By Nigel Pearce
Key Themes: Mental Health, Poetry, Prose
‘Ghosts of Icarus’ would be the my seventh book published by Chipmukapublishing. It is a collection of poetry, prose-fiction, stage-drama and non-fiction which is by way of an exorcism. These ghosts, whether personal, familial, ideological or the spectres of dead or lost friends can only be purged through the power of the pen which harnesses the imagination that dredges those dark oceans of memory within. By its very nature some of the material is more directly auto-biographical than much of my previous work, but some are purely the product of the unbound mind poured into the inkwell in my mind and typed on this computer. I have a B. A (Hons) Humananities with Creative Writing, a Bachelor of Arts, and a Diploma in Humanities from his Open University and a Certificate in English from Warwick University. I hope to begin a M.A. in English next academic year.
About the Author
Nigel was born in 1959 into a family whose fabric was made of tissue running away to the counter-culture as a young adolescent. He had read deeply for his age and debated these ideas with university students and academics; he came to believe the bourgeoisie was shallow and barren. Unfortunately, in the 1970s being an alternative writer entailed the consumption of chemical drugs. Nigel was placed in the care of social services and then the mental health system. He has degrees in Creative Writing and another Arts degree, a Diploma in Humanities and hopes to begin his M.A this year.
‘a lost letter’.
A lost letter was crumbled; your brown hair was always nice and scruffy, you had an aversion to cold water because of the spots. In the ‘Settlement’ people tried to make sense of thunder storms, but the lightning hurt our eyes. Why is the wall dissolving into mist? Rainer I’m sure that East Germany was never really the ‘Socialist Motherland’, our pint glasses stood empty. We all lived in this commune; there we talked of psychology and revolution and had nervous breakdowns. Ed was obsessed by the poetry of Leonard Cohen, but his walls were stroked by his own poems. A large shiny steel toaster sat surrounded by white and brown breadcrumbs, it took four slices at one go. We were stoned and laughing uncontrollably, tried to stop the giggles but they tore through the paper silence, then, my God, arrived our social worker, we must stop this hysteria and eat our toast and marmite in an orderly fashion.
‘I’m sorry Dr. Irwin, I’ve let you down’.
‘No Francis, the only person you have let down is yourself’.
‘Yes mother’. I think to myself.
A chalky yellow tablet, a large white one shaped like a flying saucer and a tiny blue one are placed in my hand, take them like a communicant receiving the Host at Mass. I’m glad of the oblivion because it’s like the touch of autumn, chill and golden. I’m discharged, and then dive into a pool of purple light to swim with shoals of orange fish.
This product was added to our catalog on Thursday 08 October, 2015.