Friday, 6 May 2022


I wrote this poem in my head as I drove along the A38. It started life as the locked room mystery but Raymond Chandler's essay on The Simple Art of Murder popped into my head and I ran with that.


The classic country house murder mystery disappoints.

The author may deploy sleight of hand

far fetched coincidences

then withhold vital information

until the final chapter

when we are gathered in the library.

It all smacks of desperation as we characters

have our individual shames exposed

so the detective can dismiss us in turn.

How we squirm at the way we are written

at the outlandish confessions we must make

and you dear reader, as I gaze on your face

through the secret eyeholes hidden in the e’s of my lines


But hold on one minute

can you tell me if your life is any better constructed

than I am out of my sentences?

It is a piece of nonsense. I always think, when I see any crime show revelation, how much I would hate having my life held up to scrutiny, especially as it is only designed to show off how clever the detective is.

On a more serious note I must say I am appalled at the overturning of Roe v Wade. It is always the womans choice. How dare anyone sit in judgement over another person's body? As Leonard Cohen said: I have seen the future brother, and it's murder.

I leave you with the man and the song.

Until next time.

No comments:

Post a Comment