Otherworlds

Just to get it out of the way, as I suspect it may be held up as a human shield in front of snipers, the reason I do not like the new Doctor Who series is NOT because it now has a female lead. I was thrilled to bits when the reveal of Jodie Whitaker took place, looking forward to a new era of the show that I’ve loved ever since my earliest memories of television.    I’ve always scorned those reactionary Whovians who said that the Doctor could never be a woman and teased them by asking if they only liked the character because it had testicles and if so wasn’t that a weird criterion for liking a show.     I cheered at the mention of the Corsair in The Doctor’s Wife who was clearly described as having been in their time both male and female, and at the introduction of Missy who was by far the most interesting iteration of The Master since Delgado passed in 1973. What My Concerns Were From the moment I heard that Chris Chibnall was going to be the new show runner, well before the new

Sleep will not come, but old ghost comes He knows the doors, the steps And every key to every long locked door Wildfire cannot burn so well as he, And searing heat is balm beside his gaze, Each word, each phrase of his Falls like the heart of stars And crushes, scorches, Makes red the sky I curse that sky and all its shades For God looks down who once looked down On innocence and peace And jealous for what He could never know To Him he took each undrawn breath And all its songs and stories, first to last Old ghost, old ghost, Thy worm-voice burrows in my ear Writhing inward, seeking clean meat To chew and feast, Leaving waste and brooding eggs To wake and stretch Draw breath and feast and live Each in their time, and they shall have their time, I’ll wait for no nativity But garb myself in feathers midnight-black Crow’s garb, Raven’s mantle, Climb step by step, and step by step Till heaven’s borders shrink before each step Tainted by flesh, Grass withering

I wake, with slumber fogging up my head And turn to where your sleeping shadow lies And stretch my arm across the half cold bed And miss your eyes, and miss and miss your eyes Coffee for one, and while the water drips The light moves slyly and I watch entranced, Upon the kitchen floor, a cruel eclipse, The moving shadows of the waltz we danced I need to clear my thoughts, and breathe fresh air But in the garden there’s no solace found In silhouette a summer’s kiss hangs there Upon the fence, and in the past I’m drowned The car was coming fast, too fast it sped A thunderbolt, a kraken on the lane, Then painted new in Rorschach-inkblot red It left you there, unmade, in shaded rain The future’s long and cold. How can I last So haunted by the shadows of the past?

From the Preface: This is the secret no one Dare discuss: The final voice that sings and calls to Dust All who are called upon to Dance upon the day That foolish piper blows the Dream away. + The Tryst All fondly I recall the day The sun shone down, a gentle kiss, Your endless gentle courtly way, I smile in memory of bliss And touch the wood of Tyburn Tree How many lovers parted there? How many oaths of love were sworn How many smiled, or shed a tear, Or laughed, or cried, with joy forlorn Beneath the shade of Tyburn Tree? The shade beneath the tree was cool My eyes met yours as souls we shared, Your will o’er mine did ever rule My heart since first our lives were paired. E’en now beneath the Tyburn Tree.  Songs we heard sung, and laughter pealed When by that tree your hand sought mine, That gentle touch, a compact sealed You knew and know, my heart is thine, Not only there, by Tyburn Tree I feel your touch, I hear your voice I close my eyes I see your face, Then g