Tag Archives: Literature

Synopsis for a Novel

I read a book once,

one with a happy ending

the denouement didn’t suit my mood

I have to admit;

the good guy won out in the end

and got the gal,

justice was served,

the bad guys got their just desserts;

the sun presumably rose again

the following morning after the story ended,

over that small town in the middle of nowhere USA;

It’s always a small town,

the crooked politician, corrupt cop,

local businessman with too many secrets to conceal.

and some innocent gets in their way

by chance or accident,

fate really doesn’t mind which,

and then up pops the reluctant hero;

the saviour of the day,

honour, virtue and fair play;

and he is pretty much always

reluctant, hesitant, self-effacing

pushed to the limit

before he invariably acts,

displaying the customary tropes of being

a tad graphic, a touch sadistic and having a

a flair for the unexpected as he dispatches

each of the bad hombres in turn;

And so he wins in the end,

gets the gal and the kudos,

and most important of all,

the chance to do it all again

in the sequel.

Umberto Eco : A Footnote

When production ceases

( and ) the production line rattles

to one last final halt ,

who then shall have the surplus

if there is no surplus to be had ?

Arising then out of the contradictions

of their own material production ,

what difference is there

between falsehood and truth ?

Imprisoned in the echo chambers of reason ,

all that is

is all that remains

all that remains is

silence

laden with meaning .

Footnotes for the benefit of the Reader:-

Umberto Eco OMRI (Italian: [umˈbɛrto ˈɛːko]; 5 January 1932 – 19 February 2016) was an Italian novelist, essayist, literary critic, philosopher and semiotician. He is best known for his groundbreaking 1980 historical mystery novel Il nome della rosa (The Name of the Rose), an intellectual mystery combining semiotics in fiction, biblical analysis, medieval studies and literary theory. He later wrote other novels, including Il pendolo di Foucault (Foucault’s Pendulum) and L’isola del giorno prima (The Island of the Day Before). His novel Il cimitero di Praga (The Prague Cemetery), released in 2010, was a best-seller.

When Memories Rain

 

I don’t know when the rains started to bleed.

A taste of salty pining, a dash of

Peppered moments and memories, dancing together

Their bodies, clasped, loosening, melting, blurring.

I don’t know when my clay hands composed you,

Mold after mold, structure, shape, dimension

Nestled in the embrace of these coiled fingers,

Your cinnamon breath, blowing its fragments,

Mingling with my own, tearing me open,

The gash of my wounds, alive, and trembling still.

I don’t know when the smell of long lost love

Stark dead, ghost-white, wafts along

The interstate where the night reveals

And sea winds soar and sing, the smell

Of burnt lips entwined, slicing through

The raging night, earnest, shadowy, whispering.

I don’t know when the downpour stopped,

The blood, the tears, the salt tickling me,

Pulling me within, deeper still,

My crust and core, rising, floating

In the debris of the days, lost.

Lord of the Rings ( Part I )

Long years ago in a country

far far away begins the story ,

of Hobbits , Elves, Dwarves and Men

and their quest for the power and glory .

 

In their sleepy abodes

Half-ling folk were stirred ,

when out of legend from the East

came forth a troubling word.

 

As rumours spread abroad

of the Ring once lost by its Lord ,

the tranquil airs of the Shire were broken

when they realised what was sought was no mere token .

 

The lidless eye again made keen

the four-fingered hand ever stretching ,

to seize hold of that which Sauron

commanded Wraiths to thereof do the fetching .

 

Days waiting in the Shire drew to a close

with Gandalf gone South and Bilbo long since departed ,

Frodo set forth on an adventure

not for the faint hearted .

 

( To Be Continued )

 

 

 

Mystery of the Books

When we shut the books ,

do the chapters rearrange themselves ?

when we turn the pages ,

do the words appear differently to us from

the last time when we deigned to read them ?

As for those books still on the shelf ,

the ones we promised to get round to reading ,

what of them ?

What transcendent ,immaterial juxta-positioning

of typographical content do they undergo  ?

sturdy leather-bound volumes

tomes of immeasurable linguistic conceit ,

they’re never quite the same read twice ,

whilst once is never enough

to discover their latent deceit.