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Gallimaufry

Gallimaufry

The title of this book, Gallimaufry, is defined on the cover: it means a jumble. Collections of poetry often are. Perhaps thatís why ones that deal with a single theme, like From Daniel To Frances, are unusual. At all events, by choosing to emphasise the variegated verse this book contains I hope to attract, as the cover blurb says, all manner of people in search of all manner of emotions.

Nevertheless, there are mini series in Gallimaufry. The modern poetry Daniel wrote for Frances, for instance; Endgame, seven poems, each in a different style, which document a couple breaking up; People, a selection of snapshots of fellow citizens, by turns funny, sad, or tragic; and Seven Sonnets To A Past Infatuation, a fictional study of a psychologically flawed woman tormenting a would-be lover. But Love, Love, Love  is no series; just an exploration of its various manifestations. And the rest are single poems I wrote at random as they occurred to me.

I have said previously that I am not a poet, and have had that remark greeted with incomprehension. How can I not be a poet and yet write poetry? Itís hard to explain. I could be mischievous and say that I cannot be a poet because I try to write verse that makes sense, and is not wilfully obscure (which is how a lot of modern serious poetry strikes me, not to speak of modern classical music or modern art) but that, I suspect, will simply label me as either stupid or unlettered. And both may be true.

No, I say I am not a poet because I do not, I believe, think as a poet. I am not a dedicated poet. Poetry is not my natural way of expressing myself. I donít write it enough. I donít write it for preference. Maybe Iíll change in the future. But none of this should lead you to assume I think the little I have written is of no consequence. The reverse. I hope you will find some of it valuable and even memorable. Some readers already have.