Listening to myself reading poetry on the radio,
I ponder on “what will people think?”
Will they wink
And shake their head?
Best go
To bed
And worry not, about the words said,
For I am tired
And need my sleep
England is ticking grandfather clocks
And country cots,
Their doors still without locks.
It is a place of church choirs
And open pub fires,
Where dogs lie
While their owner’s sigh
Or laugh
Over an article in the Daily Telegraph.
England is young men full of testosterone
Who refuse to leave it alone,
And draw their knives,
With no concern for mothers or wives.
England is a tower block
Where people lock
Their doors
Against thieves and hoares.
England is a place of country houses,
Where spouses
Sit at oak tables
Cherishing half fables
Of a past
That is vanishing fast
The below poems are reproduced with the kind permission of Alice Guile and are copyright Alice Guile. Alice’s work may not be reproduced or copied in any manner without her express written permission. To find out more about Alice’s work please visit, https://www.facebook.com/houseofmarvelsdesign/.
—
The Stable Boy’s sister
You swapped the stamping of hooves
For mud thicker than Mother’s passion fruit jam
Sucking at your boots, sucking you in
Until you could hold out no longer.
The starched linen of my nightdress
Wound the world around me
Like a fly wrapped in spider’s silk
I would emerge in a darker land.
I struggled in the web, eyes fluttering,
Alice. My name travelled across the ocean
From parched lips disciplined by the shudder
Of machines. I never thought you would call.
I hauled the whole household back from a place
Where there is no King’s Shilling, no war
To end all wars. Bob is not gone.
Nightmare. Go back to sleep child.
Three days later the telegram comes, delivered
By a granite faced postman, his fourth that day.
I am already wearing black, I knew the hour.
Death cannot make a brother’s love lose its power.
—
A Kestrel on Christmas Eve
We floundered in a swirling ploughed field
Dragging up sole after tired sole
From the gulping of earth’s whitening jaws.
The sticky Buckinghamshire sod grappled
With our footfalls in the tireless habit
Of a scorned woman. Out to the far right
We saw a Kestrel effortlessly glide among stars
Her little wings held all the world in a weightless silence,
A feathered atlas above the phantom of a wheat field,
Steadfast as a mirage in the white confetti air.
I took the ring from my pocket as a sparkling wind
Bullied and beat those stubborn hedges.
Snow-flakes caressed our suffering fingertips
As the Kestrel hovered eternal like a sapphire
Cloaked in deep indigo twilight, Orion’s consort
Her obsidian eyes watched us drown each other’s lips.
Dazed and angelic, we were swallowed by the moon
As Kestrel hung still, sheltering us from the weather.
That field is gone. Stiff houses in pedantic rows
Clinical tarmac and town planners have now sanitised
That wild magical place where a Kestrel once hunted
Like a fulcrum of violence, a savage priestess of the moor
Just under the North Star. But they can never destroy
The memory of that moment in time, of nature’s blessing
On the Christmas Eve that I made you mine.
—
The Rose Garden
A bone crunching noise proceeds
The sudden silence, the smell of acrid smoke
Enveloping a blackened child’s car seat,
An abandoned suitcase or a single shoe,
Hot twisted spires of metal seem
Like something from a disaster film
But more solid, pulsating, unfolding in real time
In front of dewy bovine eyes that stare at the shell,
Faces white and hard as bone china, but with a fascination
Like that of hyenas at the sight of a carcass
But somewhere, far away from blood and tears
There is an empty corridor in an old house
Where a clock ticks unfeelingly,
Carefully tidying away the moment like a relic,
A used wedding dress or yellowing lace
Folded back and back into history.
Through the window, there is a quiet rose garden
Where a butterfly perches on an oak twig
And a sundial echoes with the laughter
Of long grown children.
All the pain that has ever been felt
Is sinking to the bottom of a bottomless pool,
Until all that can be seen are ripples
On the surface of a calm pond.
A gentleman went awalking
And heard the people atalking
About hell
And the demons that therein dwell.
“Your soul
Is his goal,
He will steal it away
Ere close of day.
So beware
And have a care”
A priest did say.
The gentleman leaned upon his cane
And I maintain
That by the street lamp’s pale light,
I saw
That night
His claw
And a tail.
I returned home much shaken
Though I could have been mistaken,
About the tail …
As many of you will be aware, I held a book launch for my recently published collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind” on the evening of 5 July.
I am pleased to report that the evening went well.
There were, however a number of “lessons learned”, which I have set-out below.
I hope this post proves helpful to others considering a physical (as opposed to a virtual) book launch.
1. The venue (a pub called the Railway Bell) is within easy reach of Gipsy Hill station, making it simple for those attending the launch (and using public transport) to access it.
2. The venue being a pub, meant that it was easy to arrange for the provision of alcohol (and other drinks) to my guests. I provided wine and orange juice, while my guests had the option to purchase additional refreshments at the bar.
3. The management where extremely obliging and went that extra mile ensuring that things ran smoothly.
4. There was good audience interaction with a number of interesting questions being addressed to me.
5. I sold (and signed) a number of copies of “My Old Clock”.
6. People stayed on afterwards for a drink in the pub garden which was most convivial.
1. I advertised the event on my blog and Facebook. In addition a number of bloggers, friends and acquaintences very kindly shared the launch on social media including Twitter, Facebook and reblogs on WordPress.
This was all very much appreciated and I would like to send a big thank you to everyone who took the time to share the event.
However, despite all the publicity (including the news releases sent out by the publisher to local poetry/literary groups), those attending where all known to me either as friends or acquaintences.
It was, of course wonderful to have the support of close friends, however having new faces at the event would have been the iceing on the cake.
WordPress provides an effective platform for building and cementing a following and I greatly appreciate every single person who takes the time to follow, like and comment on my poetry and other posts.
My blog has enabled me to reach out to people all over the world and form valued connections with those with whom I would never otherwise have become connected.
However the vast majority of my followers are not in the UK so (although many of them generously shared the event) they could not (for obvious reasons) attend.
Consequently while WordPress is a wonderful platform it possesses limitations as regards getting “bums on seats”.
Facebook didn’t yield any new faces at the event (despite it having been advertised on local Facebook groups), which appears to further underline the limits of social media as a means of drumming up support for events.
2. I scheduled the event at too early an hour (6:30).
Given the London rush hour and issues with transport, I decided to hold off until approximately 7:20, which meant that most people had then arrived.
In retrospect I should have specified a starting time of 7 pm (with the expectation that most people would arrive between 7 and 7:15) and I will certainly do so the next time I organise such an event.
3. While beer and books are a fantastic combination, beer on books is not!
On entering the pub I enjoyed a quick pint prior to the event starting.
I had hung my bag of books on a hook under the bar (they where in a padded envelope within a carrier bag).
I managed to spill some of my drink into the envelope but luckily (and much to my surprise) none of my Fosters got onto my books.
Next time I shall keep my books well away from alcohol or any other liquids!
4. Any profits made from the sale of books require to be balanced against money expended in the provision of refreshments.
However even where spending on refreshments comes close (or even eats into any profit made), one has to consider the benefits obtained from the publicity generated by the event.
In conclusion, the event was a success.
People enjoyed my reading, there ensued an interesting discussion following the reading and a number of books were signed and sold.
While it was wonderful to see so many old friends there, it would have further enhanced the event where new faces to have appeared alongside them.
As previously stated, I possess a loyal blog following and I’m grateful to all my followers for their ongoing support.
However given that most of my followers are located outside of the UK they can not (for obvious reasons) attend book launches and other similar events.
I will look into streaming events live the next time I launch a book enabling the event to be seen by as broad a range of people as possible.
(“My Old Clock I Wind” is published by Moyhill in paperback and ebook formats and can be found here, http://moyhill.com/clock/
They are my muse.
I choose
To lose
Myself in abstractions
of attraction,
And thoughts of shoes
Encasing …
My mind racing,
Forever chasing
An unreal
Ideal.
Here lies Lot.
He knew Not
Nither why nor what.
Yet there he lies,
Forever lost to tears and sighs.
When he died
A few cried.
Some maintain,
Much to his friends disdain
That he fried …
Should you
Ask me for my view,
I shall, of course
Refer you
To a blind horse.
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also call’d No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life’s foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life’s form and Love’s, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unutter’d the frail screen.
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
Of that wing’d Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,—
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.
K Morris - Poet 