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; and gives me the chance to say a little about the genesis of each novel, or about the process of writing in general.
More Poems: Here are a few poems from collections on which I am working. All of the collections are works in progress, and I have no idea when they will be ready to release onto the Kindle platform. But, in the meantime, here are two poems from each of the collections. The first two poems are taken from Modern Haikus; the next two are taken from Songs Of Bliss and Despair; and the last two are taken from This Monkey Has A Typewriter. Enjoy.
A final note: yes, I am influenced in my collections by coming up with a name which I like. Modern Haikus, when completed, will simply be my most recent collection of haikus (and there will probably be a Modern Haikus II, and so on, as long as the muse doesn’t abandon me).
Songs Of Bliss and Despair will feature one life affirming poem followed by one depressing one. It is a themed collection. But the only problem is that I am a lot better at writing depressing verse than blissful odes, so it may not be coming out any time soon.
This Monkey Has A Typewriter will be where I put poems which do not fit in any of my other poetry collections. The title comes from the idea that an infinite amount of monkeys tapping away on an infinite amount of typewriters for an infinite amount of time must rewrite the works of Shakespeare. I like the title and had to do something by that name.
The cuckoo hatches.
He kicks out the other eggs;
And gapes his beak wide.
A stream: sunshine glints;
Its flow a sweet lullaby
Over smooth pebbles.
The meadows buzz with busy bees
Busying around the grass and trees
Seeking out the hearts of flowers
Busying on for many hours.
I sit and watch as hours pass
Sitting on the meadow grass
Nothing to do, nowhere to be
But sit and watch a busy bee.
The sky is specked with clouds of fluff
Cotton wool castles, fairy stuff;
But most is blue and very bright
As though there’ll never be a night.
There’s a river, beyond the leas
I hear it flow, it will not cease
Its music plays all lifetime long
I sit and listen to the song.
The meadows are my peaceful place
Where I escape the human race
Long may I sit beneath the trees
And calmly watch the busy bees.
A plantagenet pinned to her coat
A silken scarf around her throat
She walks up on the high moors
Where there are no walls or doors
No slate grey roofs or windows
No company but the flows
Of jagged breezes through her hair
Where she can dream of anywhere
And all those secrets of her heart
With which she will never part
But nurture just like some child
As she wanders through the wild
Pushing through the blushing heather
Not caring once about the weather
Except to wish that it was colder
And that she wasn’t getting older
But times must pass and walks must end
The ticking clocks she can’t suspend
So she unpins that pretty flower
And throws it away with all her power
The wind throws it back, right at her feet
Even in this she must admit defeat
For base time will conquer all
And everything will one day fall.
Waiting For Shelley
I’m waiting for Shelley
Sitting by myself in a quiet corner of the pub
I know he’ll come and speak to me
Of truth in beauty, and beauty in truth.
I have his drink ready, beside my pint.
I want him to explain
How we are the legislators of the world
Of Logos becoming Lex.
That is what I want to be
To bring some hope to my misery.
I’m waiting for Shelley
Ignoring the background drone of voices
I am not interested in the tales
Of failed executives, policemen and plumbers,
And of the football matches they have seen
And of their holidays in Norway
And the takeaways they’re going to buy
On their way home.
I’m waiting for Shelley
To instil life in a failing soul;
His words eternal ring through the deep
I weep for adonais – he is dead
O weep for Adonais though our years
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
Or maybe I’ll get out my mobile phone
And see if Godot would like a drink, instead.
The Water Of Light
The water of light flows into the valleys,
Searching out each dark hollow,
Each cup filled full, each crater steeped
In this golden wine, this nectar.
Drink deep of the light, let it flow
Into the shadowed recesses of your soul,
Bringing warmth to the cold and
Youth to the old; bringing hope to
The doomed as it flows, as it flows.
The water of light flows over the hills;
Over the glabrous grey granite where
No moss clings; over the harsh peaks
And the goated screes; down to where
Thin grass cuts its way up
To sip at the light; to quench
Its thirst for life; and the light
Flows on, as bright as a crystal dawn,
And we smile for it shines, for it shines.
The water of light flows over the roofs
Of grey slate quarried from the dark hills;
It flows past windows of weeping glass;
Past where the last milkman is on his rounds,
Past the closed post office, the red post box,
Down the hedged lane where an old woman
Clad in shadows struggles to tea and comfort;
And the light shines her to old memories
Of her youth, for it loves, for it loves