The book I have in mind to write is to do with recovery, recovery from the dark lights of life, and recovery from the dark lights, of a several times broken heart.
The book will deal much with therapy, with many therapies, with many witch doctors magic methodologies, with many placebos, with the many failed, and the few successful cures.
Longing will remain, it is one truth of life; longing may subside, but it doesn't disappear, that is my belief, one reinforced through experience.
Firstly I will lay down a few facts, in some sort of chronological order; I will then group these facts into some sort of well thought out sets, placed on co-ordinates, in that x,y,z continuum which is the three dimensions of time, space and heartache.
From this cosmos, with multiple orbits, I will explore some of the perceived wisdom in the literature; you may expect a few quotations, from Jung to Nietzsche, from Dickinson to Plath, and from all spheres in between.
Unlike the poetry, which precedes this work, I will aim to distance myself from the particular, that is except where a detailed explanation of the particular might bring a smile to mine, and your eyes.
And who is to read this book? Why lovers of course; those falling into love, those falling out of love, and those beautiful souls found wandering on the precipice; somewhere between somehow being in love, and somehow being out of love.
Be ready to nudge me if I ramble, I won't intend to, but sometimes the streams of the sub-conscious might just take over.
Saturday, 11 November 2017
Friday, 10 November 2017
74
Is it that I have become indecisive
When mostly the only decision which I choose
To make, is to write a few more words
On this next question I have truly stumbled
Should I retire, from the day job
To live the life of a writer
Let's be very clear then
I very much enjoy writing, to say immensely
Would not be stretching the point
Yet I have had nothing published
And neither have I courted publishers, or agents
Save for that background noise of self-publication
I have hardly ever performed my work
Other than with a few local writing groups
And for my own internet recordings
I do care for my poetry
Some of it has stood the test of time
But it has never really got off the ground
I could carry on as a part-time writer
I have done so for twelve years, or twenty-seven
What would another two mean; more of the same
Or I could jump, start some explorations
There would be risks, failures and successes
There would be change, I always wanted to change
When mostly the only decision which I choose
To make, is to write a few more words
On this next question I have truly stumbled
Should I retire, from the day job
To live the life of a writer
Let's be very clear then
I very much enjoy writing, to say immensely
Would not be stretching the point
Yet I have had nothing published
And neither have I courted publishers, or agents
Save for that background noise of self-publication
I have hardly ever performed my work
Other than with a few local writing groups
And for my own internet recordings
I do care for my poetry
Some of it has stood the test of time
But it has never really got off the ground
I could carry on as a part-time writer
I have done so for twelve years, or twenty-seven
What would another two mean; more of the same
Or I could jump, start some explorations
There would be risks, failures and successes
There would be change, I always wanted to change
Thursday, 9 November 2017
73
The last page was the halfway point
And now, apart from that last short ditty
We could almost say it is a new beginning
And how many more times have I begun again
How well the strain of originality is kept at bay, both
Along the illuminated way, and within the sunken shadows
The madness isn't though now present quite so often
Time, that great healer, softened many of the blows
Although, will it ever truly be over, will I ever know
If it is that the fields, and the trees
In the morning frost are feeling the chill
The sky, and the breeze thus redeeming me still
The thrill of the chase
And the basket case I became
No blame, no reframe, no endless shame
Always the same, or all ways to change
Simply to write; sit with words to rearrange
Place this before that, in a lover's lost exchange
And now, apart from that last short ditty
We could almost say it is a new beginning
And how many more times have I begun again
How well the strain of originality is kept at bay, both
Along the illuminated way, and within the sunken shadows
The madness isn't though now present quite so often
Time, that great healer, softened many of the blows
Although, will it ever truly be over, will I ever know
If it is that the fields, and the trees
In the morning frost are feeling the chill
The sky, and the breeze thus redeeming me still
The thrill of the chase
And the basket case I became
No blame, no reframe, no endless shame
Always the same, or all ways to change
Simply to write; sit with words to rearrange
Place this before that, in a lover's lost exchange
Wednesday, 8 November 2017
72
There is a lot of tosh
Though I liked it back then
There is a lot of rhyme
O golly, o gosh
I will doff my cap, no slack
As and when
The love of lust stands in line
The lust of love hands it back
Though I liked it back then
There is a lot of rhyme
O golly, o gosh
I will doff my cap, no slack
As and when
The love of lust stands in line
The lust of love hands it back
Tuesday, 7 November 2017
71
Calf leather boots
Across the Humber Bridge
Smoking sweet cheroots
Up on Bluestone Ridge
A coffee, and a chocolate bar
O Monday how you tempt my bid
Riding in this sedan car
As a writer, lifting off the lid
In middle, or late age England
A long way from Inter-Milan
In designer outlet gear they stand
Looking neat; I have it in the can
Across the Humber Bridge
Smoking sweet cheroots
Up on Bluestone Ridge
A coffee, and a chocolate bar
O Monday how you tempt my bid
Riding in this sedan car
As a writer, lifting off the lid
In middle, or late age England
A long way from Inter-Milan
In designer outlet gear they stand
Looking neat; I have it in the can
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