genesis of each novel, or about the process of writing in general.

 

Some time ago I finished yet another poetry collection, called By The World Forgot. The title is taken from a poem by Alexander Pope. I am a fan of Pope, and often dip into a collection of his works. It felt only natural that I should honour him in such a manner. By the time that you read these words this new collection should hopefully be available on the Amazon Kindle store.

By The World Forgot will probably be my last collection of poems for a while. The collection includes poems garnered together from some of my novels, where I have featured various bits of verse. So a fair number of the poems have been published before. But they have never been gathered together in a single collection before.

There are also the few poems which I have completed recently. I write verse less and less often these days, which is one of the reasons why I suspect that it will be a long time before I do another poetry collection. I have also scoured my old notebooks for poems which I have not used in other collections.

A lot of the poems which I now write are haikus. Those make up the latter part of the collection. I like haikus because they can be written quickly, when things are going well. Or you can spend months on the five syllables of the last line. I still have the odd haiku from years ago awaiting completion, where I simply cannot get the last line how I would like it.

Anyway, as a taster of the poetry in that collection, there are two sample poems below:

 

Svelte

 

Svelte like a dead chanteuse,

Heart open and falling.

The blackness must be sable;

And the spotlight is blinding,

But the smile is eternal

Gleaming out of the silver dust

As it rattles through the box

Winded and wound with consummate care

Onto the white screen in the silent darkness.

The only sound the shuffling of fools

Who refuse to be entranced.

 

Kristos

 

The stones had gone, pulled down, and broken up;

The circle had been smashed, a ring no more;

And Roman might had murdered all their priests;

But olden ways survived, in holt and heath.

And still they came, onto the ancient how,

To show old gods they’d not forgot their faith,

Though Church of Rome had long come to these shores.

Each quarter day the pagans made their way,

Across the land to make their heathen vows,

Through woods they came, through heath and plain and field;

Across the river cold, up onto the hill,

Although no thorpe nor town had been built near.

By day they claimed to be good Christian men,

But night took them in search of darker ways.

The Church would have this heathenness destroyed,

The Son of God could not compete with this,

With worship of the gods of Sun and Moon;

If people went to worship in this place,

Then let them enter churches’ walls instead;

And so a church was built upon the how,

The new on old, one God who conquers all.

 

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