I have no wish to leave
These dark trees.
I drink
The fresh summer air.
For a moment forget my care
And think
On Frost’s poetry,
That o’re shadows me
Monthly Archives: July 2019
When A Literary Critic Named Lee
When a literary critic named Lee
Came round to mine for tea,
I offered him some cake,
Which he failed to take,
And then he criticised my tea!
Can the Writing Gene be Inherited?
This is a very interesting question. As a child, my grandfather spent many hours reading to me which did, I believe implant in me a love of the written word. Our walks in the woods close to his home also developed in me a love of nature which does, I think manifest in some of my poetry. Likewise I had a wonderful school teacher, Mr Delacruz who had a store cupboard who’s shelves groaned under the weight of books. My grandfather’s love of literature and Mr Delacruz’s love of the art has been passed down to me. As to the question whether writers are born or made, I am wary of nailing my colours to the mast on this matter. In the past Marxist determinists said (or strongly implied) that the environment was responsible for almost everything in the shaping of the human personality. This deterministic outlook has, in some circles, been replaced by the equally deterministic perspective that its all down to genetics. Both views strike me as highly reductionist and it is, I suspect a complex mixture of nature and nurture that helps to determine whether a person becomes a creative, whether as an artist, poet or author.
Hello, SEers! Mae here with you today as we enter a new month. Happy first day of July!
In June, I raised the question “are writers born or made?” Today, I want to follow up with another question: can the writing gene be inherited?

Think about the Bronte sisters. Neither parent was a writer, though both were said to be extremely literate. All three sisters, plus their brother, played games of imagination as children, possibly cultivating their creative side while dreaming up fanciful places. My earlier post, Are Writers Born or Made, would point to this as their “trigger” moment—assuming the desire to write was dormant inside.
We also have brothers Alex and Evelyn Waugh, known for Islands in the Sun and Brideshead Revisited, respectively. Their father, Arthur Waugh was a biographer (Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Robert Browning), as well as a literary critic. Evelyn’s son, Auberon went…
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Larkin Said We Think On Death
Larkin said we think
On death when drink
And friends are not around,
As there is nothing To distract
Us from the profound
Truth that you and I
Will die.
As I sit in this pub, alone
Drinking coffee
I reach for my phone
But Larkin stops me
Dead, and, with a clear head
I see
The truth the poet did see.
Blind Publican
Last night, I had a dream in which I had agreed to work in my local pub. Being blind, this would, no doubt have been a very interesting experience for me and the customers of that esteemed establishment.
My peculiar dream led to the composition of the below rhyme.
—
When a blind man whose name is Grub
Got a job in his local pub,
Those wanting brandy
Got lemonade shandy,
But the grub, it was really quite good!
Samantha
There was a young lady named Samantha
Who bought a baby pet panther.
The creature was cute
And played the flute,
And Samantha, she was a dancer.
—
There was a young lady named Samantha
Who purchased a baby pet panther.
The creature played on the flute,,
But I never reached the root,
Of what happened to that Samantha . . .
—
A young lady whose name is Samantha
Works as an erotic dancer.
When the men bother her
She gives them a glare,
So I keep well away from Samantha!
Plastic
In a dream I saw
Plastic high-heels on the floor
Of a room who’s door
Stood half-open.
Something must have been spoken
For I was invited, and recall
The monotonous rise and fall,
Going nowhere
With her,
And those cheap
Plastic shoes, which keep
Me from sleep.
Flowers
Alone
I beautify
My home
With flowers
Who’s powers
Are as I.
When A Young Man Named More
When a young man named More
Said, with a most terrible roar,
“Down with the aristocracy,
And down with thee!”,
I answered him with a snore.
—
When a young man named More
Said, with a most terrible roar,
“Down with the aristocracy,
And down with thee!”,
I said, “close the study door”.
A Young Man Whose Name Is Gus
A young man whose name is Gus
Went out with a succubus.
He says she was pretty
And came from his city,
But the rest he refuses to discuss.