Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Poetry, Writing


Fata Morgana.
Low above the
Ice, a slice of
Concave light, a
Knowing glance,
Emerged from the
Ruins of endeavour.

From the past,
Legends reach us,
In oral telling, of
Chilling encounters,
Keels holed, masts
Erect and sailing
Right across the horizon.

Full of skeletal
Lovelorn sailors,
Interned princesses,
Crooked beasts
Killing the very
Exlorers who
Reached them.

And in the end,
They were just
Flickering images
In the cutting wind.

R 19/05/2023 20:34

I don’t really know where the exhaustion comes from. Part of it is, unfortunately, the malaise which comes with self-publishing another book that doesn’t sell in its thousands. And this is not a whinge, it’s a reality. Both sides of it. Move on.

So many things on so many different lists. Never give up. Push, push, push. Another weekend has come round so quickly. The yardstick of time is another malaise-causing thing combined with the above – and with all the ideas still in my head that need to come out. The problem is they’ll be replaced by others. This endless stream of words and pictures and stories. I wonder if I saw that as my future the first time I realised that I could read a book, the pages of which were covered only in words not actual pictures, and see pictures in front of me anyway. Because the first time I picked up such a book instead of a comic, I clearly recall myself recoiling from what looked like a monotonous desert. But it’s not.

And, veering into the political, governments and politicians have encouraged people to see things in terms of cartoons and comics rather than being challenged and encouraged and empowered by the power and knowledge of just words, a conscious strategy that has left us all poorer.

If you do nothing else this weekend, read a story that’s built only from words. Preferably one of mine.

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