"Gaunt in gloom The pale stars their torches Enshrouded wave. Ghostfires from heaven's far verges faint illume Arches on soaring arches, Night's sindark nave."
In Tenebris did Genghis Khan Indulge his pleasure, third degree Where if the knackered ever ran They did regret as regret can Down to the Sun's page three... So twice five files of fertile spam Which takes me hours to condemn.
The Joyce I recognise (who else could think of sindark naves?) The other might usefully have been curtailed by a man from Porlock. But it's good to know that darkness inspires poetry of one sort or another.
My vision: retirement and a life of leisure.
My mission: to manage decline gracefully.
My goal: to get to the end of the day in one piece.
Born in Manchester, I am at present living and working, as a teacher of English, in Singapore, having done so since 1988. My wife, Noshayati – whom I call Noi, and others call Yati – is Malaysian, and we travel frequently to her homeland, where most of her family live (in Melaka.) We own a house in Kuala Lumpur. My sister and family still live back in Manchester and we try to visit occasionally.
I used to work for the Ministry of Education in Singapore, but since 2007 have been employed directly by an independent school here. It pays the bills.
I converted to Islam in 1997 and find myself even more interestingly placed in the world as a result. I like occupying intersections. They afford useful perspectives.
I’d like to think I have a sense of curiosity which keeps me young. But the jury is still out on this. A good day is one on which just about everything seems interesting. Some days are not so good, but I'm not so naive as to believe I have any right to expect otherwise.
4 comments:
"Gaunt in gloom
The pale stars their torches
Enshrouded wave.
Ghostfires from heaven's far verges faint illume
Arches on soaring arches,
Night's sindark nave."
In Tenebris did Genghis Khan
Indulge his pleasure, third degree
Where if the knackered ever ran
They did regret as regret can
Down to the Sun's page three...
So twice five files of fertile spam
Which takes me hours to condemn.
(I don't know why it just came to me like that.)
The Joyce I recognise (who else could think of sindark naves?) The other might usefully have been curtailed by a man from Porlock. But it's good to know that darkness inspires poetry of one sort or another.
Hah. Still resistant to humbling. I suppose thinking that you couldn't recognise Joyce was a bit naive.
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