Alan Morrison

Biography

Alan Morrison is an English writer, poet, songwriter, performer and guitarist. Although he gives musical wings to some of his poems to make them fly as songs, he sees himself as essentially a poet. Alan started writing when his age was still in single figures — under the bedclothes at night with a torch, pencil and toilet paper. (You could easily write on it in those days — it was crisper!). His wordsmithing has taken on several shapes since then in a long life-quest through the realms of social work, counselling and freelance journalism, as well in as a personal pilgrimage through the siren spheres of spirituality. But when all has been stripped away and his soul laid bare before the Muse, his heart has always been that of a poet. Alan has a love relationship with the written word. It would not be unusual to find him reading the Oxford English Dictionary (20 volume edition) and Roget\'s Thesaurus just for fun. He puts it like this: “Words are living things. They have a life of their own. They are immensely powerful and can have a hugely significant impact on the minds and life-paths of others. Just as people can listen to a great symphony and be changed by it (if they are open to that), so they can also be changed by a book or a poem or even a mere string of words”. Seeking the poetry in everything, everywhere, has been Alan’s mission from as far back as he can remember. Where there is no poetry — whether in people or situations — he either creates some or moves on. This is the life of the troubadour, a life to which Alan aspires with all his heart. On at least two occasions he has been told by clairvoyants that he was a medieval troubadour in a previous life. Whether or not that is true, he very much likes the idea and believes that nothing much has changed. You can connect with Alan via his website and the email addresses listed on this profile or through Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/alanmorrisonsongs

Samples

VAGRANT ON THE HINTERLAND OF TIME I am a vagrant on the hinterland of time — a whirlpool wanderer washed by unsolved crimes — a fugitive, footloose, fancy-free who knows not where he\'ll come to be. Vagabond vagaries invade my private hell while all the while imprisoned in my cell unsettled waves of stroboscopic straycat blues unremittingly splash my desert boots challenge my mordant roots bring me into disrepute. I am my own Bohemian Grove floodplains drifting forever shifting — submerging my dreams into streams where I can rove — roaming the earth a cellfone flybynight. Home is where I hang my hat howling like an alley cat (on the wall I\'m ducks in flight). I am a stone of rolling roundness lost unfoundness tramping over cosmic wastes a waning waif an urchin graced with virtue\'s code a nomad knight of uncharted roads a traveller (into you I strode). Homeless, without a map; without a place to throw my cap. Itinerant, I am all undone; but most of all, I beg from none. **************** INEBRIATED Each time you phone me in a drunken state I want to throw up in my face so I can feel the self-disgust which you must feel to want to risk all trust between us. Each time you phone me like a drunken sop I want to cry myself to sleep so all my tears will take the place of all you drink; and no more salted sea between us. Each time you phone me in a drunken stupor I want to fall myself downstairs so I can feel the harm you do to lovely you which rips at all the love between us. Each time you phone me in a drunken haze I want to slur my words in rage so I can feel confusion reign upon the page and never read the words between us. Each time you phone me in drunken oblivion I want to end it once for all so I can\'t have your face in mind as it once was when everything was well between us. ******************* 10-14 Some say sonettos throw you in a cage, imprison you, your back against the wall; claiming they herald from a bygone age, a time of courtly love \'Neanderthal\'. Poetry, they feel, should always run free — stream of consciousness, never bow the knee to any structure pre-prepared, rigid, or written verse is bound to be frigid. I beg to differ with this point of view: Liberated by the whole construction; seizing syllables in self-eruption; the words are given wings to latch onto. Not finding it confining or extreme, I love the formulaic ten fourteen! See more at http://www.alan-morrison.com/poems.shtml

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by Alan Morrison

The Party is Over (29/01/2012)

Broken Beauty (29/01/2012)

Ocean's Edge (24/07/2011)

The Love Police (21/07/2011)

Inevitable [a sonnet] (20/07/2011)

Facets of Friendship, Part 1: "Friends Lite" (16/07/2011)

Quivering Quill (15/07/2011)

Ghostword Graveyard (13/07/2011)

Les Mots qui Rient [a sonnet] (10/07/2011)

My Little Sieve (06/07/2011)

Read more entries by Alan Morrison…

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/alanmorrison

Audio entries by Alan Morrison

Winter Romance (21/06/2011)