Apologies to any of my readers who tuned in to hear me at 5:15 pm today on Croydon Radio. My interview was scheduled to take place at 5:15, however it occurred at 5:41. For anyone who missed my interview and would like to hear me discussing my collection of poetry, “Refractions”, I understand a podcast will be available on the Croydon Radio website over the next few days, (http://croydonradio.com/).
Kevin
A young woman, on the radio, sings of crushes
And how love comes and goes.
Heaven knows
She spares no blushes
Regaling me with her affairs.
A song light as air
That passes over where
The party goers play.
Today
It is the tune of this nubile
Girl
To which the dancers twirl.
There may be a denial
That this constitutes art.
I, for my part
Find in her voice, a pleasant enough warble
Over which to dordle
As I bathe and shave
If you call up a demon, don’t be surprised
When it does arise
As some monster from the deep
And into your heart creep.
We at our own creations weep
But can not keep
Our desire
To play with hell’s fire
Under control.
The devil we did create
And, he will our soul take.
I will be spending part of the week preparing for my interview this coming Saturday (26 November, at 5:15 pm, on Croydon Radio). The interview will be streamed live on Croydon Radio’s website and will also be available as a podcast, (http://croydonradio.com/).
During the programme, I hope to read a couple of my poems. I have yet to determine which of them to recite. I am, however considering reading my poem “Owl”:
“I have lain awake listening for the owl’s cry.
A note that chills
Thrills
Then does die.
One day
This bird of prey
Will carry my soul away,
Or so the supersticious say.
Mice hide
While I, in my pride
Decide
The owl’s erie cry
Signifies that I will die.
The bird has no interest in me
So why can I not be free
From his cry
That to my window nigh
does rise, then, as suddenly, die?”
You can find “Owl” in my recently published collection of poetry, “Refractions“.
I hope you will join me on the evening of Saturday 26 November.
Kevin
My old clock I wind
And much philosophy therein find.
I can bring
The pendulum’s swing
To a stop With my hand,
Yet I can not command
Time to default
On his duty and halt
The passing of the years.
He has no ears
For our laughter and tears
And his sickle will swing on
Long after we are gone.
“Tell me wolf, why do you howl
At the rising moon?
Is it that our little life is over oh too soon?”
“No, ‘tis the owl
Most foul.
He stole my favourite towel!”,
He replied with a growl …! …
Shall we speak as though we will go on forever?
I saw a feather
Borne on a summer’s breeze.
It did please
Me
To see
So carefree
A thing
Dance on the balmy air.
The breeze became a gale,
Then came the hail.
The feather
Was by the tempest tossed,
And forever
Lost
In that passing storm.
Sitting here
My mind is almost clear
Of old junk.
For now the detritus has slunk
Away to hide
Inside
The maze of my calculating brain.
The stain
Of a thing overthought
Frequently leaves me overrought.
This room is still and full of peace
So why can not my mind for long cease
In it’s whirring motion?
Must I forever be tossed upon this restless ocean?
I long for a lack of motion.
Yet there is no magic potion
To achieve a quiet soul,
A goal
Pursued by men of every nation
And station.
Though ‘tis a fact both sad and true
That inner peace is gained by so few.
The young man makes hay
And little heed does pay
To the odd grey
Hair.
With desire he does stare
At maidens fair
While the hay turns bad
And the lustful lad,
With expression sad
Sees that the grey
Has chased the brown away.
The man strays still
But the rill
Of joy is almost dry.
Try
As he might
To lose himself in sensual delight
Man does hear
With fear
Night’s footsteps, creeping near.
I met a maid.
Staid
And proper was she,
Who said unto me,
“I love thee.
Let us make free,
But not too much so
For a girl must go
To the marketplace,
Where she will embrace
The latest fashion,
For it is her passion
To please her man.
Therefore can
You take care of me
And you will see
Just how much I love thee …!”
I said, “Oh maid,
Most staid
And proper.
I thank you for your generous offer,
But I regret my coffer
Can not maintain a professional shopper.
Be not sad
For you may find some other lad
Mad
Enough to grant your dearest wish.
Go forth and angle
And you will no doubt entangle
Some other happless fish!”
K Morris - Poet 