Our site will be undergoing maintenance from 6 a.m. - 6 p.m. ET on Saturday, May 20. During this time, Bookshop, checkout, and other features will be unavailable. We apologize for the inconvenience.
Cookies must be enabled to use this website.
Book Image Not Available Book Image Not Available
Book details
  • Genre:POETRY
  • SubGenre:General
  • Language:English
  • Series title:One Hundred Poems series
  • Series Number:2
  • Pages:144
  • Paperback ISBN:9781543932799


The White Scum That Floats in the Surf

by D. L. Forbes

Book Image Not Available Book Image Not Available
Here one sprawl in the symbolic surf of life, emblematic one might say, bobbing about with the flotsam of one-hundred perhaps amusing, weird, poem-like erections and excrescences, jetsam sodden on paper. These poetic leakages span a period of over thirty years and are not cast chronologically or on merit, but taken roughly at random as a drifting sampler from my notebooks and journals; poems that drew my interest or particular remembrance.
Someone told me – myself, I think. Yes, my self, for whom else would I take any notice? "Your poems," I said to me, "many are pretty much self-obsessed, aren't they; all about the very special, unique, joys and tribulations – though mostly tribulations, of being you. Not too much 'Every Day' humanity going on in your writing, is there?" "Yes, you may be right," I told me, "but 'Every Day Poems' they most certainly are, for this is one's life when one happens to live as a neurotic, anti-social, extrovert, introverted invert who writes poems in private, personal diary-form over many decades, and then decides to slap some of them together in poetry-book-form. Not much getting away from the self in a diary, is there? Not too much chat about politics and social reform either, particularly with so much intrusive self-yakking going on all the time. "I wish I could say, I am ready at last to step up and out, volunteer and do good altruistic works for humankind, but that would be a sham, because quite frankly deep in my heart of hearts I don't give a rat's arse." "Yes, no," I replied, "I think you are right." I took myself out for coffee, and we sat in the window of the café watching the other people's world go by: disinterested, ironic, separate and melancholic, but also taking in everything around us, amused and appalled, playing our game of stripping the people to the bare bone and beyond. "There now," I suggested after a time, "don't you feel better, having unburdened and faced up to your-me-me-me self?" "No, I cannot say I do," I confirmed, "but I think I will leave you now and return to my solitary room . . . I would like to be alone." "Yes, okay . . . me, too." So there I am, you see – we do have a few good times together, me and I; and life not entirely angst ridden . . . though life in general is, for all people that on earth do dwell.
About the author
D. L. Forbes works as an artist & writer & resides in Northern California Western Scotland & Southern England