John Thorkild Ellison
Biography of John Thorkild Ellison
For biography, please see my poem 'The Failed Mystic'.
John Thorkild Ellison's Works:
'Shadowy Flowers of Orcus' volume of poems privately published in limited edition by Newcastle Bookshop at Haltwhistle. Also, similarly, a thin volume called 'Poetry Kills'. And in 2009, a new volume entitled ' A Bit of a Larkin'. In 2011, 'Wendy Couldn't Cope' In 2012 'An Elegy for My Father'
John Thorkild Ellison Poems
Poetry Can Damage Your Health
The day my doctor died of smoking I bought myself a fat cigar - I realised he must be joking, His funeral was so bizarre:
</>Blond bicycles writhe in the swimming pools of dark professors. 'What rubbish! ' you say, but I've seen it myself: Blond bicycles writhe in the swimming pools
In spite of my pain, Inexplicable sweet strands of soured mist twist In the echelons of salt streams, The fist of kings is lost in the parting waves,
A Day In March
Through the window the still yard. A cat runs across and disappears through the slender doorway. What to do on a day like this? Such emptiness!
I wandered in a dream And heard bluebells chime by the water, Saw unicorns drink from the stream And heard wild, whirling elvish laughter.
You've finally made me realise Love's just a squirt between the thighs. I thought it was so much more!
A Confession (A Sexual Prose-Poem)
An Alien's Valentine
Come be my Valentine And make me dance with joy; I'll give you babies, one, two, three, A girl, an alien, and a boy.
A Drinker's Prayer
O God our Help at two o'clock, Our Help at half-past three, What do You do at four o'clock When we are having tea?
A War Hero's Lament
Don't fight for England anymore, Don't fight for the chaps at the corner store, Just go back home and close the door 'Cos England isn't England anymore.
When I was nearly round the bend I turned to you, I had a drink or two, I thought that you would help, False Friend!
Winter: Inside the embers glow in the grate While the garden quietly suffocates in snow.
A Walk In The Country
I walked by the river Where it is usually so quiet and peaceful. Crazy kids on motorbikes sounded Like trapped bluebottles in a summer kitchen,
Outside the surge of the wind, the wind in the trees, The rush of leaves, and the sighing in the pine-needles, Outside the sound of the sea-shore, distant, remembered, The waves breaking on the gray rocks, and the evening approaching,
You will not find them here, or anywhere perhaps,
But every now and then there is a hint
Of empty streets,
And down past alleyways and hidden squares
The tall, dry rooms of our illicit love.