A moment of clarity...

Apocalyptic Vision, the title poem from my anthology of Dark Poetry Apocalyptic Visions, has special significance for me as it was the first. It was written during the winter of 1990-91 as the world held its breath awaiting the inevitability of the 1^st Gulf War. At the time I was living in the attic of an isolated tumble-down bungalow on the Lizard Peninsula in Cornwall, struggling to survive on little money and less hope for the future as I mourned a love lost. By night I drank and wandered the rugged Lizard Downs, often finding myself at the cliff top above The Point, by day I slept off the night before. I felt my life could get no lower. Then everything changed...

On a crisp winter’s day I aimlessly wandered the streets of Helston during a rare daytime visit to civilization, noticing the shoppers going about their day little more than they noticed me. I was pulled up suddenly by a strange noise that was not so much heard over the bustle that surrounded me as felt under it; a kind of throbbing vibration in my breast and temple that droned on and on, louder and louder. I looked about in confusion to find the source and saw that no-one else was reacting, the crowd simply parted about me with a mutter and a scowl at my obstruction of their vital journey. Slowly my gaze was drawn upwards as I realised the noise came from above, beyond the low hanging blanket of cloud, as comprehension washed over me like cold rain. I was hearing aero-engines, big ones. Some-where high above this small town English street large aircraft droned across the sky, bringing to mind US B-52 heavy bombers en-route to the Persian Gulf. The throbbing reverberation rumbled on, increasing to a dull roar that surely even the most ardent bargain hunter could not ignore, and yet they did, paying more attention to the obvious lunatic staring dumbly at the sky and blocking their path to the sale signs.

At that precise moment I had an epiphany. I immediately purchased a pen and note-book and boarded the first bus home, sketching out the bare bones of the first couple stanzas of my Apocalyptic Vision by the time I reached the bungalow. I retreated to the attic, my garret, and continued to write...

The contents of Apocalyptic Visions is a direct expression of that moment...