Category Archives: Compassion

Litter

Should I write a poem about the bad things in life, a mugger’s weapon or a surgeon’s knife?

A knife may be used for good or ill, to cure or kill.

Dirt is misplaced matter, eat the wrong food and get fatter.

Uranium makes a bomb or an x-ray, kill or cure children while they play.

I hate the word nice, nice is fake good, I should take my advice.

Superstition is not good, touch wood.

Does a gun serve any useful purpose except as a paper weight?

Skaters skate a figure of eight.

Self defence it was decided in the year four hundred is alright.

Make a preemptive strike, goodnight.

I am not quite so sure.

May peace and love endure.

Tich Ennis

16th August, 2017

Heart And Head

A heartless society would be awful and a mindless society would be mad.

Can heart and head be at one in a day to make us glad?

Lesser options are sad.

Can art provide the answer where skill and care are one?

That appears to me to be the case, behold the setting sun.

When eternal war comes to an end we face eternity.

Another name, another time, peace, infinity.

Oh, may it be!

Tich Ennis

16th July, 2017

Am I Wrong?

Is everything alright, is this the way you want things to be?

I don’t mean this verse, the universe and you and me.

Do you see?

If you think so, I’ll go.

I could be crazy or just lazy.

I want to clear up the mess but not if you like things as they are, I confess.

I see myself as the universal dustman, clearing up rubbish, righting wrongs, singing songs.

A garbage disposal operative you might say I am.

I am the little boy with his finger in the dam.

Tich Ennis

6th July, 2017

Open Letter to John Carey

John Carey emeritus professor of literature at Oxford university and beekeeper

Dear Professor,

I admire your book reviews in the Sunday Times. It may have been you, and I think it was, who said the great writers possess greatness of soul. Also that eighty per cent of what is accepted as art in any age is not art. I write. We can’t all be Pushkin or indeed Russians of any description. I write poetry and what have you. Another said I write rhymes.

Avoidance of cliches, such as ‘the struggle of the artist to get his voice heard’, is important. I have said, and I quote, I breathe new life into old cliches. Truisms are nonetheless true for being self evident.

I have written possibly a thousand poems and am seventy-six years old, but enough statistics. I call them poems, and why not? Also plays, essays, stories mostly suited to the short attention span generation. But does anyone pay attention? Some, yes. A poem of mine, Snowdrop, has been spoken of in the same breath as the work of Seamus Heaney, Nobel prize winner. Not by an emeritus professor but by a farmer’s wife.

Pardon me for writing to you, but a cat may look at a king.   You may quote Oscar, I don’t know you but your manner is familiar.

Now, serious matters. John Kennedy Toole’s masterpiece A Confederacy of Dunces was not published until after his death by suicide and only then after his mother gave it to a literature professor who recommended it for publication, when it won the Pulitzer prize. History has been said to repeat itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.

Now, farcically, I provide you with links to recent writings of mine which please share if you feel so inclined.   Cliché. There’s no harm in asking.   There’s lots more where these came from.   I and my writing exist more than merely in cyberspace. But, yes, there.

Now, links:

https://tichennis.wordpress.com/2017/07/01/thats-all/

https://tichennis.wordpress.com/2017/07/03/my-mind-wanders/

https://tichennis.wordpress.com/2017/07/01/renegade/

Question: Does a sense of humour preclude one from serious consideration? What about Dostoevsky? Catch 22?

Regards,

Tich Ennis, birth name David, although that may be disputed.

3rd July, 2017

After All

I don’t know what to say or who to say it to.

You?

Do I make myself clear?

Have I your ear?

Before I disappear.

What is more or less a thing, am I right?

Subject, for want of a better word, goodnight.

I write.

I am not a nihilist, so there.

I care.

So I said something after all.

If you want me, call.

Tich Ennis

24th June, 2017

You

You never tell me whether you like my stuff, okay, what am I looking for, praise?

The end of days.

Lost in a maze.

See through the haze.

Is that the white flag of peace I see through the smoke or a bloodstained bandage, give my heart ease.

The turmoil and the tumult batter on.

When peace comes war is gone.

So I die and no one knows.

Do you prefer poetry or prose?

God knows.

Tich Ennis

23rd June, 2017

Brain

Where is a man with a better brain than me?

I need some help you see.

I mean what the Hell, oh well.

I know what I want but not how to do it, I’m not a bloody expert in everything.

I know almost nothing about some things, how can I know everything?

I could pay someone to do it if I had money, that’s funny.

Experts can be a pain in the arse, someone told me to go somewhere and ask for Mr. Jarse, Hugh Jarse.

I can’t make my website, that’s what I’m saying.

Should I try praying?

Swearing at technology doesn’t make it work but it makes you feel better.

End of letter.

(I apologise for cursing and swearing.

It’s a substitute for caring.

Some man in India and many others have offered help, at a price.

If you want a thing done right do it yourself, that’s my advice.

Einstein’s brain has been preserved.

I am unnerved.)

Tich Ennis

18th June, 2017