The pendulum has become detached,
The mechanism moves to fast.
Hands race around the face,
Time is out of place.
My antique clock’s eratic chime,
All is not fine.
The wooden case gleams,
But something has gone awry with the machine.
Books in oak cases,
Country places.
Grandfather clocks tick,
The squire leans upon his stick.
A gun dog through the bracken scrambles,
After him the squire ambles.
—
Neon advertising signs,
Clubbers drunk on wine.
Half dressed girls sway on unsteady feet,
Trying to keep to the beat.
Fruit machines flash,
After knife wielding thugs the police dash.
—
In his study the squire sits,
from a glass of fine brandy he sips.
The dog his hand licks,
Elsewhere society falls to bits.
There was a young lady called Holly,
Who’s personality was rather more prickly than jolly.
She followed a handsome man’s shopping trolley,
Which led her into folly!
Communications from those who sit on high.
Unease on winged feet does fly.
People keep their heads down,
Union reps frown.
The man nearing retirement thinks of his garden,
The poor performer hopes for a pardon.
There is money on the table,
For those who are able,
Or willing to take the redundancy shilling.
The girl in HR gazes at the darkening sky,
And heaves a sigh,
For her own job she must apply.
“There can be no reprieve,
Savings we need”!
Management consultants say,
As they take their pay.
“What is the end of Fame ? ’tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper :
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour ;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their ‘midnight taper’,
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture and worse bust”.
(Lord Byron “Growing Old”, http://www.poetsgraves.co.uk/Classic%20Poems/Byron/growing_old.htm).
Another great review of “The Girl Who Wasn’t There And Other Poems”:
“A commentary on the darker side of daily life, Morris here crafts a collection of poetry designed for the macabre-lovers of the poetry world. Focussing mainly on the exploitation of women via prostitution, this collection deals with social issues, as well as prodding at the dark side of society in an interesting way; seemingly joyous poems are juxtaposed with those obviously crafted with morose intentions, enlightening the reader to how simple emotions – like love for your dog – lives simply along side iniquitous circumstances, like the theme of prostitution, as previously mentioned, and suicidal thoughts because of said circumstances. Not unlike his previous collection, Morris incorporates underlying hints at humour in some of his otherwise darker poems, and interjects dark themes with plainly comedic commentaries. For example, half way through exists a poetic paragraph entitled “Fly”, in which the speaker is frustrated at flies. However, as aforementioned, these poems are weaved through the darker poems, and intermingle with the themes, provoking my thoughts of an alternate meaning at the intentions of some of the funny poems. For example, “Fly” could be less about wanting to kill a fly, and more about wanting to hold some sort of power over a disliked superior’s stronghold; it is not rare we all wish we could “reach for the fly spray” when someone is damming us to dire circumstances, or simply acting as an annoyance. As always, Morris’ work is herein very interesting. Both of his works I’ve read now have left me contemplative, which I find really interesting about his writing. Also, with Morris, there are no gimicks – no fanciful and obvious objective to metaphorically cultivate the reader – just simple, honest, raw writing, interlaced with pure emotion. Unfortunately, I did not enjoy this collection as much as the previous collection I read of Morris’. Thus, I awarded this collection a hearty 4/5 stars. (Disclaimer: I received a copy of this book from K Morris in exchange for an honest review. I would like to send a big thank you and congratulations to K Morris for this collection, and its brilliance.)”
For the above review please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/review/R2KRYNC1SVRTPL/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B0155KSKOC or https://bibliomad.wordpress.com/2015/09/17/the-girl-who-wasnt-there-and-other-poems-by-k-morris-book-review/.
Many thanks to Olivia for taking the time to read and review “The Girl Who Wasn’t There And Other Poems”.
I’m on the editorial panel for the Poems for People Anthology in Solidarity with Refugees. The submission guidelines are here and the crowdfunding project to raise printing costs is here. The anthology will be printed by Five Leaves Publishing and is looking for poems and micro-fiction that sheds new light on the refugee experience, is specific rather than general and isn’t unremittingly gloomy, harrowing or preachy. The closing date is 28 September. Writers can submit up to 3 pieces as a Word attachment and pasted in to the body of an email with a writer’s biography of 50-100 words. Postal entries are also accepted.
Entries started arriving from 2 September, when the project was launched and the following observations have been made:
View original post 837 more words
“Hello?”
I halted my walk through All Saints Churchyard and turned enquiringly in the direction of the voice. The speaker, having caught my attention continued thus,
“Why are these leaning? The stones I mean”, he said.
“I don’t know” I replied, continuing on my way home.
Perhaps my response to the above question was a little terse. However I was unsure as to why a total stranger should accost me with such a peculiar question and I had no wish to stand around debating matters about which I knew little, in a churchyard as evening fell. Afterwards however I began to ponder on this strange question. My pondering did not revolve around why gravestones lean (I assume that over time they tend to tilt). Rather my thoughts centred around the people residing under said stones. When one is dead surely one has no interest in whether the stone above your head is dead straight or leaning like a man who has just consumed 10 pints of strong beer? The sleepers in that quiet earth will, I assume rest with the same repose irrespective of whether the stone above their head tilts or stands straight as a die?
The incident brought to mind the closing lines of Brontae’s Wuthering Heights,
“I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: on middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar Linton’s only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff’s still bare.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth”.
I was thrilled to receive the following 2 5 star reviews of “The Girl Who Wasn’t There And Other Poems”:
“It is with great expectation that I started to read, “The Girl Who Wasn’t There And other Poems” by K. Morris. Even more enticing was the quote on the book’s
rear cover from Oscar Wilde, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars”.
Each poem represents a picture or better even, a snapshot from an old Polaroid of life’s other side which makes Wilde quote seem apropos as he knew firsthand
the changes life could take given his troubles in his later years. But aside from that as I read these poems another voice spoke to me, that of Edgar Allan
Poe. The wit of Oscar Wilde crossed with the macabre of Poe. This is dark poetry and one might find themselves a little too familiar with the situations
our subjects find themselves in.
We are given a hearty portion of love lost turned to its sleazy side; disillusionment with love and the mask used to portray this illusion as it feast
upon our soul in waking hours. But we’re reminded that we all turn to dust no matter what our accomplishments as we ask the ‘London Rain’ to wash away
this London hell we find ourselves in.
In ‘The Hypocrite’ we see a fine upstanding man, quick to condemn, above reproach, but for the grace of God it would be he instead of them.
‘The Spider and the Fly’ displays how each is doomed, both sides of life are found at fault.
We do see some light at the end of these gray skies as in the ‘Wit of a Gentlemen Suitor to His Beloved’ and the metaphor of the wind, the breeze to bring
about the hopes of our better angels.
I read ‘Venus in Firs’ and thought this might be pointing to Wilde himself and the notoriety that beseeched him.
‘The Fox and the Bear’ brought me back to the conditions of life and how we could find ourselves at the opposing end.
‘Handbags and Shoes’ brings us to the material gain we long for and the things we do for their gain.
Death is exposed in ‘The Dying Year’ and ‘Waking Early’ and in the closing line of ‘Saturday Morning’.
In the poems ‘Dolls’, ‘Drowning in Nightmare’ and ‘Digging’, I’m reminded more than ever of the effect Edgar Allan Poe may have had on this book of poetry.
In ‘Young Lady, Older Man’ we see the passing of any real feelings for both sides, the banality of it all. In this we return to the shame and pain, an
endless path as the bed post are witness to all that has gone wrong in love.
And for me the saving grace of it all, defined in the poem ‘Dog’.
This is a fine collection of poetry sure to capture the reader and find them at the mercy of these written words”. (For the review please visit http://www.amazon.com/review/R3J0CCGHV37EQ/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B0155KSKOC).
“A lovely collection of poems about living in the gutter of life. I find the poems touching and thought provoking, some made me laugh others are more serious
and sad. My favourites were the poems: The Whispering Wind, Masks and Innocence Lost”. (For the review please visit http://www.amazon.com/review/R1Q1N4ER7HNH5O/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B0155KSKOC).
Many thanks to both reviewers for taking the time to read and review “The Girl Who Wasn’t There And Other Poems”.
Kevin
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
K Morris - Poet 