tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25085639236343927032009-11-11T16:54:55.417ZDave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-54614449760723503232009-11-09T09:04:00.001Z2009-11-09T09:07:53.460Z

Sea swell and gentle roll,but in the on-board swimming pool,a giant tsunami.From the sea, the sun's glare.The wake of an inflatabledrives shards of darkness to its heart.Small tugs nudge a massive vesselinto leaving its safe havenfor the open sea.Thick smoke to starboard...as if the crew had needto simulate disaster!Night orchard now, the sea'swhite blossoms brush the windows.Unseen branches jar

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-32885830192847363442009-11-06T12:04:00.010Z2009-11-06T15:17:24.824Z

Well, finally I did disappear (see Going, going, gone 20/10/09). We disappeared, Doreen and I, more in the way we had hoped and less in the way that I'd feared. We had, long ago, I can now reveal, booked ourselves on a cruise to coincide with the refurbishing and alterations to chez nous. The reason that I would not speak of it before was a fear amounting almost to a certainty that it would not

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-47050717747481757662009-11-03T12:00:00.000Z2009-11-03T12:00:01.822Z

Back in February I re-posted a much older write-up of an exhibition I had seen of the later work of Victor Pasmore. My post was called With Eyes Tight Shut, for the images exhibited were a selection of those seen and painted by Pasmore with his eyes closed. I had known Pasmore's work many years before when he had been a very different painter and I was immensely impressed with these later

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-41349600113602100362009-10-28T10:21:00.001Z2009-10-28T10:21:00.763Z

Edward Hopper's famous Night Hawk canvasHe felt the weight of prairie vastness in the urban space,the loneliness such sparseness of expanse can bring,the seep of grassland into city wariness, the waygreat distance can be squeezed into a downtown street.He saw the spaces infiltrating neighbourhoodslike wedges prising could-be friends apart, or solid hedges,impenetrable, keeping people in. For

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-75031217644346270222009-10-23T11:56:00.000Z2009-10-23T11:56:00.629Z

He appeared on the hill at first light. The scarp was dark against a greening sky and there was the bump of the barrow and then the figure, and it shocked. I thought perhaps the warrior buried there had stood up again to haunt us. I thought this as I blew out the lanterns one by one around the pen. The sheep jostled and I was glad of their bells.He came down towards me, stumbling down over the

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-72948490530528933892009-10-20T07:46:00.003Z2009-10-20T07:46:00.363Z

Caitlin Moran in yesterday's Times cried Goodbye, cruel world. I'm off to live on the internet. Not for me, such luxuries. My cry is Adieu Fair web, I'm off to re-engage with the unpalatable real world. Or maybe it will prove neither cruel nor unpalatable. I shall write more on that anon.For now I remember how I used to speculate as a boy about what it would be like to be one of those medieval

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-21272731096415320502009-10-17T09:46:00.000Z2009-10-17T09:46:55.253Z

Henry Darger's Me to the MoonBack on the 3rd of April this year I posted a poem of mine looking back to an obsession I had in childhood with a make-believe world of subterranean tunnels, caves, vertical shafts and the like. I had dreams about this world. Indeed, although I can no longer be sure, I think it may have all begun as the result of a dream. The world became an essential part of my my

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-31392598745542778952009-10-14T05:15:00.000Z2009-10-14T05:15:00.497Z

Well overdue, I thought, for a digital doodle.

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-87634055052703357472009-10-10T10:38:00.003Z2009-10-10T11:04:30.571Z

As Antony Gormley's One and Other 100 days project for the fourth (empty) plinth in Trafalgar Square neared its conclusion I found myself, like many others, wondering what it would have been like up there for the 2400 participants.The weather's not been very conducive of late to the rearing of poetry blooms, so here's another forced in the greenhouse of nomuse.The Empty PlinthI felt I was great

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-64691066109740314492009-10-07T08:37:00.004Z2009-10-07T10:03:14.639Z

Cross countrySix runners at the tapehad runtheir six unequal distances,had covered groundas different from each otheras a Haiku from a fableor a vignette from a sketch;had traversed landas varied as ploughed fields and grass,as meadows, moors and bogs;some with the benefitof spikes and shorts,some in their normal togs.Yet still they found a winner.Congratulations to Hilary Mantel - and the judges.

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-61086393255333288982009-10-05T08:20:00.001Z2009-10-06T08:05:36.950Z

I have been struggling again of late to keep up with my visiting and commenting etc. The latest inroads into the time available for the keyboard have been made by our grandson reaching the grand old age of 21 - and a very special football match. When he was a toddler and not much more I began to take our son to see the local football, which at that time was Gillingham - the one in Kent. When we

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-89767678089639878462009-10-02T05:02:00.000Z2009-10-02T05:02:00.135Z

First draft - made late evening before retiring..On Eating a GrapeIt was not meant for this,but to tumble into slime,to rot - men say to die -to mingle with the soil,its seeds to germinate,initiate new life.I stroke its skin,touch it with my tongue.I use the dampness of my lipsto burnish it,then hold it in my teethand kiss its fervent blackness.Then finally bite into it.A stinging jet.Acidic

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-43720177151640104872009-09-28T05:00:00.002Z2009-09-30T14:35:40.191Z

When the apple tree turned over a new leafit began producing plums.When the pear turned over a new leafit brought forth grapes instead.When the cherry turned over a new leafit found acorns on its branches.When The Book of Life turned over a new leafa skeleton crawled out.When the woods turned over their new leavesa million tiny creatures saw the sun.When these turned over the dead leavesthe dust

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-72701259148190272402009-09-25T05:05:00.002Z2009-09-25T07:57:37.673Z

Are you one of those for whom time always seems to be moving at the wrong speed? When we are bored it slows and drags, when engaged in some exciting project it flies by and there are not enough hours in the day or days in the week. Lying awake at night it almost stops. At my age it is increasingly lethargic. For those unfortunate enough to have such problems, the depressed find that it crawls and

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-67095122545340290922009-09-22T08:17:00.005Z2009-09-22T12:10:48.161Z

Nude Descending a Staircase Marcel DuchampSlowly the ball of her right foot descendsto press down gently on the stair below,rolls like a marble on an endless track,seeks out the spot - the only spot - that does not creak.Slowly her weight transfers to it.Slowly the left descends to add its weight,she feels the pace of life take a new leash.The house is full of echoes: voices, rasps and groans,she

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-73294574883617750122009-09-19T08:45:00.002Z2009-09-19T10:07:13.723Z

                1He who created me,my nomad, hunter-gatherer, shaped mefor consort on the trail,gave me no feet -what need had I of feet?He held me in his hand,fondled as he walked,whose sharp eyes picked me out,half-formed in finedense limestone,half-exhumed fromstone and scree;whose stone bladeschipped me free,gave shapeto my rotundity.                2Part rosary, partworry bead,part pebble in

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-91106128699363631192009-09-17T08:00:00.001Z2009-09-17T08:00:00.552Z

Last month I posted on a visit made to the Royal Horticultural Society's gardens at Wisley, Surrey. The day proved to be the hottest of the year that far. Last week, honouring a long-standing arrangement with Doreen's cousin and a friend of his, we returned to Wisley. Weather-wise it was a re-run of our previous visit. Even hotter, clear blue sky, unbroken sun, etc, etc. There were differences.

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-46213840948545398782009-09-13T07:00:00.000Z2009-09-13T07:00:03.719Z

This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reader might react to difficulties in a poem they all said (something like)... otherwise you end up just problem solving. (What preceded the three dots varied in each case, but had to do with unravelling apparently meaningless lines, phrases, images etc.The question

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-4184358442610200312009-09-09T08:27:00.002Z2009-09-09T10:26:23.921Z

Did you know that the nation has been voting for its favourite poet? I am not sure whether I did know or not. I read about it in Tom Sutcliffe's column in The Independent. It did seem to ring a distant bell, but to be honest there are so many of these lists of favourite authors, novels, films and god knows what these days, especially on the net, that the distant ringing may have been from some

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-27973293413581347402009-09-06T09:59:00.002Z2009-09-06T10:38:10.322Z

A work in progress: 2 verses are in their first draft, the rest are in a second. So any feedback would be gratefully received.Pale and brittle, wilting to a stranger beauty,the hydrangeas know the score, know thatthe withering is not the dying, but a mask,an act of mourning, a long processbrought on by the sudden shock of deathand cushioning its worst effects.Wise in their own wisdoms, they know

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-60964322176167939572009-09-03T10:00:00.000Z2009-09-03T10:00:05.975Z

For seven daysthe seven budshad waitedhesitatedlooked around them far below them -seven fledglingspsyching themselves upfor seven daysto brave the dropand fly the nest.They chose a stormy nightof drenching rainthat battered the hydrangeas.Bursting from their bondagethey opened,every one.By dawnthe seven budswere seven rosesclaiming their just prize -some seven hours of sun.And now a haiku from

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-11832436223244707412009-08-31T08:19:00.007Z2009-08-31T08:46:14.867Z

I drift in and out of sleep when the show is on, that way I find that it makes sense. (Quote from the comments on a BBC Radio 2 Blog.) David Lister, writing in The Independent a few days ago (26.08) and commenting on the current popularity of The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, gave an amusing account of its recent rise and rise. Music generally has been more in demand it seems, which more

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-27985953958632188882009-08-27T09:30:00.000Z2009-08-27T09:30:01.432Z

Author - Jim Murdoch : Published - fvbooks : pp180If you enjoyed the author's previous book Living with the Truth - as I did _ you will enjoy this one. I enjoyed this one even more than the previous one. As with that one, Jonathan Payne is the chief protagonist. Living with the Truth was the story of his meeting with the personification of truth. As always with such stories you have to be able to

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-58623978417300488482009-08-24T08:36:00.013Z2009-08-24T09:20:09.502Z

The untold story : don't forget, you read it here first.                                     Cresting the wave                         was always his way - noted for it - painting                the dragons of his day -                                                               Three sheets               of three-sheet-see-through usugami* fluttering        in winds

Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488davidalexking@googlemail.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-84512685134160969392009-08-22T08:44:00.000Z2009-08-22T08:45:15.545Z

Not photographs as such, just snaps of a day out at Wisley, Gardens belonging to The Royal Horticultural Society.Two of these outside the entrance. I kind of made myself a bit persona non grata by refering to them as poppy trees. (Busy Lizzies, actually.)View looking down from the top of the rockeryThe arid sector in the glasshouse. August is Victorian Month at Wisley : A chance to be taught

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