Oft of a summer’s day
Have I turned away
To write.
I shall go out tomorrow
And forget my words
In the singing of birds.
But when night
Falls, I shall return what I borrow
From my ever present friend
Old Father Time
And my brief rhyme
Shall reach it’s end.
There was an elderly man named Spink
Who drove his poor wife to drink.
He returned home very late
With his young mistress Kate
In a taxi the colour of pink!
We all
Fall
From time to time
And a few
(Not me and you!)
Hide our crime
From view
In rhyme.
She was Japanese
And while not a tease
Her performance was satisfactory.
The light was dim, and he
Did not understand
She
– Broken
– Spoken,
Far from her native land
Below is a Youtube clip of me reading my poem “Dark Angel””:
Some time ago, I came across this post, https://solifegoeson.com/2017/12/20/white-teachers-who-teach-black-kids-about-slavery-piss-me-off/. I commented, however as my comment was not published I feel compelled to state my opinion here.
In the above post the author argues (essentially) that white teachers should not teach black children about slavery because they (the teachers) do not understand the experience of non-white people (the prejudice faced by those who’s skin is black). At the end of the post the blogger does recommend that one way forward is for those who teach to come from a greater diversity of backgrounds. However the whole tone of the article is hostile to the concept of the teaching of slavery to black children by white teachers.
I am not black. I am, however disabled (I am registered blind). Throughout history disabled people have faced discrimination. This discrimination manifested itself in various forms, including the forced sterilisation of those with disabilities on eugenic grounds. Eugenics reached horrific heights during the Third Reich when Nazi doctors, SS officers and nurses murdered the disabled under the T-4 programme. Indeed the use of gas was first employed on the disabled prior to it being used to exterminate approximately 6 million Jews (men, women and children). You can find out about Action T4 here, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aktion_T4.
I don’t, as a disabled person, (nor as someone who holds a degree in history and politics) argue that only disabled people are capable of teaching about the T4 Programme. To argue thus would be narrow minded on my part. Yes, as a disabled person I face difficulties and (on occasions) discrimination not encountered by non-disabled people, however those possessing empathy/those of goodwill can understand (and teach) about such matters.
It concerns me that if we carry the argument promulgated in the above article to its logical conclusion, that only disabled people will teach about disability related matters, only women will lecture on the discrimination faced by women throughout the ages etc. This risks leading to a closed academic environment, one in which I don’t wish to live.
Ah the joy of Valentine!
The loving words said
And the quaffing of wine,
Then waking up in bed
Beside your love divine.
Gazing on her
(She’s so young and fair)
You think “upon my life
She is not my wife!”.
I can not capture this sense of dissociation
Reflected in campfires
Of shop windows that blaze.
Walking home
I remember Rome
And see wolves waiting
For the camp’s lights to go out
A Guardian article in which poet Wendy Cope offers some excellent advice on writing poetry, https://www.theguardian.com/books/2008/sep/21/poetry.writing.wendycope.
Wendy stresses the importance of the poet being well read (in the sense of having read a wide variety of poetry, in different styles, by a diversity of poets). She also says that poets should practice writing all variaties of poetry in order to hone their craft. For example a poet who feels most comfortable using free verse, should also practice writing in rhyme.
I shook my head when I read of the man who presented Cope with a copy of his own poetry and stated that he didn’t read other poets as he didn’t wish to be influenced by them. What can one say to such a person? …
I looked round today and
all I saw was ash,
The ash of my life, spent,
The flame gone out, dead dreams on the ground in rubble.
The scene was bleak, my eyes
Beheld no beauty,
All was ugly, spent now,
I stood there stripped, knowing I could not pick up ash.
Dreams disintegrated,
Hope gone for ever,
Nothing to re-ignite,
Barrenness was my empty companion today.
But suddenly I heard
A voice, saying “Sing,”
What song could I sing now,
Here in this strangest of strange lands, alien now?
The voice insisted, “Sing”
I opened my mouth,
But no sound would come out,
“ Tell me how to sing,”
“Caged birds can sing, but you don’t have a cage, just sing.”
I looked around again,
I couldn’t see ash,
I saw the makings of
A new world, building bricks,
Beauty from ashes, I opened my mouth, and sang.
K Morris - Poet 