Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

Late to the grave

Rolland John Bruce Munro, born 5 May 1904
In Newcastle Upon Tyne, he died on the opening
Night of of my first production as a theatre producer
“The Physicists,” by Freidrich Durrenmatt, 16 May
1986, but I did not go.

Those long years inbetween filled with emptiness
And yet I cannot acknowledge myself as a father
The sire of my own two children, daughter and son, dear
To me yet unacknowledged until I acknowledge my own

As father is as father was.

What fills the void is despair, wrenching, heart-rending
Despair, black isolating despair. Acknowledging who you
Are on your own and no recourse is possible.

But it is funny. I will have to go to look at that small slab,
Loving erected by my youngest brother. Where it lies or
Stands on a small hill lovingly countenancing the splendour
Of the Lowlands.

I have to go to ensure and see with my own eyes that the stone
Has not been rolled from the mouth of Gethsemane.

I will have to go because there are the cycles of all things, the
Living embodiment of, proof of life of which death is such
As essential part.

I will have to go because we are not separate nor alone but
Are a part of all things.

I will have to go although I shall be late to the grave.

* * * * * *

But the spirit will still be there to communicate to me
Strongly, more strongly that in this life it would be, the
Everlasting and irredeeming love that runs between
Father and son.

Malcolm D B Munro
28 May 1986



Filed under: poetry


None of us live on our own in this world, poets no more
Than anyone else. Though it is not the impression one
Always gets.

I am dead keen to expand the world within which
These pages exist as those of you; most of you are
poets in your own right, who come to read regularly
will be aware.

Regardless of the merits of my work, and it is written
To be enjoyed; the Mount Parnassus stuff is beside the
Point, one’s work gets better by reading good poetry.

So many of the websites I have visited do not offer
Very much. The greatest vexation, at least for the
Present, is to find a website that works across the
European divide of languages. I don’t understand
This. Why would Slovakia, say, not wish to host poetry
From neighbouring countries or at least carry links or
Better still, carry translation tabs that allow a reading
Of the work carried on the site in other languages.

I am determined to find a solution to this unhappy
State of affairs.

I am well aware that, in approaching such sites and
The people involved, there is the attitude, “Who the
Hell are you?”

OK, I don’t have creds as a poet. But I am damned if
I am going to wait until I get them.

I am going to continue to knock on doors. I’m good
At that. Somebody will open one somewhere …

Malcolm D B Munro
Thursday 19 May, 2016

Filed under: poetry

Deep South, read by the poet, David Eggelston, New Zealand

Deep South by David Eggelston.

The Kiwi who told me of this poet said that he reads his poems well
And indeed he does. Listen to the poem first. Don’t cheat by reading
The words. Then you can click on the title and read the text
Well … You can see what the fellow means.

You will learn all you need know from the website. No need to add
Anything here.

I would only add that I had already thought of putting up readings of
My own poetry. When I can get past the barriers imposed by the makers
Of this Mac.

Malcolm D B Munro
Thursday 19 May, 2016

The link to the original site is made under the provisions of Section 107 of the US Copyright Act 1976, which allows for fair use of the original for translation purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship and research. Copyright of the original is retained by the Copyright owner.


Filed under: poetry

A daily report of sorts

Left the house grumpy this morning. This
Is unusual for me. Seldom am. Took the white
Pitt Bull to the vet for her weekly shampoo
Scratches and licks herself all the time if
I don’t. Off then, a little later than usual
To the chain coffee bar. Set up, checked
The email. Nothing much. Except, notably
A visitor from Australia. Read nine poems
Quite a marathon. Don’t remember anyone
Reading so many at once. Doing something
Right. Maybe.

Couldn’t settle down. Got the first coffee
And headed to the car. Over to Kinko’s
Actually FedEx but that is what it was called
Before they bought them out. Preparing
Some material for a Client. The Wee
Enterprise I’m setting up. Building a client
Base. Working with him on his financials.

I had said to her, oh, oh, her, “He’s a little constipated
Getting them out.” “He’s always been constipated
With his financials.” How on earth does she know
She’s never met him and I haven’t talked that
Much about him.

Take care to not have the printer print in colour
Costs more and the default setting has to be
Changed. Well I guess people get disappointed
If it prints in black and white and, besides,
They, FedEx, have to make money I tell myself.

Off here. Early. Relief. Sanity. Other place
Was driving me nuts. All that loud, supercharged
American volley of talk. Anyway, I’m here. Call my
Client. “How are you?” “I’m running around like
Chicken with its head cut off.” “Your in no state
To lay eggs.” He laughs. We agree to meet here
Tomorrow. I’d rather meet today but no point
In meeting a headless chicken “Bring your head
Tomorrow,” I tell him.

Still puzzling over the choice of poem. How you
Choose? Settle down after a fashion. Can’t write
In a grumpy frame of mind. So, let’s put the poetry
Into a collection so that I have them in one go to
Read them to help assess which are, well …

I am downright embarrassed by some. Others
Are OK. Normally I hate doing this. But I am comfortable
Outside for a cigarette. Its raining again. Greet a young woman
I comment that few young women smoke anymore. Just back from
Teaching in the Czech Republic, now works marketing
Boutique Wines. 27 she tells me when I ask. What are they?
Do they taste different? But I don’t say this.

We chat and go inside together. Resume what I was doing.

Does her wine thing and, as she leaves, gives me a brilliant
Smile and bids me goodbye. I am stunned. Yesterday, two
Women waved at me, one was with her husband. What is going
On? Why on earth should a woman who is more than twice
As young as I am find me attractive? Can’t figure this one out.

I’ll  just continue to be what I am. Happy being myself. A New
Zealander whom I have chatted with previously greets me
We talk a little. He’s taking a break from the school he works
At. Just a couple of blocks away. I ask him at one point if he
Would like to read a poem. A bit predatory on my part, I
Know. You have to offer your tray of knick knacks.

This is the one that readers, you and others, have particularly liked
Had more readers than most others. And I can see why. He
Apologizes but tells me of a phenomenal Kiwi poet. I ‘ll listen
In a moment to a recording of his on the web. See what I

Then I sit down. Hits me like flash. I am grumpy because
I’m missing her.

Malcolm D B Munro
Thursday 19 May, 2016

Filed under: poetry

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