Poem Boner

Greetings from Luang Prabang in Laos.

Since January and as we have been travelling,  I have been having fun writing screenplays, a book and some poems.  I am learning a lot and I am definitely getting better.  I love it.  I’ve learnt some new words ‘n’ that ‘n’ all like vermiculate and penumbra.  And kerfs.  Gonna use ’em.  I am thrilled that the poem, ‘Pillars’ below has been selected from a competition (which had entrants from all over the world) to be printed in a real book made out of paper and everything.  I have a proper poem boner.
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The Abandoned Construction Site: An Excerpt From Red Moon

Whilst in India I have started to write a book.  I’m calling the book Red Moon and here’s an early excerpt.  The book centres around disappearances of young people in Goa.  The initial inspiration was supplied by some spooky events in Pondicherry.   This is the second post related to the book.  You can read the other by clicking the link at the end. Enjoy!  Or not as the case may be…
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A Poem: Watching A Fly On A Slate Table: A Fly Tetralogy

With the full privilege of a month in a Himalayan hut, I was granted the rare liberty of observing a common fly for a period not too removed of two hours.  I’d avoided flies in Rishikesh: they’d usually flown hot, straight from a homeless and vomiting cow’s arse.  But here in the flowery mountains, I imagined this one had just danced from a pink rose or at worst had been pestering a butterfly.  You may think that flies are just black dots that you brush off, but I firmly advocate closer inspection.  A whole world is waiting in the minutiae.  My protracted period of muscidae monitoring resulted in the following poem.

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Pot of Gold

From the counter at the front of his hardware shop, Sudhir’s eyes vacantly stare through the passing traffic. A look we have seen so often here. A man in the abyss. Our arrival nudges him to consciousness. He rubs his eyes and recognises us from two days ago.

“It’s crazy out there.” I blurt as we stumble in. Our nervous systems are in tatters after the chaotic journey.   We sit opposite Sudhir at the counter. He seems resigned and he shakes his head. There is a sadness with him. A sense of futility. My comment seems to have prompted something.

“It is crazy.” He replies in time. He inhales slowly, still climbing from his brain-death. But he fixes to talk. Collette and I both sense we are about to get more than we came in for. We lean in to listen as he talks: Continue reading

out of work. Into life.

“Your forehead smells like a lost corridor, as you move towards the staff quarters of a Balearic hotel”. Pete.

Born on the day of verbal acuity, Pete has always had a way with words. He manages to articulate and translate the world in the most remarkable ways. Sights, smells and experiences are all wrapped up in alarming, acrid metaphors. Vivid, corporeal and often crude, he speaks the world alive in ways that often leave me awestruck. And often lost for words. Which is ironic because my writing business is called Found for Words.

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