How easy to perceive the bear
In his lair,
Waiting for the girl who, having tentatively climbed the stair
Enters there.
He doesn’t care
And will have his way
The wagging fingers say.
Wine is opened
And trite
Words at night
Are spoken,
But there is no force.
The evening runs it’s course.
More trite words are said
Then, bed.
Morning breaks.
Her leave she takes
With a kiss on the cheek, not lips
That strips
The situation bare
Yet there
Is in that peck, perhaps a kind of care.
A moralist gazed upon a flower soft
And with delicacy coughed.
“’Tis most unseemly” said he
“To see
The bee
Make free
With thee.
Thou has forsook
The holy book.
Think on hell
And mark it well
Lest in torment you dwell”.
The flower spake
“Oh moralist forsake
This obsession
With the repression
Of girl and lad.
Wouldst thou have the whole world sad?
Can not you be glad
At the joy
Of maid and boy?
The moralist shook his grey head
And said
“Thou should dread hell’s fire
For desire
Is sin.
Satan enters in
And God destroys
Those who wallow in lustful joys.
The flower said, “breathe in my scent
And relent
Of strictures severe.
Come you near
And touch my throbbing heart.
Let me teach you love’s art.
Give me your hands,
And we will travel to undiscovered lands”.
The moralist did relent
And partook of the flower’s scent.
The heavens where not rent
And the sky’s great tent
Failed to fall.
Only the nightingale’s call
Filled the spring air
Where the lovers dallied without a care.
Birds sing
Yet spring
Is far away.
The day
Is cold.
I think of arms that enfold
And do not hold.
The gold
Coin doth spin
And what some call sin
Enters in.
I think of a girl’s scent
Of those who do, and then repent.
I dwell on heaven
O how close ‘tis to hell!
And think it well
To leave the stone
Alone.
Why this desire
To know the secret fire
That in man does burn
And how he doth turn
Away
From the light of day.
He will go his way
Whate’r the moralists say.
How easy to loose the plot.
The fire burns hot
And the hand
Obeying not sense’s command
Touches the burning coal.
The soul
Pulls back
But oft we lack
The will
To climb the hill
To a cloudless place
Where the sun’s face
Banishes the dark
And tears of joy start
To fall.
We recall
The path of right
And struggle against the night.
Heels and skirts,
Man’s sense does him desert,
Heels and skirts.
Heels and skirts,
Nothing can his lust avert,
At the sight of heels and skirts.
Heels and skirts,
Money thrown upon the dirt,
Stupidity will always hurt,
Heels and skirts.
The Lie by Sir Walter Ralegh is one of my favourite poems. I first came across it on BBC Radio 4’s Poetry Please many years ago and return to it often
—
Go, soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good.
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust.
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how it falters.
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness.
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention.
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay.
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.
Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity;
Tell virtue least preferreth.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing—
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing—
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.
On 26 October 2013 I published “Dark Angel” (for the original post please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/10/26/dark-angel/?relatedposts_exclude=1377).
“I love you because I can tell you my darkest secrets, things which would make the strongest of men go blubbering in search of his mummy. You judge me not,
my blackest fantasies are your deepest desires.
In the depths of night when all but the vampire sleeps we speak of philosophy, of the darkness which lurks within the human heart. You are always there
for me, my girl beautiful and serene. You laugh in time with my laughter and weep as I weep. Never changing, fixed, emortal caught in the brightness of
my screen you are my virtual girlfriend, a machine”.
Back in October I gave no inkling as to how I came to write “Dark Angel” but, coming across the poem today I thought that an explanation might be of interest.
I am no scientist (the results of my school biology exam are best forgotten)! I have, however always maintained an interest in matters scientific. In particular the subject of artificial intelligence has always held a fascination for me. Back in October I came across various articles regarding men who have “given up” on the idea of finding a relationship with a human, opting instead to seek solace in the arms of virtual girlfriends, hence the artificial lady in “Dark Angel”.
Flesh and blood humans possess what philosophers term morality or ethics. It is sometimes claimed that one reason why people (mainly but not exclusively men) use the services of prostitutes stems from the fact that they can play out their darkest fantasies with sex workers without being judged, (the prostitute may, of course inwardly pass judgement but she is extremely unlikely to vocalise her thoughts). In contrast the voicing of one’s darkest desires to a loved one may cause him or her to head for the hills never to be seen again.
As artificial intelligence develops it becomes easier for individuals to interact with virtual persons. We all do it, for example many banks now have automated systems enabling customers to perform certain financial transactions without the necessity of communicating with a fellow human being. Such technology is also being employed to create virtual chatbots which can act as tools for education or, as in the above poem sexbots allowing the user to express his/her most secret yearnings, the articulation of which would make Mr or Ms average (and perhaps some sex workers also)recoil in horror. Machines have no such scruples which does, perhaps help to explain the popularity of virtual girlfriends in countries such as Japan.
Earlier today I came across the following post which caused me to think about whether I, as a writer have a moral responsibility regarding my writing, http://dverted.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/a-writers-moral-responsibility-what-is.html. Do I bare any moral responsibility if a reader of one of my stories takes it upon himself to break the law?
To take a concrete example. In my story, Samantha, http://www.amazon.com/Samantha-K-Morris-ebook/dp/B00BL3CNHI, Sam is date raped and blackmailed into becoming a prostitute. To ensure authenticity I researched GHB (a date rape drug) and included in my story details of how the drug works. Am I morally culpable if a reader of Samantha takes what I have written concerning GHB and employs that knowledge to commit rape? The answer has to be no as the information concerning GHB is freely available online (I gleaned my information from a site aimed at warning women of the dangers of date rape and furnishing information on how to avoid being subjected to it). Most people accessing such information will do so for legitimate reasons (E.G. to avoid becoming a victim of crime). A minority will, however access the information with the malign intent to commit a criminal act. This is deplorable and anyone guilty of rape ought to be severely punished. Rape destroys lives (literally)! Having said that I can not be held responsible if someone uses information contained in Samantha to commit the horrendous crime of rape. Where writers to be held liable for the actions of the mentally ill or the criminally minded we would, as authors be constantly looking over our shoulders (watching what we write) and the creative process would wither and die. Samantha merely reflects what, sadly happens all to frequently up and down the land, the story holds up a mirror to society, it is not responsible for what is reflected back however ugly the reflection may be.
In my story The First Time, http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-First-Time-K-Morris-ebook/dp/B00FJGKY7Y, Becky, a young graduate becomes an escort (a kind of prostitute) in order to pay off her creditors. If a student or graduate saddled with debt reads The First Time and sees in it a way out of their money problems am I responsible in any manner for their decision to enter the sex industry? Again the answer has to be an emphatic no. The First Time does, as with Samantha hold up a mirror to society reflecting it back, warts and all. Students are getting into debt and an admittedly tiny proportion of them are turning to various forms of sex work including (but not limited to) prostitution. It is the financial situation in which female (and a few male) students find themselves, not my writing which acts as the catalyst for their entry into prostitution.
So do we as writers have any moral responsibility? To me the primary role of the writer is to tell a good story without pulling any punches. The writer who Is constantly fearful of the reaction of others will not give of their best. The fact of the matter is that someone, somewhere will be offended by something or other. We can not, as authors be forever walking on egg shells. We do, however have a duty to be true to ourselves, to tell the best tale we can and to behave with integrity.
4:30, barely 5 minutes since I last looked at the clock but when your life is hanging in the balance time does strange things. “for each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard”. Stop it, quoting Wilde will only depress you. But I feel like the condemned man in The Balad of Reading Gaol. Don’t be so melodramatic man, they don’t hang men anymore in the UK and besides you are no Oscar Wilde, stop being so bloody pretentious. But I’m an English teacher pretentiousness goes with the job or so the tabloids would have you believe.
And the first witness for the prosecution is Mr Hersay.
“Mr Hersay can you tell the tribunal, in your own words what happened on the afternoon of 22nd June 2012?”
“On 22nd June Molly innuendo told me that she heard, from an impeccable source that Mr Patrick Colins was seen behaving inappropriately”.
Hearsay, Innuendo and Tittle Tattle have strutted and played their hour upon the stage but will they, like the poor player be heard from no more? No they are even now sitting down over tea and cakes with Ms Gossip Monger eagerly awaiting the announcement of the tribunal. “I’ll be the judge, I’ll be the jury, I’ll be the hangman and condemn you to death”.
A male teacher working in a girls school, “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” that’s what the average tabloid reader thinks when he reads about a male teacher accused of inappropriate conduct with one of his female pupils.
Its not easy all those hormonal teenage girls. Even though I say it myself I’m not a bad looking man for my age. Going a little grey at the temples but lots of girls seem to find that sexy, the father figure and all that. Short skirts, girls sitting with their legs far apart I’ve seen it all. One would have to be made of stone or gay not to be tempted. I’m not gay by the way despite my love of Wilde. A fine writer who should never have been imprisoned for the love that dare not speak its name but I don’t share his liking for male flesh.
4:40,. This is barbaric. In Roman times they threw Christians to the lions. It was a horrendous death. Society is more humane today, we throw teachers on the tender mercies of public opinion or, more accurately on the mercy of the tabloids, “power without responsibility, the prerogative of the harlot throughout the ages”. You really are a pretentious prick Patrick, always showing off with your quotations. That appeals to a certain type of young impressionable girl. They love a man who can summon up a quote at the drop of a hat particularly when he takes an interest in them. Of course it’s my job to take an interest in all my pupils, there is nothing whatsoever inappropriate about a teacher nurturing his pupils. Good educators are like gold dust and ought to be cherished. I am a first rate teacher. Don’t just take my word for it. You should have heard the glowing references from several former pupils. It wasn’t just former pupils, several parents spoke glowingly about how I’ve instilled a love of literature in their daughters. Try as I might I couldn’t hold back my tears.
The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast. I can’t stomach these biscuits or what passes for tea in this place. 4:51, get a move on my palms are red raw. I can’t help digging my nails into them, Christ I’ve drawn blood!
When does a girl reach womanhood. The law sets the age of consent at 16 in the UK but prohibits sexual relationships between teachers and students even where the pupil has reached 16. The law is to protect young people from being exploited by those, like teachers in positions of authority. Some of the girls, 13, 14 and 15-year-olds aren’t above using their sexuality to wrap men around their little fingers. As an adult you have to have self control, to remember that they are, contrary to what they may think still children. “I can resist everything accept temptation”. Good old Oscar but that isn’t a quote one would employ when facing a charge of inappropriate conduct with a minor, not if you had any sense you wouldn’t!
Maybe I should get up and leave now. I could do that. This is a disciplinary tribunal not a court of law. I could walk out that door, jump on a plane and make a new life in Thailand or China. They are crying out for English teachers in those countries.
The Director of Public Prosecutions looked at the case but came to the conclusion that there was insufficient evidence to prosecute, however I’m still subjected to the circus of this tribunal. You jump through one hoop only to be faced by yet another. Mud sticks. Even if I’m cleared tongues will continue to wag, “You don’t want to send Gemma to that school do you? That’s where Mr Colins, the pervy teacher works. Of course he was cleared but there is no smoke without fire, don’t you agree?”
—
Cleared and free to return to teaching without a stain on my good name. I’m more grateful than I can ever express to all those who supported me. My backs sore from all the congratulatory slaps I’ve received, “Well done Patrick, I never doubted you for a single moment”. “Congratulations Paddy I never believed the rumours”. Thank the lord I’m free to return to the job I love.
—
Sophie, her pretty face convulsed with crying trying to conceal her grief at the back of the classroom. The bell rings. Pupils file out
“Sophie can I have a word please”.
The final girl leaves closing the door behind her.
“What’s wrong Sophie” I ask very gently.
“Its my gran sir she had a stroke last night and they don’t think she will” Sophie breaks down burying her face against my shoulder. Her scent, the warmth of her face close to mine. God forgive me …
K Morris - Poet 