There was a young lady called Clare who liked to dance on the stair. One day she did slip, and fractured her hip, so now she dances on chairs.
Clare
1 Reply
Tag Archives: writing
Forthcoming Book Promotion
I hope to be in a position to give away my story, Samantha free for 5 days. I published Samantha using Kindle Select which allows titles registered with the programme to be provided, free of charge for a period of 5 days every 90 days. I originally provided Samantha free in early March so, by my reckoning I should be able to do likewise in June. Please watch this space.
Samantha tells the story of a young girl forced into prostitution in the English city of Liverpool. Can Sam escape her life of sex slavery or will she end her days in the murky waters of Liverpool’s Albert Docks.
The Bliss of Solitude
I have just been sitting on my sofa listening to the rain falling. It is a soothing sound and provides a welcome change from the noise of the television which signified the presence of my mum and her partner. It goes without saying that it was wonderful to have my mum stay with me for a week. We ate out often and had a wonderful time including a visit to an historic palace. However the sound of the television and the presence of my mum and her partner made it difficult for me to concentrate on my writing. I require solitude and the absence of external distractions such as music while writing and this has been largely lacking for the past week. My two bed room flat is spacious but it is amazing how sound travels. The answer is obvious. I need to win the lottery, buy a large house in the country and retire to my study in the west wing when guests are present and I need to write. I don’t play the lottery so this may be a little difficult so, dear readers please send donations, however large to K Morris, PO box 252, the Bahamas! I can hear pens scratching already as you all rush to right out cheques for significant sums. I’m off now to check out mantions in England’s green and pleasant land. Kevin
Freedom of Expression
On 19 May I published a poem entitled “Her Mother’s Daughter” (see http://newauthoronline.com/2013/05/19/her-mothers-daughter/). In the poem I address how a mother oblivious to the fact that her young daughter is engaged in sex work would react if she discovered her involvement in prostitution. My poem provoked the following response from a lady engaged in sex work
“This is fucking horrible. This entire project is vile. What the fuck are you even doing creating a whole project about sex workers as a non-sex worker based on shitty stereotypes, asinine paternalistic bullshit and inane drivel? As a sex worker myself, this is gross. For the sake of humanity, please stop. You are propagating stereotypes and lies about us and this causes us DIRECT HARM. STOP STEREOTYPING SEX WORKERS. Stop speaking for us. We can speak for ourselves.”
It goes without saying that sex workers can (and do) speak for themselves and that they have every right to do so. However I am extremely concerned regarding the implied view that anyone who is not a sex worker does not have the right to express a view on the issues pertaining to prostitution. If we follow this reasoning to it’s logical conclusion then only black people should speak about matters pertainig to blacks, only white people on issues relating to whites etc. This way of proceeding would stifle literary and, indeed artistic expression and would lead to a debased cultural landscape in which writers and society more generally is frightened of expressing an opinion as it might, just possibly offend some one or other. As someone who is blind I dislike the stereotypes which some misguided individuals hold concerning visually impaired people. However I have no wish to prevent the expression of opinion. If I disagree with views being voiced I can (and will) challenge those views, not by calling for their suppression but by arguing against them as any believer in freedom should do.
As regards the substance of the above quoted criticisms, the commentor makes no attempt to express a contrary perspective. Rather she indulges in that age old trick of shooting the messenger rather than attempting to engage him in debate.
In point of fact I accept the right of sex workers to sell sex and the right of clients to purchase services provided that both parties are of legal age and coercion in the form of threat or violence is absent from the exchange. However that is not at all the same thing as accepting that prostitution has no harmful effects on those engaged in it. Ultimately in a free society individuals have the right to make choices which may harm them (that is an important right which should be respected), however that is not the same thing as saying that one has no right to express concerns regarding said choices. In a democracy free and open debate is essential.
Cynara by Ernest Christopher Dowson
I don’t often include work by other writers here. However I have chosen to include Cynara by the English poet, Ernest Christopher Dowson because it is, in my view one of the greatest poems in the English language. Dowson lived a short life (1867-1900), one full of drunkenness. He is perhaps best known for his wonderful poem, “They are not long the weeping and the laughter”, however he deserves to be better known for his other poems including the below.
Cynara
Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Her Mother’s Daughter
Your mother’s daughter, she is proud of you, but does not see what you do. She does not see her daughter sweet stripped, stark naked from head to feet. She does not see the massage oil, her little girl bringing a naked man to the boil. She does not see him pawing you, the disgust on your face, but what can you do? For, after all he is paying you. She can not look inside your head, see what thoughts trouble you as you lie in your own bed. Could she see inside your brain, the world would reel, her heart fill with pain. Your mother knows not what you do, perhaps that is best for both her and you.
I have a problem (sorry challenge)!
Yesterday I attended a course on CV writing. At one point the trainer refered to the problems one faces when composing or amending a CV. I was struck by the refreshing way in which she acknowledge that problems actually exist here in the real world. There is a deplorable tendency particularly among management types to come out with statements along the lines of
“There are no problems, only solutions” or
“There are no problems only challenges”.
On communicating my pleasure to the trainer regarding her acknowledgement that problems as opposed to challenges actualy exist she related the following humorous true story.
In marketing there are supposed to be no problems only situations. A group of salesmen where attending a training course when one of them refered to the problems he was experiencing in his work. His colleagues rebuked him saying that there are no problems only situations. He responded that
“Well I am facing so many situations it is turning into a problem”!
I would love to meet that man and shake him by the hand. With one brilliant stroke he cut through the Gordian knot of management speak and told, god help us the plain unvarnished truth. Would that there where many more men and women of his ilk. But then again the rubbish spouted by management types does provide endless hours of amusement to we mere mortals!
The Pub
A noisey pub, full of beer, people drinking, be of good cheer.
Saloon bar bore, full of self,, whittering inanely to himself. He’s an opinion on everything, the news of the day, cares not a jot what others have to say.
Judges and brickies, all life is here, all drawn to the pub by what else but beer!
Boxes
This tree lined street, this gentle breeze, the box like cars passing me. People in boxes afraid to be free, unwilling to escape their own banality. Nature is all around, we choose not to see, people in boxes will never break free.
Ball Games
A large brindle lab retriever cross you stand on the sun dappled grass your eyes fixed on the small round prize in my hand. I throw and the rubber ball already deeply engrained with the many maulings it has suffered at the hands of strong canine jaws flies threw the air hitting the garden fence. You bound joyfully forward to secure the prize, the ball is soon secured in your soft mouth.
You come to me your tail wagging furiously inviting me to take the ball. I reach forward but you withdraw circling me that tail dancing in the summer breeze. I give chase laughing as you keep the small round prize just out of my grasp. You growl the sound belied by that waiving tail. Happy Trigger without a care in the world your universe is this small green patch of grass and me. Your thoughts in this moment fixed entirely on this joyous game.
The sunny garden receeds into the background. Mechanically I continue to frolic my brain elsewhere remembering my previous dog Drew. I recollect the day. You where full of life in the morning eager to take me into the office on your harness. In the evening you started to pass blood. We of course took you to the vets but it was all to late. You died leaving me with memories of a thumping tail, a cold wet nose and a tender spot in my heart which still aches for you.
The game over Trigger rolls on the grass paws waiving in the air begging to have his belly scratched. Lucky Trigger with no conception of death or concerns for the future, you exist in the moment my fortunate four legged friend.
K Morris - Poet 