I used to fantasise
About a girl who walked
And talked
With me.
I saw not her eyes,
But we,
Were free
As the tide, which comes and goes,
In gentle flows,
Or with tempetuous roar
O’er the thirsting shore.
Barefoot, and hand in hand
We walked along the sand
Of some dream-like beach.
But no man can command
A fantasy,
And she,
I can not reach.
When a young man whose name is Mo
Said, “the red lights they so brightly glow,
And provide such great pleasure
In all kinds of weather”.
I said, “good priest, how do you know?”.
I met a young lady playing the flute
Who said, “will you partake of my fruit?,
I have apples and pears
And if you go upstairs,
I’ll show you how to play on my flute!”.
I hear the breeze
In the churchyard trees.
Cars pass on the road nearby,
While I
Think on what is true;
The eternal breeze
In the churchyard trees,
Blowing on those who,
Momentarily, pass through.
The chime
Of my old, staid
Clock, does remind
me that there is a debt
To be paid.
But time,
Ends all regret.
a good article in “The Times”, entitled “Culture Warriors can not be allowed to silence writers”, https://www.thetimes.co.uk/edition/comment/culture-warriors-cannot-be-allowed-to-silence-writers-znz2tg0qq.
The article describes how the author of “American Dirt”, Jeanine Cummins, had her book tour cancelled following accusations of “cultural appropriation” by some writers on social media.
I have a friend who was (perhaps still is) thinking of publishing a novel about AIDS/HIV and the gay community. However he is not himself gay and concerns about how his work will be received may, I fear lead to his book not seeing the light of day.
Unfortunately “The Times” is behind a paywall and anyone wishing to read articles must be a subscriber. You can, however set up a free subscription, and provided you cancel within the period stipulated on the newspaper’s website, your card and/or bank account will not be charged.
When a young man named Guy
Said, “the wicked all must die!”,
A bolt of bright lightening,
Which was really quite frightening,
Felled that young man named Guy!.
She said to me
Yesterday, that she
Does not like to see
The rain.
On my way
Through the park yesterday
Slow droplets of rain
Fell from the trees,
And I heard
Birds sing.
How strange it is to me
That she should see
No beauty in these
Rain, and birds, and trees.
When a young lady named Leigh
Said, “I really like your poetry!”.
And I said, “that’s great!
I’m in love with Kate!”,
She said, “I hate your poetry!”.
A schoolgirl you were
When you passed me by.
And I
Was unaware
Now, with grey hair,
I smile
At a girl who, without guile
Does Say
“I passed you by
On my way to school”.
A girl of no more than 21,
Talking to a guy
of 51.
Then, she is gone,
Leaving me to my
beer,
And the thought that each year
Slides away.
And I can not be certain
When the curtain
Will end the play.
K Morris - Poet 