I confess
I undress
Women in my mind.
Some are true lovers
While others
I find
Are the temporary kind.
And my love and lust
Are dust.
Poets die
And leave behind
A part
Of their heart
And mind.
And readers discuss
The loves and lusts
We leave behind,
Be they real
Or the imagined kind.
When a careless young person named Mole
Slipped and fell into an open manhole,
A rat called Matt
Ate his new hat,
And the Devil he swallowed Mole’s soul!
“Advocates of ‘decolonising’ the English curriculum like to claim it will promote diversity and representation of ethnic minority authors. However, as this week’s guest Tomiwa Owolade argues, including writers based on ethnicity alone is patronising, reductive nonsense that has very little to with equality.”
The CapX Podcast: Tomiwa Owolade on culture, cancellation and ‘decolonising the curriculum’
This is a very interesting podcast. Tomiwa Owolade argues that diversity for its own sake (for example including ethnic minority authors merely because they come from an ethnic background), is patronising. Black and other authors from non-white backgrounds should be included in the curriculum purely on the basis of merit (not to enhance diversity for diversity’s sake).
Tomiwa Owolade also attacks “cancel culture”, arguing that many in the publishing world are fearful of defending authors such as J. K. Rowling due to concerns over their careers.
The podcast is well worth a listen.
When a pretty young lady named Laugher
Asked me to go and bath her,
My wife Kate
Just couldn’t wait
To drown me and pretty Miss Laugher …!
On 28 July, I appeared On Vancouver Co-op Radio’s The World Poetry Reading Series https://www.mixcloud.com/VictorSchwartzman/world-poetry-cafe-july-28/.
During my interview, I discussed the recent heatwave in the United Kingdom and read my poem Melting Ice. In addition, I discussed the responsibilities of a poet.
My segment begins approximately 8 minutes into the podcast and runs for about 10 minutes.
I listened back to the show using Google Chrome, but other browsers should also work.
It rained last night.
The wet trees brushed
Against my thirsting flesh.
The delight
Of parched park refreshed
By rain.
We may try to deny
That Mother Nature is there.
But the bur
On our clothes.
The prick of the rose.
And twigs in our hair.
Show what we know,
That nature is there.
There is part
Of the park
Mysterious and dark
Where wind sings
Always to me.
And I
Am free.
I know a young lady named Maude
Who makes love on an ironing board.
Her husband Ted
Prefers the bed.
But I’m fond of Maude’s ironing board …
He unburdens his soul to her.
You would swear that she cares.
The time on her expensive mobile
Says, “you pay for my style
And my new phone.
Then I go home
And you, left alone
Smell perfume that lingers
In your bedroom, and on fingers.
Then you make a bank transfer,
Just to show that you care”.
K Morris - Poet 