Blueskin the Cat
It begins
Publisher: Footsteps Press
ISBN: 9781908867582
Number of pages: 282
Dimensions: 203 x 133 x 15 mm
Weight: 295 g
Language: English
The Wandering Poet is a literary biography of the poet and writer Shänne Sands, who was loved by an MI6 spy and an Indian king. It is the life of a woman in the second half of the twentieth century in her own words and those taken from the letters of the people in her life. The core of this work is her own 'Extracts From the Subconscious', a series of thoughts on her experiences in the 1960s. It takes in her Second World War childhood in Cornwall, her travels, her best seller 'Is Rosemary Your Daughter?', in 1969, her children, family, sadness and laughter. The Wandering Poet is wrapped in the mythical belief of the wanderer, who from age-to-age watches and experiences world history. It is explosive, passionate and unique.
The Wanderer
Trust is a dream. Humanity a myth I recite like a lullaby to soothe the understanding of how cold the night can be when a home is far distant, if it exists at all. I have been around the world so many times it has become as small to me as for any mouse seeking warmth in a hole dug in the damp soil of a Cornish hillside, which is its only safe space.
Down the ages of my wanderings people have narrowed their imaginations to a point where wonder and beauty have to be mined through the hard surface of nations. The only freedom I have left, is the multitude of solitudes in my mind, and the times I taste that freedom only arrive when writing about my loneliness, tracing events I could have forgotten except they resurrect themselves, like the burning flecks in whitish-grey smoke haphazardly rising from a dying camp fire; reminding me of everyone who has burned. The sacrifice that foreshadows yet more sacrifice. Past events that bring me faces whose names I have not sought for centuries. Remnants of voices I knew and loved. Some isolated hopes of people who only had dreams left because tribes are harsh to each other.
I am lost to history because all history is mine; I am lost to myself for I continually recreate who I am to hide all I have been; I am lost to the human race who think me mere legend. Still, love tears into me and makes me bleed.
It was not always so.