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Why I don’t love a pruned hedge

June 16, 2021

Hello friends,
I’m aware that some people get a bit upset about my original use of grammar and punctuation. This is absolutely okay. I’m not the writer for everybody and I fully embrace that. However, instead of presuming that my writing is inferior because I don’t follow the rules, I wonder if they might consider the fact that writing this way is an act of rebellion – a way for me to fully embody this wild and natural world that inspires and informs every word I write.

Predictably, I wrote a poem about it (I’ve written a few, The Weed being another).
Anyways! For those of you who choose to accept me and my work exactly as we are, and who perhaps see what I’m trying to achieve (and also for those of you who don’t if this makes you happy) I’ve finally figured out how to claim my author’s page on Goodreads. I’ve discovered Rebel Sun is already up there – which is wonderful.

I’ve just added the two most recent hand-stitches poetry pamphlets (Hanes and The Slow-Time Traveller) as well as the new novel, The Madness of Sara Mansfield. If you’ve read any of these, and can spare a few moments, I’m asking if you could swing by Goodreads and drop a comment or two. All books are available from my online shop here.

Self-publishing is the right route for me and so any support you might be able to offer by reviewing and sharing the work would be a huge help.

Victorian Garden poem in full below:

In the beginning he begged for a word with which to imagine
And she gifted him speech.
When he returned it was to fawn for light with which to see
And she created the day, and night.
It was not long before he requested land
And she birthed the earth.
He complained of thirst
And she rained.
Next he demanded a kiss – just the petals of her lips on his cheek
And she unfolded, allowed him to map her valleys and mountains
/ flattened forests with her naïveté /
Soon he was hiking daily across the landscape of her mind
And although she was shy he was bright like the sun
so she gifted him chaotic waterfalls
exploded desire into mountain ranges
And he declared her displays too powerful
And not very feminine
And slightly embarrassing
And he taught her how to curb
And dam
And fell
And mine
And prune
And fence
And measure
Until her pretty Victorian Garden was complete.
At which point he proclaimed her dull and derivative
And marched off in search of wilder times.

As with all my work – this poem is Copyleft. This poem was originally in The Slow-Time Traveller pamphlet.

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