Monthly Archives: December 2015

The Robot In Your Bedroom

Several days ago The Guardian published an article (http://www.theguardian.com/technology/2015/dec/13/sex-love-and-robots-the-end-of-intimacy) regarding the rise of sexbots. There are companies specialising in the production of such things and David Levy believes that such machines can alleviate the lonleness of those who are not in relationships. The growth of sexbots has lead to the founding of an anti sexbot organisation which calls for the prohibition of such robots.
The Guardian article reminds me of my short story, “The Affair” which can be found here, (http://newauthoronline.com/2014/10/26/the-affair/).

Kevin

Literary Merit

Recently I purchased 2 books of poetry: “I Just Stepped Out” by the late Felix Dennis and “Essential Poems”, edited by Neil Astley. Both works have much to recommend them (Dennis is a wonderful poet and I am currently enjoying leafing through Astley’s anthology). I am, however irritated by the prominent endorsements by famous people carried by both works.
While I am pleased that the great and the good derived pleasure from the books in question this is, ultimately a matter of supreme indifference to me. I will make up my own mind as to the value of a given work and the endorsement (or lack thereof) by a celebrity will not influence my view of the merits(or otherwise) of the book in question. In this media obsessed age the danger is that readers will base their decisions regarding book purchases on the literary tastes of those in the public eye. To my mind the opinion of the lady working behind the counter in my local bookshop caries more weight than that of a celebrity who has been asked for his or her view. Even then I will, in the final analysis make up my own mind as regards whether to buy a particular book.
Both of the above works do (as stated above) contain much that is praiseworthy. However the mere fact that a given work is endorsed by a well known individual should not cause us to conclude that it does, in fact possess literary merit and is, on this basis worthy of our attention.
As a writer I am thrilled whenever someone likes my work, whether that person is a shop assistant in my local supermarket or a photogenic celebrity is of no concern to me. While I in no way blame writers for seeking endorsements, I do worry that it leads to a mindset whereby a segment of the reading public come to believe that just because Mr X says a book is worthy of their attention it is, in fact worthy of their attention. This is, quite patently not the case.
As always I would be interested in your views on this subject.

Kevin

Commonplace

The dress she bought
Was cheap and short.
The bus she caught.
The vehicle’s slow pace
Her burning face.
Barely coping.
For salvation hoping.
Groping
For a way out.
Inwardly she shouts.
People are about
Staring
She is almost beyond caring.
A suburban place
His flushed face.
A girl’s disgrace.
How very common place.

Secret Santa

Today I attended my work’s Christmas Dinner with my guide dog, Trigger. As part of the festivities those attending participated in a Secret Santa, where gifts are given and received, with the recipient being unaware of the giver’s identity. I opened three presents: a selection of miniature whiskies, a furry squeaky toy and a rawhide chew in the shape of a ring. What is puzzling me is this. The whiskies are obviously for Trigger but what on earth am I to do with a squeaky toy and a rawhide chew? …

I Remember, I Remember By Thomas Hood

A beautiful and poignant poem by the English poet, Thomas Hood. “thee tree is living yet” says it all.

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.

What Would You Like to Ask Authors?

Jay Dee's avatarI Read Encyclopedias for Fun

Authors Answer has been going for 58 weeks now, so we’ve done 58 questions. Now it’s your chance to ask some questions. I’ve done this before and had a great response. Now I’m looking for you to step up again and ask some great new questions.

You can check the questions index page for past questions just so you don’t duplicate any. It hasn’t been updated with the last few questions, though. I must get that done.

So, since you have a few authors with varying experience, different genres, and plenty of personality, you’ll get some very interesting answers. I would like you to go down to the comments section and ask your questions. Ask as many as you like. The first ones may actually be asked in January, so you don’t have to wait long. To get as many questions as possible, I have a request for everyone. Can…

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Music Is…

JC's avatarAn Unexpected Muse…

IMG_2063 (4)The big equalizer, sublime, ubiquitous, the only true magic, the sound of God’s presence in the universe, as silent and pervading as the music of the spheres. Beyond space and time, the circumference and the center all in one, synchronicity, every sound under the sun and then some.

Every instrument playing, every voice singing, every poem ever read, every word ever spoken is music to my ears.

Whale song on the ocean, a lone wolf howling under a full moon, cicadas on a summer’s night, bees in the hive, the screech of an owl from the rafters of an old barn, the far off growl of a panther on Alligator Alley, the purr of a kitten,

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Fluorescent

When there is no night or day
Man will have lost his way.
When the harsh bulb does forever shine
And man is caught in a mesh so fine
He can not see
And believes himself free
Methinks he will have passed a line.
When the face of love
Is replaced by a glove
And lonely people
Hide in a steple
Of the mind
Humans will find
They have crossed the Rubicon
Something indefinable has gone
And the fluorescent tubes burn forever on.