On Saturday 9 April, I was privileged to appear on Croydon Radio to talk about my latest collection of poetry “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”, (http://moyhill.com/lost/).
I would like to thank Tom Cannon of Croydon Radio for giving me the opportunity to talk about (and read) some of my poetry.
You can find a podcast of the show HERE
My interview begins at approximately 17:15 (about 1 hour and 15 minutes into the podcast).
Kevin
I am overly introspective.
Can you turn
Detective
And discern
The thoughts that churn
Around my mind?
You may find
A butterfly dancing in the sun light
Or a bat that flies at night.
Perchance a heart you will find,
Sometimes cruel
At others kind.
Whatever you should discover
I shall take cover
In verse,
At times verbose
More often terse.
A poet I am, I could do worse.
As announced on 16 March (http://newauthoronline.com/2016/03/16/i-am-being-interviewed-on-saturday-9-april/), I am being interviewed by Croydon Radio’s Tom Cannon, about my collection of poetry “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” (http://moyhill.com/lost/). The interview will take place at 5:15 pm and can be heard live (at that time) by going to (http://croydonradio.com/). A podcast will also be available from Sunday 10 April and I will post a link once it goes live.
Kevin
“Sir you are a rake
And shouldst forsake
This life driven by desire,
For the fire
Down below is hot
And old Nick has got
A demon waiting
Especially for you.
Believe me sir, ‘tis true”!
“Lady cease your prating
For although the truth you may be stating
The devil is below
And you and I may go
A-maying.
Oh just one kiss
And I will be drowning in bliss.
Why, madam are you not a-staying …!”.
This morning I took a train from Thornton Heath station to London Victoria. Due to me being visually impaired, a member of station staff assisted me to board the train. However, before he could disembark, off went the locomotive with the railway company employee on board, and none to happy at having been conveyed, without his consent from Thornton Heath to the next station stop, Norbury!
—
A man
With a plan
To help me board a train.
Oh what a pain
For the doors closed
And there arose
From his lips a bad word,
The kind heard
On the docks.
The commuters where shocked
And the man from the station
Reached a destination
Not wished for.
No wonder he swore!
Breathing in the fresh evening air
I wander along
Conscious of birdsong.
The birds sing without a care
And soon I will be there
With her.
I dare
Say there
Will be a conversation
Over our meal.
What do I feel?
Anticipation
At the thought of what I know will come?
The birds Continue to trill.
The evening will
Run
Away in laughter
And drink.
I think
On The dull thrill
Of what comes after
A passing triumph, lost in a disaster.
Once butterflies
Would excite
And delight
The boy.
His heart would overflow with joy
At the sight of his new toy.
The boy’s passion grew.
He thought it true
That butterflies would stay.
To him they did flit
For a moment on a flower sit
Then pass away.
He came to disdaine
Butterflies for they caused him pain
Yet the boy knew well
He was under their spell
And could not refrain
From sorrow and pain.
Listening to the rain
Running down the drain
He thought on how life passes us by.
With the butterfly
We dally
Then die.
I gazed upon a flower, a thing of beauty.
A scientist said, “It is my duty
To explain it’s purpose,
Let us look beneath The petals surface”.
I watched how the light did slant
Throwing dancing beams upon the plant.
But the scientist ranted
About the structure of that flower, so lovingly planted.
Is not a poem a thing of beauty?
Yet the critic sees it as his duty
To deconstruct every line.
Oh what happened to the poet’s verse divine?!
Why spend hours
Analysing poems and flowers
When we can revel in beauty
Forgetting “duty”?
The audience watches askance
As they dance
On the edge
Of a ledge.
Feet moving faster.
The music and laughter.
What follows after
Cool reflection or disaster?
She stoops but who conquers?
The situation bonkers.
A man old enough to be her father.
They would rather
Not think
On those who wink
And titter.
A bitter taste
Is a man’s disgrace
Yet still men dally
With silk and lace.
