Author Archives: Bill Fitzsimons

For days the ocean has unleashed its ire, a frenzy born of elemental spite – winds have raged that will not cease or tire till all's consumed in endless, blackest night. The waves break fiercely on the rocks, and spray … Continue reading →

in memoriam Seamus Heaney I never met you, Seamus, And now I never will, because as another poet said, “In the forest of poetry the great oak has fallen.” Seamus, you lit the darkened corners of my mind with your … Continue reading →

At the dawn of time you were born, a spark flung from the cauldron of creation. You journeyed onwards through cosmic dark, child of chaos and imagination. On your billion year swing around the sun your orbit gradually decays as … Continue reading →

I’m passionless, devoid of all desire, an empty vessel in the cause of love. My libido has sunk into the mire of despond – I need a forceful shove or, at the very least, a helping hand. Oh, who can … Continue reading →

“Such is life.” Reputed to be the final words of the Australian outlaw, Ned Kelly, before he was hanged at Melbourne in 1880. A life, a death. What’s one more life (or death) in this hard world? Man is born … Continue reading →

She is gone. No longer will her sleepy smile greet me in the morning, her warm arms embrace me. She is gone, yet her aura lingers in the night breeze from an open window; a soft whisper in my ear, … Continue reading →

I look in the mirror and what do I see? The image of an aging chimpanzee. Black-button eyes and grizzled face, a simian angel fallen from grace. My body hair is fading fast (how much longer can it last?) My … Continue reading →

…or some other far-flung destination is what my disillusioned spirit craves. To escape the humdrum of the quotidian, the stress of everyday monotony is, I believe, the duty – nay, the imperative – of the questing mind, the hungry imagination. … Continue reading →

Away with the mental acrobatics of Modernism – post or otherwise – and all such elitist dross. Clarity is what I crave, along with the beauty of the singing line. I do not read poetry to be puzzled: give me … Continue reading →

In the mind’s geography, there are no maps to guide you, no star to steer you home. No one has been there before you and there are no signposts. You are your own cartographer in this uncharted terrain. It is … Continue reading →