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Immortality (inspired by Derek Walcott)
I am thankful that words are immortal,That we leave something behind when we go,Some things our people can touch and read and understand.I am thankful for the too many words I sometimes writ...
Birthday Song (a late posting)
We went to a gig on your birthday’s eve,You and I, just another dad and daughter,And you with a shirt in your jacket pocketTo give to your favourite singer,A blonde androgynous boy you’ve me...
Brecht and Diderot and the internet
Dear Ren,Sorry not to have written back sooner. Ever since I got back from the US, I seem to have been doing nothing but day job work, volunteer commitments, and sleeping (and that mainly on...
Trying (too hard) to grow old disgracefully
Dear Ren,Two weeks ago, my alarm went after I'd got three hours of sleep after getting into JFK at 23:00 EST, getting a ride back to where I was staying, and settling in my room with a coupl...
1990 was our first Valentine's Day.No mobile phones.No internet we knew of.No fake news we knew of.Just the reality of being in love.2017 is our 28th Valentine's Day.Mobile phones.Internet.F...
Time is pressing
Dear Ren,Time is pressing, which is why, for the first time since we've been writing these letters, I'm scrawling mine directly onto my blog (can you scrawl with a keyboard?) rather than han...
An open letter to Jeremy Corbyn and the Labour Party
Dear Jeremy,I voted for you twice, once in 2015 before the wounds of the referendum were ripped into this nation's sides, and once afterwards, when I still had hope that you would be the lea...
What value education?
I am going through a severe identity crisis. Part of me feels that I am, at the age of 56, becoming the sort of man I never wanted to be - old-fashioned, too rigid in my approach and attitud...
Heinrich von Kleist and all that
Dear Ren,I wonder if it is the truly personal navel-gazing nature of our correspondence which makes people not comment on it on your blog - or perhaps it is so universally true that it needs...
A Different Corner
The quiet start, the build-up of notes, before that voice, low at first, then soaring through the room, through space, through my heart. The radio on, in the echoing, mouldy kitchen at 15 Ha...
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