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 English tutor, lived in UK, France and the far-east where I have taught languages.
Passed Japanese language in Canterbury and Cambridge.
Qualified in the arts, specialising in pen & ink line drawings of architectural sites in Picardie and East Anglia.
I adore literature, and admire greatly the poetry of Rupert Brooke, Edmund Blunden, Christina Rossetti, and many more.
http://www.flickr.com/people/anglia24/
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MY FAVORITE LINKS:
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
A Way for Pain to Die (Away)
There were so many ways to kill pain
all of them stultifying, death-defying, even
yet what price release from the imprisoned cells
that throb with a vilifying discomfort slain
past days disappeared, now hell's
it's bells ring out triumphant with the sickness it believes in
my mind is brought back a year
then carried forward at force
beyond capability it arises too soon
my afternoon cup of sunlit fear
reflected, unselected, desperately out of tune
seeking one hell of a change, of course
follow the sign that indicates before thee
a dream's traffic may stop for the sub conscience
knows no bounds
steer a steady course then turn right as quietly as can be
just as the past did, in shaping the present surrounds
a journey forever full of prospicience
in dreams I see clearly, and directly
only for reality to blur all I see
my hopes sleep during the day of negative energy
if only they were in bed by eleven to recharge correctly
at least in time for ensuing aciurgy
the foreboded writing on the narrowing walls spells a dilatory plea
leading in thirty seconds, through thirty centimetres of crushing belief
after hour's of wilderness, these lead to where I must be
like returning to the school of infancy, I'm nearly out of space
the trip almost befalls me, then suddenly, the terrace of relief
there I am human, at least enough to continue the race
just when the tide of pain subsides, I awaken all at sea
what days have been etched into my calendar
adding nothing but stealing swathes of life;
adorning an invisibility clock, where exactly does time go
it ticks, I can hear it, but nothing is seen of such dissunder
our own device to echo-in the ebb and flow
one more tide survived, one nearer the afterlife.
04/09/2008
©2008anglia24
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