As announced on 9 March, I will be reading at the Poetry Café, 22 Betterton Street, Covent Garden, London, on Tuesday 22 March.
Poems will be taken from my recently released collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”, which is available in print and electronic formats (http://moyhill.com/lost/).
If you are in the vicinity of Covent Garden, it would be wonderful to see you at the Poetry Café. Kevin
Yesterday (Saturday 19 March) I announced that my collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” is available to purchase (in print) from Moyhill Publishing (http://moyhill.com/lost/).
Saturday morning saw me visiting my local independent bookshop, The Bookseller Crow who have, I am pleased to announce agreed to stock “Lost in the Labyrinth”. To find out more about Bookseller Crow on the Hill please visit (http://booksellercrow.co.uk/).
My wanderings took me from The Bookseller Crow to Upper Norwood Joint Library, who have also agreed to add “Lost” to their shelves. To find out more about Upper Norwood Joint Library please go to their website (http://uppernorwoodlibrary.org/). My thanks go to Bookseller Crow and Norwood Library for agreeing to stock “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”.
“Lost” is also available from Waterstones (https://www.waterstones.com/book/9781905597697), and as a Kindle download (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01AF5EPVY/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_ZfN7wb1B014G1).
Sinking into bliss.
A kiss.
A silver penny
So many
Shine
On women and wine.
As Dowson searches, for love divine.
Pale lost lilies.
Sillies
Weak
No words they speak
Will make him cease
In his search for peace.
Dowson died young.
No joy his lovings brung.
The same old song sung
Once more.
The hoare
Frost froze the poet, to the core.
—
Ernest Christopher Dowson was one of the Decadent or Catholic poets. Born in 1867 and dying in 1900 the poet spent a life full of wine, women and song, often seeking solace in the arms of the world’s oldest profession.
The reference to “Lilies” refers to Dowson’s fine poem, “Cynara” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernest_Dowson).
I am pleased to announce that my collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” is now available in print. To read reviews of “Lost” or to purchase my book please visit the following link http://moyhill.com/lost/. “Lost” is also available as a Kindle download and can be found here, http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01AF5EPVY/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_S9p7wb0FBTR8W.
A reviewer writes as follows:
“This is the 3rd collection of poems I’ve read by K. Morris, and with that comes a little weight. Obviously, I must like this writer’s work to continue
reading it, but surely there must be an expiry date for such great writing; one day I am sure to find a book by K. Morris that I do not enjoy.
Well, frankly, that day is not today.
Honestly, I think K. Morris may be a fountain of constant inspiration and depth – his writing is beautiful, and never fails to touch my heart whether crafted
for humour or profound meaning. I cannot imagine the day that I don’t enjoy his work.
If you enjoy reading poetry, then this collection of poems is the one for you. If you’ve never really read poetry before, but you want to start, K. Morris
is a great poet to begin with. I mean, you should always begin with the greats, shouldn’t you?
This collection contains a range of poems from joyous to sorrowful, humorous to harrowing. I cannot express enough how strongly I feel that you – yes,
you, reading this right now – should delve into K. Morris world, and his writing.
Overall, and very obviously, I really enjoyed this collection, and I highly recommend you pick up a copy.
(Disclaimer: I received a copy of this book from K Morris in exchange for an honest review. I would like to send a big thank you and congratulations to
K Morris for this collection, and its brilliance”.) .
For the above review please go to http://www.amazon.co.uk/review/R3NHWVT18B7EK6/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B01AF5EPVY.
Kevin
Birds sing.
The air on this spring
Evening carries scents unknown
As I stroll home
Alone.
That scent, is it hay?
All this will pass away.
Yet I am content to breathe this sweet air
And, for a time, forget my care.
Beauty with sadness lives
And gives
A melancholy delight
To me, as I walk home, on this spring night.
Hyacinths on a gramophone.
Alone
They stood
On polished wood.
Their scent carrying me back
Down childhood’s track.
The flower’s smel
Blossoming in a wishing well
With a plastic handle.
My thought tangles
With the ivy that
In a bowl sat.
As a boy
My goal was joy.
The earth was good as the man.
I can
Recall
Honeysuckle on a garden wall
And roses, their scent
Is long since spent.
My grandfather went away
Yet in my heart he stays
As I lose myself, in spring days
He speaks in metaphors
Of doors
That with reluctance open
And flowers, their stems broken
By the passionate gale
That leaves pale
Ghosts behind.
In his mind
He sees
The bees
Sup from the flower’s heart.
The rain start
To fall
And summer joys, turn to gall.
I am pleased to publish the below poem, “Dreadfully Drained” by Jayne King. For Jayne’s poem, “Sleepless 1 and 2” please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2016/01/30/sleepless-1-and-2-by-jayne-king/.
—
On the sofa I’m falling asleep,
But in bed I lay awake.
Why this bizarre occurance?
Life’s no piece of cake.
Work is so draining,
Everyone wants a piece of me.
I’m merely human, you know?
Why can’t they just let me be?
This can’t be all to life,
Please, someone tell me there’s more.
People are quick to ask for favours,
But when I ask, I’m shown the door.
With all these things floating around,
My fatigue growing the wrong way,
Unsure when or if answers will come,
It’s no wonder sleep stays away.
As with the bee to the summer flower
Man dallies many an hour
Savouring the blossom’s power.
Petals delicate he feels
And reels
At the scent of the inviting rose.
In delirium he goes
and takes it to his nose.
His thirst to slake
And desire satiate.
The bee tires.
Desires
Cool, as summer draws to it’s close.
The red rose
Withers
And quivers
In the growing chill.
The rill
Dries up
And summer’s door is shut.
When the wine flows
Sense goes
Walking.
People begin talking.
Trouble you will be courting.
And a reputation you will be sporting!
K Morris - Poet 