Category Archives: Writers

“A Mighty Ogre”

“A Mighty Ogre”

A mighty ogre looms, attend! Pointing
At the aged and frail, suspending sentences and dismissals;
Curt. Accusations rise as pernicious youthful lichens, thistles,
In the din of coarser winds through choirs of dandelions anointing
What they take to be their virgin soil yet cannot pollinate. But I am
Here to mention lightly–if at all–that we will surely meet
In landscapes where no salamander walks nor stalks and seek
A common ground in placeless journeys born of powers that can
Alone confirm the comedy of an eternal phoenix
or the tragedy of lethal mortal dreams
That once again refuse the mighty hawk or lowly
Dove to be our judge, and here before the wholly
Living rise above all but material integrity. The sorely
Tried and scorched in every age of folly’s folly
turn attentions inward toward the loam of hearts
Or outward,skyward to edge of air yet tethered whether
by the ancient strength of Cæsar’s horses
or the proper use of Virgil’s arts.

” Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.”
~W.B. Yeats
[13 June 1865-28 January 1939

“We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.”

Tom Stoppard
[1937 – ]
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead [1967]

“These Sonnets”


“These Sonnets”

These sonnets do seem at times
Something like aspirins or vitamin C;
You know the old stock remedy
From doctors that used to say,
“Take two of these tonight
And call me in the morning.”
For me, at least, the effects of writing
And even reading some of them
Are much more potent than their actual content
Since life, itself seems to demand from me
In the ordre of any given day
Oof effects than the actual content of any twenty-four hour period.
It’s not so much what I did today, but rather that I was alive to do it.

“She Wants To Write”

“She Wants To Write”

She wants to write; she struggles

With an angel, images are parboiled, ideas do not flow
At once and where she wants them. She demands to know
Just how it is that others write so freely, snuggle,
Fondle, knead words and sounds together,
Capture arias on napkins and motifs on the page;
Emanations of kinetic life on balconies of rage
And righteous indignation flaunts the comic flight of feathers
In outrageous colours never landing on igneous peaks
But forming xenoliths of grammar from the crystals of an age. Fear,
Perhaps. The answer for the muted mind lies somewhere near
A comic line of serendipity, anomalies of life: some there are who speak
In tragic eulogies, they place the goddess upright on the half shell;
her beauty swells―
The curse of fishermen and saints―
and some are simple poems in themselves.