I have been writing fiction seriously for about ten years,
have completed three poor novels which are sitting in a box somewhere,
read only by myself. I quit my job as an academic research scientist a
year ago to write a fourth novel. I've been doing odd jobs to stay
afloat. The poem I sent you was pretty much my first attempt at poetry.
My writing has become very laborious lately, I have been spending a lot
of time getting each sentence 'right'. It occurred to me that I wasn't
writing a novel anymore but a poem, so I decided to write some short
poetry to work through a few ideas.

I live in London, England.

body: I see a mist.

When the light's dim in a room
then I see a mist hanging from the ceiling.

Is it a veil lifting or descending?
Or the mortal stench floating above our heads?

I do not have the bravery to speak
so instead I ask within
and get answers which I knew all along,

which were kept in a cage
to save myself from discomfort
and the loneliness of only being one true thing

pressing against a multitude of lies and fantasy
that come from those who think their view is clear,

undistorted by an empty space
between themselves and my ghostly image.

© Adam 2002