Archive for February, 2009


I thought it would be fun to continue the little story I set up last week.

He stood eyeball to eyeball with her.
‘No I don’t remember, and to be candid, I really do not know who you are.’
While he was talking, she had levered herself off the wall, slithered round the door post, and neatly ducked under his outstretched arm, taking refuge inside the shop.
‘Come in and shut that door,’ she hissed.
His impulse was to drag her outside again, leaving her to the mercy of her assailants who were approaching fast; instead he obliged.
It was as if she could read his mind. ‘All the risk I took for you, you lily livered coward. It’s Camilla, as if you didn’t know.’

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in the shallows
a copper amulet
verdigris imprint –
tossed amongst

beyond the wrack line
rock bedecked
with salt rime –
talisman simulation
in wind shade

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Pierre stumbled downstairs. The knocking on his shop door was insistent.
‘I’m coming! I’m coming! Keep your shirt on,’ he cried.
She was leaning against the wall, shoulders hunched forward as she gasped for breath, her clothing in disarray.
At the end of the street the rabble’s uproar was swelling.
‘You’ve got to let me in.’
‘No got to about it. I don’t know you from Adam…or Eve,’ he replied.
‘Oh I think you do.’ She was more composed now. She looked him straight in the eye.
‘Don’t you remember when I had to validate who you were?’

(Apologies but I can’t get this post to indent!)

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Stop Bugging Me

This is one of the first sonnets I wrote. In it I adopt the persona of a young woman, possibly an art student, telling a young man to get real. I was reminded of this poem when Richard Wells mentioned Andy Warhol’s ‘fifteen minutes of fame’ in his response to being interviewed by Beth Patterson for Blog-tag: you’re it.

Stop bugging me with your adoration,
disrespecting my friends to build me up
way, way above my real estimation,
making of me something that I’m not.
Now anyone can have fifteen minutes of fame:
what Andy Warhol said has turned out to be true;
like a contestant in a reality show
your dubious idol will fade away too.

I simply get along as best I’m able.
I’ve a cool tattoo and my make-up’s proud,
I’ve a stud through my tongue; another at my navel.
I just want to be one of the crowd.

So listen up bonehead. If you don’t want to lose me
cut the hyperbole, just go on and choose me.

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Blog tagged by Beth

Beth Patterson, over at the Virtual Tea House, has tagged me and asked me five questions about myself. Pop over there to read what Beth said when she was interviewed. To read my answers click here.

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The Mystery of Life

A mystery surrounds creation.
The science of evolution
can now describe diversity
back to the dawn of history.
How not why. There’s no solution

to the ultimate question
asked by every generation.
Life, in all its mutability –
remains a mystery.

God as gap in a chain of causation
is an insufficient notion.
From the atom’s tiny cavity
to celestial extremity –
a mystery.

I was trying to express the following ideas in the poem:

  • It is the job of science to describe the mutable world. The theory of evolution offers a comprehensive explanation of how a multitude of  species have arisen from a single cell.
  • Life itself remains a mystery. Science can’t say what life is; the essence of what it is ‘to be’. This is a problem for philosophy.
  • Science can’t prove or disprove the existence of God although it does provide a better explanation of procreation than Eve being formed from Adam’s rib and saves having to deal with the chicken and egg scenario.
  • My ideas draw on St Thomas Aquinas.  God is not invoked to fill a gap in our knowledge. He is not part of our perishable world of cause and effect (although this does not rule out incarnation) and belief is a matter of faith. For me the fact that there is being rather than nothingness points to something beyond this world and to the unknowable.

The poem is a rondeau (slightly modified) – one of this week’s forms for TOP

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