A demon of weakness





Lostness   (49)



Perhaps pain only tends to ennoble those already possessing nobility?

I experience my own suffering as rather disgusting.

Then notice, automatically judging myself harshly.

It seems so easy, believing bad things said about me.
Yet very difficult to accept any praise.

I  was taught such severity, before I could form a defence.

We cannot atone for the offence of existing
to someone who finds our existence offensive.



How to gain self-esteem without currently having it?
Breaking circles of negation…

Should I begin by directing inward, sorts of kindness I might like to receive from others?




When loss is unperceived, grief may be misunderstood.





In forced rest
sensing slow atrophy

drifting farther
from a once fit person
returning through dreams

where he moves
along streets unseen for years
while I struggle
to accept
never walking them again

lying alone
with fear
that some demon
of weakness
drags me toward
strange realms
better unvisited
which become harder to leave
the longer one stays

as a door closes
upon me
lacking strength
to hold it open
this exit
from my past
wished left

what I had not realised
was even loved

my own
old life.





(philosophy/psychology/mental health/illness/loneliness/thoughts/ideas/opinions/poetry/writing)






Lostness: Introduction

“Daily Notes”  (“Attempts at a journal”)


Began in 1978.  Consisting mainly of various thoughts, ideas, questions and opinions. Some are just sentence-length, others a paragraph or more.

Fragments from the years 1972 to 1978 will be posted first, for the sake of completeness.

I give these notes the overall title “Lostness”.

Since I fell ill, in 1987, almost thirty years have gone by.  Now I am slowly and painfully typing-out my writing in the hope that, rather than being “lost”, it may actually be found, by a few people, while I still exist.



My last poem

Put my last poem on this blog a week ago  (5th May 2017) .

Felt sad afterward. At least it had a chance to be seen, before sinking back into obscurity. (Though only one view, so far. Illness saps my energy to interact with others or gain readers.)

I have been sorting through old notebooks and papers: working on a transition to the prose. Thought I would start at the beginning: when I left school in 1972, age 16.

Art was my main interest. But then I tried writing.

It has been downhill ever since.




Poem 2004



Weak as a dribble
and too ill for sex
tired even
from dreaming
on another unwelcome morning
one look then
reclosing eyes
doorways to nothingness
open in my mind
over absent possibility
wishing I was once more alive
in carnality
through city nights
with chance to be preyed upon
but here
just unfriendly dawn
blurred across the pallid sky
while this clock ticks
few neurons fire
temper’s flame burning lower
malady forms its closed sphere
I feel squashed there
by forlornness
like a bug.

Poem 1990 (2)



Drained by illness
my feelings were comatose
I tried to prod them awake
or observe
in these surroundings
some unravaged vision

That pavement grey
October sky
already moon-stained

In the garden
petal remnants
yellow to brown

This mind
away again
shying like a horse
crashing over dark leaves
as my mouth
on the pen.

Losing my Muse

I lost my Muse in July 1987.  I still hope she might come back one day. It seems unlikely now. Let me explain.

I am in constant pain, aching all over, exhausted. With brain-fog. Over-sensitive to light, sound, smell, chemicals, heat, cold. Like having the flu coming on every day. For almost thirty years.

It’s M.E./CFS they said. No cure. I tried to fight. It fought back harder. Rest they said. That failed, also.

My body became a prison. I lost social life, fitness, hobbies, music, art, creativity. Without energy my world shrank. Mainly down to a sickroom, bed and books. I underwent an ordeal of disappearance. Without the strength to stop it happening.

I grew used to this limited existence until 2014, when I was hit by vertigo. Not spinning: but constant unpredictable sensations of motion. Over two years on a fairground ride I cannot get off.

Following rapid weight loss it was discovered that my pancreas was failing. Very weak and ill: I worried about the fate of creative work, lying unseen in various drawers and files. I had no-one to leave it to. I thought I could try making a blog as a kind of memorial to my lost life.

So the previous posts are my total poetic output before illness hit my brain. Thus the Muse withdrew from me after I wrote of her visit. Though I may not have written well, I wrote from inspiration. That has gone. And I miss it.

I wrote this to explain the lack of more recent work on this blog. I still write a little, but not poems.  Since I began with Poetry, I have put it here first.

I want to thank everyone for the “likes” on my poems. (I did not get any comments, however, hence I am not actually sure of what it was that others liked about them.)

I hope readers will be kind enough to continue to visit my blog as I transition into posting prose: experimental writing, philosophy, ideas and opinions.