Monday, December 21, 2015


Lindsay doesn’t like Mr Batten. Lindsay thinks Mr Batten is a pompous old fool who should actually read the classics he’s extolling the virtues of. That’s OK, because Mr Batten thinks Lindsay is a silly young boy who should actually read the classics, full stop.

Lindsay also doesn’t like Mr Batten's daughter. Cynthia is all fairy floss and candy canes, oh-so-sugary and synthetically sweet, even out of season. Her hair sparkles in the sunlight as she runs around the playground, alternately chasing the boys and being chased by them. Her eyes twinkle and her tinkling laughter begins its crescendo as she ducks and weaves, to and fro, carefully evading all the boys until Tim crosses her path. It’s always Tim who catches her, and kisses her. It’s always in Tim’s grasp that her laughter climaxes. Lindsay doesn’t think Cynthia should be doing that sort of thing in public. It seems a bit grown up, and Cynthia is not at all grown up. Even her name is too light and airy to be taken seriously.

That’s OK, because Cynthia thinks Lindsay is too slight and timid to be taken seriously, just a silly young boy, not at all grown up. He never plays catch-and-kiss, never laughs, never runs around the playground. He just sits up there under the old Moreton Bay fig, pretending not to watch her, pretending to read Huckleberry Finn. She suspects he’s never read any of the classics.

About this piece

This is another attempt at repetition. However, instead of the verbal repetition used in Connection, this uses syntactical and structural repetition, albeit on a very small scale. I love this technique, so I'm going to resist the urge to keep practising indefinitely.

(Also…I forgot to post this for well over a month. Sorry.)


I see such vanity in poems about true love:
I love you despite what you have done to me, how you have hurt me.
I love you so much I would do anything for you; I love you so much I would die for you.
I love you and I need to have you by my side because I am incomplete without you. 
I love you and I will make it known to you over and over that I love you, even though you don't want to hear it.
I love you and I will remain here loving you forever, even though I only ever make you miserable.
I love you and I declare my love publicly so everyone knows I love you, and that you are cruel and heartless for not loving me.
I love you and you must know it, you must accept it, you must appreciate it, and eventually you will reciprocate.
I love you and I know you better than you do, I know that this is love, this is true love.

That is not true love. That is not love at all.

Every word you've written is about you, not her. That is narcissism. You seek to take love from her, not give it to her.

Let me tell you a little bit about love:
Love is a quiet flame that burns softly, lighting the darkest places with its sweet, warm glow. 
Love is hope. Love is freedom. Love is respect. 
Love takes pleasure in knowing the object of its attention is happy, wherever she is and whoever she is with.
Love soothes your longing heart, because love has no desire to possess her. Simply loving her is enough.
Why do you write such lies about love, and share them for the world to see, when you could share the truth?

If your readers learn to understand so little about love, how can they ever offer it to another?