Author Archives: K Morris Poet

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About K Morris Poet

The purpose of this website (kmorrispoet.com) is to showcase my writing. For details of my published works, please click on the 'About' page of my blog.

This Above All, To Thine Own Self Be True

I must confess to being a little disappointed on receiving the below reply, in response to my submission of several poems to a magazine.

“I read the poems with interest but nothing takes my fancy”.

It would have given me pleasure to see my work featured on a platform other than my own. There is within the heart of man, deny it though he will, a desire for the approbation of his fellows. I am no exception to this rule. I receive a warm glow every time one of my readers likes or comments on my work. Likewise I derive tremendous pleasure on reading reviews left by my readers.

The approbation of others is not, however what drives me to write. Despite the swearing at my computer and the shaking of my fist in frustration when the words fail to come (at the machine I hasten to add), I can not stop writing for I have an itch which needs to be scratched, scratched and scratched again. Thoughts run through my head and must find expression on the page. I can not help myself. I must put pen to paper and leave it to the gods to determine whether or not my words find a place in people’s hearts.

 

I would like to close by thanking all my readers for following me at newauthoronline.com and reading my work.

 

Kevin

 

 

The Autumn Of My Years

Now that I have reached the Autumn of my years

and the grey has chased the brown away

shall I forget the undiscovered rose

whose perfume

hangs in the air

on a spring night

replete with pure delight?

Should I wear sensible shoes

And lose

The joy of walking

Barefoot on grass?

Shall I seek the fairies dancing

Or insist

They do not exist?

I must persist

In my search for bliss

For to be alive

Is to strive

for something more

Than to achieve the title “saloon bar bore”.

I am not a bee in a hive

A mere part of the whole

Lacking a soul.

Joy is my goal!

W. H. Auden Says It Best!

I enjoy much of Auden’s poetry. Among my favourites are “The Shield Of Achilles” and “O Where Are You Going?”. Kevin

First Night Design's avatarFirst Night Design

FROM THE ARCHIVE 15th January 2013

Portrait of W.H. Auden (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was rather amused the other day to read this quote by the poet  W.H. Auden:

“We are here on earth to do good unto others.  What the others are here for, I have no idea.”

Auden’s poetry certainly does me good.  However, if I never hear Funeral Blues (Stop All the Clocks) again—the poem read by John Hannah in Four Weddings and a Funeral—it will be too soon!  Read it, yes.  Hear it at funerals, no!  A friend of mine, an actor and Anglican priest (a rather marvellous combination and a rather marvellous friend), says there has been no lessening in the number of funerals using Funeral Blues or, for that matter,  Robbie Williams’ Angels.  No comment!

The Auden I love above all else is Night Mail.   Predictable of…

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Warbling

Listening to commercial radio

The warblers come and go.

Photogenic girls fill my brain

With the same

Or similar sound.

Autumn leaves strew the ground.

I reach for the off switch.

Oh what bliss!

In the garden a bird calls.

Leaves whirl and fall

And the warbling is lost, beyond recall.

Autumn

As I walked through the trees

a soft breeze

Stirred the fallen leaves.

A girl was there

with golden hair.

Light as a feather she flew

into mine arms true.

The scent of the forest she wore.

Her clothes blended with the woodland’s russet floor.

“I can not stay

for my father, winter is on his way”,

she did say.

The sky turned grey

and winter did bay

As a ravenous wolf

who would the earth engulf.

I felt her father’s icey hand

laid firm upon the land.

His command

is law.

I must see his daughter no more.

But winter must sleep

And out his children will creep.

The lover I adore

I will see her once more!

Ruth

The young man preens

And dreams

Of girls in frocks

Who lose their socks

The young girl thinks of fast cars

of fumbling hands

And broken bras.

The middle aged man ponders on his misspent youth

On wonky car seats

and a girl called Ruth.

The middle aged lady takes her husband’s hand

As they stroll contentedly along the sand.

I May WalkWalk From TalkTalk

As a blogger I rely on the internet. I don’t think about it often. Rather like the driver who knows very little about cars I just get into the driving seat and drive. As with the driver in the above example, I know little about how the engine (internet) works but I trust that the manufacturer (my Internet Service Provider or ISP) will get me safely, from A to B without incident. Unfortunately as with vehicles, so with the internet, things can (and do) go wrong. In this case spectacularly so – my ISP (TalkTalk) has been hacked, (http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/talktalk-cyber-attack-company-accused-of-cover-up-following-reports-customers-targeted-a-week-before-a6707091.html). The incident is shocking as the Chief Executive, Dido Harding has been reported as saying that she is uncertain as to whether key customer information (including bank details) where encrypted on the TalkTalk servers. As the head of a company entrusted with the data of around four million customers I, in my naivety would assume that chief executives should be cognisant of such matters. That is why they receive salaries which the vast majority of their customers will never see in a lifetime.

The above incident is the third such in a period of twelve months. Either TalkTalk is incredibly unlucky (but not as unlucky as it’s hapless customers) or a worrying degree of incompetence is at work here. I have my suspicions as to which one it is.

A close friend of mine (a former AOL customer, as AOL was subsumed into TalkTalk) is in the process of moving to another ISP and I am strongly minded to follow his example.

I remain in a state of disbelief that a security breech of this magnitude could take place not once, not twice but three times in a time-frame of some twelve months. Stable doors should be shut prior to (not after) the horse has bolted but TalkTalk appear to be desperately attempting to fasten the door long after the beast has departed.

Snow

A lack of musak.

No ghost, for spirits are immaterial as the wind

and here is a material world.

Aisles empty as the minds of the robots who patrol

for security has no soul.

Automated tills say

“have a nice day”

in a voice as caring

as the check out girl who is inwardly swearing

at her bloke,

“the guys a f..k joke”!

“Big Issue?”

the girl outside the store asks.

it’s a hopeless task

For the issue has been lost

and tossed

with the needles and dodgy cash

into the trash

Long ago.

Clubbers admire the snow, so pure and white.

It will be a delightful night.

Out of mind, out of sight