Ivan Donn Carswell
Biography of Ivan Donn Carswell
...If I said I wrote poetry for a reason I’d have to defend my reasoning every day. So I don’t. I write for fun – and if it isn’t fun it’s better than being bored or feeling useless. I admit to feeling bored and useless occasionally.
But there is more to Poetry than one man’s opinion of it.
There are many views – no less especially here. Most, sadly, are neither original nor particularly new because that is what we’ve come to expect as an unforgiving characteristic of this Site.
But occasionally there are gems to be found, wicked nuggets of gold garnered from sparsest sands. I’m tossing in what I can. If you’ve encountered something of mine you consider worthy, congratulations. Toss me a line. I’ll understand!
My arbitrary decision to limit poems posted here to 100 will stand as long as Poemhunter continues its childishly innocuous and anonymous censorship practises. I have seen no sign of it improving yet.
Try reading: -
http: //www.igorevich.blogspot.com/ - 'Poetry from the Orchard'..
Ivan Donn Carswell's Works:
The Meaning of Liff
Ivan Donn Carswell Poems
you caught me in-between those things I didn’t start and the few that simply got away
keeping a day ahead when space occupied by those preceding still reeks of waste is deemed vagrancy
Yesterday’s dust storm dashed unrealistic pretension about Nature’s propriety – there’s nothing better expressed than
a way to piss yourself off thoroughly and guarantee morbidity is by trying to please
Market In The Rain
Bob’s view was we couldn’t run away, rain didn’t demand unilateral surrender; we were men-at-arms used at least to deprivation and
even sacred space has room that's not invasion proof - there's liberal confirmation raids incurring greater anguish now occur most every day;
Bilove Ran Out/I/B
the simple account – love ran out no-longer sustained by medieval bracelets charmed
Bed Of Roses
Who stole your scented memories pot-pourri’s of your youth with vacant promises – a charlatan a superficial swain with wisdom
might have been a consequence of three strong coffees or the splendid isolation but woe is me, did I forget which was our National Day?
letting moments like this slip regales a dream’s allure insubstantial drifts of form are sure as melody to inner ear
Let’s call you Frank, Josaia Voreqe is a bit too, putting it mildly, Fijian
' Ruddy Shame
A Ruddy shame they've shafted Kev this way - he's always been a decent man, a nicer bloke you understand in politics is rarity -
survival questions candour in what once you held as dear – dumbed mementos jousting displaced
Brazil nuts and home brewed beer an alliterative feast for the aesthete; too
Bilove Ran Out/I/B
the simple account
– love ran out
no-longer sustained by
medieval bracelets charmed
with romantic favour
you could see it
as attributed by fate
grafted in years of hard labour