Open Closed

Open Closed Open letter addressed by me to myself as as though I am in any way complicit in my third time failure; entering what is becoming an annual crop failure in the beautiful place where I was ugly born; where the judge year after year looks red rock faced with rage, or with tears streaming down their cheeks with incredulity at my wide off the mark poesy. My crop this year was two haikus short on which reasonable people (whoever they are) would love to quaff while the other, long lines, (just within the limits) as though I, a Camusian existentialist, had counted, discounted again, and again, until the dizziness of decision made me yelp, "yeah! it does me proud oh judge". 'Perception is All' as it foxily upsets our stall. In our life expressed for truth it is hard to tell even if quarried deep for it is still queried deep. Shallow or short 'Truth is not open to all' but is seen as so precious as to be hermentic, sealed, so only the few, only the right-on literati can judge. Never mind! This old comforter raises one's eyes from the list of winners - one, two, three; 'Highly Commended' too; the sentence embossed by one's writing on the envelope, for the arena of the sky backdrops the shushing green yellow tree leaves and slowing turning gold beach hedge that the red hot copper has so speedily, successfully infiltrated. As the Constable clouds stately sail by on their voyage eastwards there is always next year, an easier open, or my very own closed, competition - even then not winning! All this is small beer compared to the rum of worldly strife, the champagne of celebrity, the vin ordinaire of the good, the bitter of labour, and our sometimes burgundy blessed days. Peter Dorr 25th. October 2011