A disreputable old writer named Howl
Did the streets prowl
In search of inspiration,
Which led to dissipation
And caused the bishop to scowl!
A Disreputable Old Writer Named Howl
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Category Archives: creative writing
The Role Of The Literary Agent
This week “The Bottom Line”, on BBC Radio 4 examines the role of agents (literary and otherwise). The information on the BBC’s website reads as follows:
“This week the programme looks at the business of agents. What exactly do they do and are they adding value to their clients’ careers? Evan Davis discusses their role with three agents from the worlds of showbusiness, football and books. …”.
To listen to the programme please visit, http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b09b0wbl.
I Sing The Song Of Wrong And Right
I sing
The song
Of wrong
And right
At night
Heels bring
A fleeting joy
To some poor boy.
The morrow
May sorrow bring,
But tonight
I sing
Of what some call wrong,
And others right,
And of the light that glows
And shows
The road to heaven
And to hell
That many a poor wretch knows
All to well.
Curtains twitch
And gossips itch
To tell,
While the poet continues to sing of heaven,
And passion hot as hell
The Woodland Path
As I in melancholy thought stood
In yonder wood
My attention was caught
By a path of light.
Oh to take flight
Down that track
Without looking back.
But as I neared
That path disappeared,
And I do lack
The will to go forward or back.
Vampire
A girl sat upon the shoulders of a vampire.
Human form he took
And did in no way look
Like a ghoul.
With a smile benign
His design
He executed in full view
Of the fool
Who thought him a gentleman through and through.
Her desire
For the vampire
Turned to despair,
And today
Men pay
For what she once gave away.
Come Halloween
Come Halloween, I shall hide behind gravestones
And rattle artificial bones,
And should anyone ask
Why I perform this task
I shall with a blood curdling groan
Confess That I have no bones of my own …
There Was A Young Lady Named Mable
There was a young lady named Mable
Who danced on a rickety old table.
The furniture gave way
And I heard her say,
“I was willing, but that table is unstable!”.
—
There was a young lady named Mable
Who danced on a rickety old table.
The furniture gave way,
But some do say
That my story is nought but a fable!
The River Has Burst It’s Banks More Times Than I Can Remember
The river has burst it’s banks more times than I can remember.
Another swan
Is gone,
But I find
That she has left a black feather behind.
In summer weather
I relish the scent
Of the heather.
Come November
I repent,
But why?
For I
Did pave the path
To the cavern where my demons laugh.
Goldfish Bowl
As a child, I had a round Goldfish bowl.
The fish their whole
Lives spent
(I thought content)
Swimming in never ending circles in that plastic tank.
The frank
Man or woman may
Perhaps smile ruefully and say
“I have spent a day
Or more in that self-same way,
But at some future time I will
Be still”.
I have Always Walked In The Dark
I have always walked in the dark.
The torch’s light
Illumines the night
But can not fight
With phantoms stark.
I have always walked in the dark.
I have always walked in the dark.
A knock at night
May bring delight,
But then we part.
I have always walked in the dark.
I have always walked in the dark.
The moon disappears
And yesteryear’s fears
Emerge
And converge in my heart.
I have always walked in the dark.
K Morris - Poet 