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.