extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
Tuesday, 18 June 2013
Some cliches are as old as the hills,
some writers think anything goes,
but from time immemorial
we must say that strictly speaking
there's no smoke without fire
and we should avoid them like the plague --
unless we want our manuscripts
to be as dead as doornails, that is.
After all, at this moment in time --
not to mention the end of the day --
the bottom line (not to mention
the name of the game) should be
to leave no stone unturned, and to
explore every avenue that avoids
the use of threadbare language.
Cliches was the theme suggested for this week at mindlovemisery