Fourteen Eighty-Five

When I think of an August long ago
Two armies on a marshy plain land field,
I see red and white majesty on show
A would-be king and one who would not yield
A battle royal to fight, kingdom to win
Ripping households dignity asunder,
Deaths between these kin normal, not a sin
Though all verity hidden in Stratford wonder.
Yet now buried deep within Leicester soil
The truth will out, no longer can be hid,
Twas a man who lost his mortal coil
Not a monster of just ambition bid;
When history’s victors through teeth lie
It is honesty, not just bodies that die.

First published October 2016 Welcome to Leicester anthology, Leicester, Dahlia Publishing

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The lunatic, the lover and the poet, are of imagination all compact: A very short reflection

 

Lunatic, lover, poet

Recent life events have brought forth something I have been trying to articulate for sometime. Here I express it very briefly, but it is anything but brief…

I am a political animal and so I touch people’s lives through politics, but I also need to touch lives as a poet, philosopher and (well yes) as a lover too.

All things are political, but it does not follow that politics is in all things.

Politics cannot explain the overwhelming emotion of a Mozart Oboe concerto, the beauty of Botticelli’s Venus, the exquisite feel of the words in the mouth formed in a sonnet by Shakespeare or the  passion of one skin against another; the physical and mental mixing of two beings creating an indescribable phenomenon that is of the self and yet is not of the self.

Politics can describe these things traded as commodities, but it cannot describe them as perceived realities experienced by me and millions of others.

The philosophy of Samuel Beckett was that life was meaningless. Every life has meaning, but where I partially understand Beckett is that if we cannot properly explain our lives and what we want them to mean to others (especially those close and valued) then our lives in that philosophical sense are pointless.

Many of my political friends will through no fault of their own probably fail to grasp what I am trying to say in this short reflection. No matter, they shall still remain my friends. But I hope that by setting down this inner turmoil that I both hate and cherish in equal measure there will be some who come close to understanding.

 

 

 

A reading list

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You know those quizzes on Facebook, the ones that ask you if you’ve read certain books? I always feel inadequate with them, so I though I’d come up with a list of books I’ve recently read:

Pride and Prejudice
Great Expectations
Frankenstein 1819 edition
Fathers and Sons
Top Girls
The Color Purple
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Antony and Cleopatra
Measure for Measure
King Lear
Macbeth
Hamlet
The Tempest
Twelfth Night (or What you Will)
The Sonnets
Various poems by Wordsworth, Blake, Emilly Dickinson and others
Private Peaceful
Warhorse

There are others, but I can’t remember them.

If you ask me to pick a favourite outside the canon. I’d have to say Father and Sons by Ivan Turgenev. My favourite Shakespeare, well the play I’ll watch time and time again is the ‘Dream’, so I suppose I have to go with that, but I’m a Shakespeare ‘nut’. I love all Shakespeare. My least favourite? There isn’t one in that list!