On the bed, old man’s morning stretches,
I close my eyes, and the years wind back,
All those empty days, and the board games
On top of the wardrobe. I reproach myself
For all the lost hours and afternoons I have closed
Myself away from my children to do
Nothing more than write my imaginations
On to lots of bits of paper.
R 17/01/2023 09:30
In the shadows, the cold is remorseless and
Full of reproach. ‘Go away,’ it says, ‘and
Find the sun on this crisp morning. Don’t
Linger here in the dark. Go, and leave me
Alone.’ I can’t find the way out of this
Forest of melancholy, and don’t want the
Light to find my eyes and blind me with
The defined and sharp contours of reality.
I sit on the snow by the icy tree, and close
My eyes and ears. No more…
R 17/01/2023 09:32
The #MastoPrompt today was #reproach. I must admit, some of the prompts don’t really give me that much of a push, and leave me thinking I’m not creating anything original. For those of you who think the abive totally signal my state of mind, please remember that poetry can be as much fiction as novels are.
What is getting to me is that, however much I try to manage my time, I still feel deprived of the window to entirely indulge my creative side. Add to that the constant reminder that I need to be marketing my work as well (be that writtem or spoken word, or art), I do feel myself pulled in all directions. That in itself is not a bad things, necessarily, but the frustration at the feeling of lack of time is a negative.
It’s 111 years ago today that Captain Scott got to the South Pole, only to find Amundsen had beaten him there by four weeks or so (18 December 1911 vs 17 January 1912). An apt time to remind you all that Dead Men, my novel about Scott’s (and Amundsen’s) journey gives you an imaginary narrative of that time. Nominated for The Guardian First Book Award in 2012, it actually a cracking read (trust me; I wrote it). You can get signed copies or unsigned copies – your choice.
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