Biography of Rory Hudson
When I first popped out of my mum, I saw what the world was like and yelled out, 'Put me back! '. But the doctor just said, 'Shut up, you little brat! ' and gave me a slap on the bum. Hence I yelled even louder and threatened to sue him for child abuse. (As you see, I was precocious as a child, but don't worry, the precociousness left me some time ago.) Then I kicked him in the wotsits. This was a mistake, because he let out an almighty squawk and dropped me head first on the floor. I've been a bit of a misfit ever since.
I wrote poetry as a teenager, then the urge left me for many years. In late 2008 I had a brain seizure which was nearly fatal (although at least it did prove to the sceptics that I do still have a brain) , followed by a period of hospitalization. After I recovered I found poetry flowing out of me irresistibly.
I guess you might say that coming close to death has a way of focussing the attention.
Rory Hudson Poems
A Room Without A View
Waking up at midnight in a room without a view, taking up a book, you find no pages to look through.
A Child Is Singing
(A haiku) A child is singing: even birds stop to listen -
Ten Stanzas On Buddhist Themes
Again and again, the ghosts of aeons past walk the narrow corridors of your life. Again and again, they call to you
At The Beach
Many have trod this sandy beach seeking for shells.
Along The Path
I wish I could have eased your pain as once we walked along the path that led along a grassy ridge and round the hill, and back again.
Critique Of Poetry
A poem is a sorry thing, Not fit for reading to a king: It’s often full of silly rhymes That waste a lot of people’s times.
Being Nobody, Going Nowhere
This grassy path leads nowhere, and so pleases nobody.
Suddenly in summer on a dusty path a fever takes me, and I see your face again in the sweltering heat of blue-draped mountains; or under smoky skies that clutch my throat
Sex And Death
Clad only in your girlywhites you come to me, promising nights of dark pleasure.
Ballad Of An Aussie Man
On a Sunday evening in September I began to squeeze my girlfriend’s knockers, until she told me rather coldly she much preferred young spunky rockers.
A Man Fishing By Night
They blend as one, the ocean and the man who stands fishing by night.
A Lover's Question
It’s a lover’s question that’s asked by the first breeze of spring, freshborn, still new and shyly venturing among the buds of green beneath a blue sky.
Four Seasons Of Absence
I thought I might have seen you again in spring, in places where we lay among the flowers, young and careless of the passing hours that left us sighing and to yearn in vain.
Among The Irises Of Love
Vulgarly, among the irises of love, there sprouts an ugly weed. On humid, stinking summer nights