The Bard

or, how poetry became me

I took English Literature in high school and hated it, my mind more interested in how combinations of chemicals and molecules drive biology than how choice of word and phrase fuel story.

If I could go back … well, I can’t, but I’ve been thinking about this lately, about those school years of being forced to consume the recommended minimum dose of Shakespeare and Heaney and whichever other great figures compelled a syllabus.

A good education, had I cared. But I didn’t. I felt no love for their work, didn’t see the sense in the study, and—the shame—did not understand the stimulation and joy that literature could bring.

I read, of course. But I didn’t read.

I sought books for escape, which at the very least set in place an early love of science fiction and fantasy, the likes of Jacques, Pratchett, Adams keeping me company.

But I didn’t read enough. I didn’t think whilst reading.

It was too many years before this all changed, the reason somewhat unlikely. I began to read devour King and to notice how he inserted little nods to authors, little quotes at the start of books and between chapters. He became the teacher, the one I never had, the one who knew the approach I needed.

Have a read of this, if you want. I’m only putting it here because I think you’ll like this snippet. I’ve read *all* the books, you know, so trust me. If you want. You don’t have to. But here, have a read of this.

That was how it went, book by book.

Eventually I reached his The Dark Tower series¹ and in the first book, The Gunslinger, I kept reading and re-reading the following quote:

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

Quite wondrous.

That’s the opening of the poem Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came, written by Robert Browning in 1852. As the title may suggest, it was the inspirational prod that led King to write his not-horror fantasy series.

Portrait of Robert Browning by Michele Gordigiani, 1858. From The National Portrait Gallery. https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw00858/Robert-Browning

So taken was I by Browning’s poem, I sought more. My local library had but one copy of a collected works and thus I borrowed and reborrowed. Leafed it to death. Late as I was to understanding some of the mechanics of his words, I began to study their form. The six-line stanza, elliptical syntax, iambic pentamer, the dramatic monologue—cryptic techniques likely hurled my way during English Lit yet that had bounced off my immature mind.

Da-dum the folly oh foolish he be.

Or maybe they weren’t in the recommended minimum dose.

Whatever. I’ve tried to make up for those years. Books are my everything now. I’ve read much of Browning, Dickinson, Whitman, so many others, and though I don’t like all poetry, I do appreciate it. All of it. And I think—think—that if I really had to pinpoint a moment of wanting to be a writer, I could attribute it to Browning.

---

Four years ago, in those halcyon days before the world sickened, I took a period of extended leave from research (this was before I became a lecturer, so my schedule held much more freedom) to pursue a singular goal: to assemble a collection of poetry of my own—something approximating poetry, in any case—and attempt to have it published.

It was a relentless, intense period that even now feels nothing more than a fragment of dream. But—and there is a part of me that doubts this even now, even when I can turn my head and glimpse the bound spine on my shelf—I made it happen. Somehow, I finished that project and made it happen.

I did so under a pen name, one different even from that which I use here. There are scant few who know of this. Not my parents (my father's response would be one of quizzical misunderstanding; my mother’s of mild intrigue); certainly none of my work colleagues. Only my wife, who questioned my sanity at the time but nonetheless applauded my desires, my brother, and a couple of close friends. Less than ten, all up. A number that comes close to how well it sold. I won't quote exact numbers. Self-publishing is brutal.

The sales didn't matter. Only the journey.

Anyway, I've decided I wanted to finally share some here. I do so with the same trepidation that simmers beneath each post I write. But as the weeks crash along and I slide ever-closer to that unknown precipice, I have edged towards sharing such.

The title of the work is Clouds like Dust and other Poems. You won’t find it. Well, if you do, I applaud your sleuthing. I made hardcopies—they’re floating around out there, somewhere—but didn’t put it online.

It’s an odd collection, born partly from a desire to explore my own departure from England and transition to Australia, the closure of one bruised relationship and the brief flame that was a disastrous sequel². But it’s told through allegory, from the perspective of The Bard, an unnamed protagonist who travels his own journeys, be they real or fantasy, from otherworld to otherworld. It bears obvious marks of my love of genre fiction and flits into Browning’s penchant for dramatic monologue, though my hope is that it sits somewhere on its own, betwixt stars.

This post is too long now for me to include lengthy excerpts (see note below further explaining), so I’ll just place a little here. This short stanza comes from the title piece, Clouds like Dust.

Across lands crossed by hands so dwell my scars,
Where echo’s ember flees sorrow-tinged time.
One name of ash, unheard, unsaid. My crime
To dance and course above the moon’s crescent,
Now within, below, fallow thought’s descent.
Upon black ash weary, her name is Dust.

Once again I must apologise. None of the above is true. I’m sorry. This is Part 2 of my experiment with

Terry Freedman

. I’m responding to this post of his, which in turn was a response to his response to my original post. Confused? Yes. Quite. Our experiment is we each review a book that hasn’t yet been written and then the other has to actually write the book (well, a snippet). That last post of Terry’s contained the line “Slake's poems are written in the persona of The Bard, an intergalactic traveller who has the disconcerting habit of falling in love on every planet he visits. While perhaps unpromising as a premise, this has given rise to some quite startling verse.”

Startling or not, I was originally going to include various poems here, but seeing as I’ve never, ever written poetry in my life and have had to stare at articles about iambic pentamer for far too long, I’m going to allow myself another week. So, you can think of the above as the fictional foreword to a fictional book.

I hope you don’t mind. Maybe you’ll have forgotten I'm an unreliable narrator come next week. Maybe you don’t want to read any further of my attempts at verse?! Or maybe you’ll all have unsubscribed after this … you can let me know in the comments :P

~~~OK so not all of the above is false. I lament not appreciating literature until my 20s; I read much King in my childhood and love his Dark Tower series, but the only Browning I’d ever read until writing this post were the words King quoted in his books. I’m sorry, Robert (and Stephen). I’ll do better next time around. Once I reach the tower.

I also did have several catastrophic relationships. But from such toil the best seeds grow.~~~

1. Wizard and Glass remains one of my favourites of favourites.

2. Thankfully, that all led to me meeting my now wife of over a decade.