Sunday, 29 April 2012



We meet at last, My Friend,
Man of the moment
Legend says you hold the key to the Writer’s voice
On a thick, silver chain around your neck
That it holds a vial of Oscar’s fresh blood
Or perhaps a lock of hair
That you prefer a gin and tonic
To a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir
That you are rather indiscreet
When you are a couple of sheets to the wind

I hear you enjoy a rhyme, a ditty,
A poem of sweet intention
That my words reached across
Time and space
You heard me calling for inspiration
And chose to inhabit my world

We meet at last, my dear,
In The green Carnation at Midnight;
We spend our time in elevated suspension
Picking glitter off each others shoulders
We are of separate bodies,
Yet our heartbeats synchronise
Our words do pass from ear to ear,
Yet not a tongue appears through teeth.
With your brilliant mind

We are bonded far beyond convention
Metaphysically entwined
As you sip another gin and tonic
I watch you in a state of trance
The most gentle of creatures:
My heart pounds, an unnatural rhythm

As we do our dance
As we converse with just our eyes
Lazily reading each other’s minds
I tell you why I am here.
I need the key to the Writer’s voice
That is why I cannot speak.

The legend says the muse will come ,
Bringing beautiful things
In a flash of green light
In the darkest hour of midnight
In the special place I write.

Little Nothings

Little Nothings
Delicately wasted
Slipping through the cracks
We are shadow people
The forgotten, fallen
Elegantly twisted,
Weeping in the darkness
In the dusty corners
Of ornately pampered
And softly creased 

Illustration by Jaime Cappelin 

The rumblings of an Oscar Wilde fangirl

                          THE RAMBLINGS OF AN OSCAR WILDE FANGIRL.

                   'The artist is the creator of beautiful things’ –OSCAR WILDE.

‘I have absolutely no Idea what to write about.’ Itold Rachel.
‘Write about Oscar Wilde.’ She said.
‘I always write about Oscar Wilde. Too predictable.’
‘But you know about Oscar Wilde, you love him.’
Not a lie.

OscarWilde was the rock star of his day. I have a picture of Oscar Wilde as myscreensaver. I have a poster of him on the back of my door.  I used to write a blog called ‘The GreenCarnation.’ I describe myself on my Twitter profile as an ‘Oscar Wilde Enthusiast’but enthusiast seems too tame a word. an Oscar Wilde obsessive would be muchmore accurate but people don’t like the word obsessive, It scares them, and theword ‘Groupie’ doesn’t quite give the right impression after the eighties, so  I guess I’m going to have to go trendy andcall myself an Oscar Wilde Fangirl.
  Imagine if Oscar Wilde were alivetoday. He would be a style icon, a witty, charming talk show guest, in thefront row at London Fashion week, his picture adorning the covers of ‘VogueHommes’ and papped without makeup in Heat Magazine. Invited to film premieres,press nights, gallery openings. He would be the ultimate celebrity. Wilde wasthe bad boy of 19th century London society, flamboyant in his speechand dress, friends with all the right people, and always in the middle of asexual scandal.
I confessI would be one of those girls waiting outside nightclubs, TV studios and hotelsin the rain eyes wide with anticipation, autograph book and pen clutchedtightly in trembling hand trying to be cool in my parka and ‘I love Oscar’ Tshirt, but knowing that any minute the tiniest glimpse of my idol would send meinto the stratosphere, wild eyes, overstretched fingers, screaming like a crazywoman. My room would be covered in posters, clippings, interviews and severalautographs, and my wardrobe would certainly include a fur and a green carnationMy best friends would be the other weirdos from the Oscar Wilde online forum.
Reading ‘ThePicture Of Dorian Gray’ for the first time was like leaving the farm in blackand white and tumbling into technicolour. I’d read Oscar’s poems of course, butthis was something else. I was nineteen, just about to leave home for the firsttime and already considered myself, naively of course, some kind of cultured,literary- forward creature because I went to private school and could readLatin and talk about Shakespeare without bursting into laughter.
I spent anentire day (or it could have been several days I’m not sure) lying on my bed,enraptured, ignoring lunch, phone calls, Star Trek, and dinner. I was happyright there in Dorian’s world with Lord Henry, Basil and poor Sybil Vane. Igasped as Basil confesses his attraction for Dorian …
“Dorian, from the moment I met you your personalityhad the most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain andpower by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen idealwhose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. Igrew jealous of everyone with whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all tomyself. I was only happy when I was with you.’

Oscaremptied his heart and soul into his work of art. I could smell the roses, tastethe wine, and see the brush strokes on the portrait of Dorian. Oscar said thingsthat he couldn’t say out loud in life. Confessing love for another man! It wasso bold, so brave. It opened my eyes and made me aware of how much I wanted towrite. No, needed to write, to pour my own heart and soul into a poem. It blewmy mind. He is so awesome. So brave! So controversial! Everything a writershould be.
So far Ihave read The Picture of Dorian Gray more than twenty times. I am, actuallyobsessed. It is a huge part of the reason why I decided to become aprofessional writer. To inspire others the way Oscar inspired me. I want to besomebody’s rock star. Not that I think I will ever achieve Oscar’s level ofcelebrity, but I’ve heard that imitation is the highest form of flattery, so ifI can’t quite reach the dizzy heights of stardom, I certainly aspire toimitate. I am, after all an Oscar Wilde fangirl.
Tim saidthat to be able to write about a subject with knowledge and passion is a greatthing.
‘Youobviously really, really love Oscar Wilde.’ He pointed out.
Not a lie.