the journey of a budding author



And now for our traffic report. . .
A pedestrian knocked down at the corner of. . .

Traffic slows as people stop to gape
And then drive on
Untouched, uncaring.
All they feel is anger
And frustration;

This death, this tragic
Passing of a fellow human being, is
Just a hindrance that
Has made them late.

Late for another round of pointless nothings,
Increasing speed in a heedless
Head-long dash towards their own transition
From this life.

Not a thought for
The dead man’s
Loved ones
Who wait in vain
And weep.


Author: booksdefineme

I have always been surrounded by books. My parents had books, books and more books. I haunted the library as a child and when I grew up I worked in books shops. When I had children and they went to school I ran the school library. And my husband keeps on telling me there are too many books in the house. They somehow seem to pile up on every available surface almost of their own volition. I fight back and donate mounds of them to the local library but somehow it is a losing battle. I just find more taking their place! For the last eight years or so I have been wrestling with writing a novel and what a fierce tussle it is. I am about to publish this magnum opus in a few weeks time. I feel as I did when I gave birth to my children; nervous but excited!

5 thoughts on “l’Envoi

  1. A nicely wrought poem.

    re: bio: never too many books, eh? 🙂

    Poem on …

    • Books seem to pile up everywhere don’t they? I have this teetering pile next to my bed that I am wary of when I get up in the morning, in case it attacks me! 🙂 Thanks for the comment on my poem! Have a great day!

  2. You really paint a visual picture, Elaine of those apathetic, insensitive, selfish people who must have stepped on someone to get where their at. Nicely written.

    • Thank you Lynne. One sees it when there is a tragedy on the roads, there is no sense of shock or grief only speeding up to get where they were going because the blockage has been cleared… I always think of that poem by John Donne No man is an island,
      Entire of itself,
      Every man is a piece of the continent,
      A part of the main.
      If a clod be washed away by the sea,
      Europe is the less.
      As well as if a promontory were.
      As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
      Or of thine own were:
      Any man’s death diminishes me,
      Because I am involved in mankind,
      And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
      It tolls for thee.

      This sense of belonging to a whole is no longer a quality humans display!

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