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September 29th, 2005

My new column is live now at - it’s the story (from the beginning) of how Godhead the movie came to be where and what it is…

Today is the birthday of Cervantes, who brought us that wondrous tale of chivalry gone mad, Don Quixote. In honor of that, here is a poem I wrote. It is the beginning of a story that I collaborated on with Brian Hopkins – he wrote a different poem later in the story. Our protagonist was working around the clock against the Millennium bug in computer programs – it was one of his many obsessions. Another was a woman he met who was a poet. She wrote about everything but herself, because she said once you wrote it down; things went gray…that story was published at – and the title was “A Poem of Adrian, Gray.” Here is the poem….

Endless spirals,
Don Quixote tilting windmills
of loneliness and doubt
against a sunrise backdrop
of hope, sliding relentlessly toward
Solitary fortress
fortified by brief glimpses...
Synapse images of
Dreams half-feared and
Desires molten through
To the soul.
Dangling carrot perfection
Slides easily through
timorous groping talons
of self-imposed inadequacy.
Chemically bandaged mind
Driving drained and broken frame,
Buying time/love/nothing
Until the 2000th time
A day is born
and truth and reality
merge - reform- destroy
And twist in endless spirals,
--- DNW

I’ve been thinking about poetry a lot lately. I believe I’ll be writing more of it this coming year than I have in quite some time. It’s funny. When I started writing, poems were all I ever really completed. My first published work was in a tiny mimeographed publication titled “The Body Eclectic,” and it was titled “A Poem.” I received the princely sum of $2.00. I kept the check, instead of cashing it, but it has been lost somewhere – probably in the house fire that ate up so much of my past while I was still in the US Navy.

I stopped writing so much poetry when I started writing fiction. Every now and then something would break in my life, or my heart, and I’d scribble furiously for a while, but nothing serious. Over the years I’ve written occasional verse – enough to put into a collection along with Rain Graves and Mark McLaughlin and win the Bram Stoker Award for poetry, but not enough to really call myself a poet.

When I was last in Europe, I ended up falling like the clumsy ass I am, and shattering my elbow. I wasn’t even drunk at the time, just walking down the road in Toulon, France, window shopping. I fell, shattered the elbow, and went out drinking. Over the next 9 days, I was given 800 mg Morin, a hot water bottle, and a pat on the back by US Navy corpsmen who assured me my arm was bruised. When the ship’s Doc (who was a hard-partying fellow and not in his office much) finally saw the arm, he just shook his head. Being an ex-athlete, he was also an orthopedic specialist. He knew it was bad the second he saw it, but all he could do was put it in a sling and have me wait. We were just a few days out of Norfolk, VA, and he said that if I let it set as it was, I’d never be able to straighten it again. Swell.

Anyway, during that period of time I wrote a series of poems that was published a couple of years ago by Kelp Queen Press (first at, THEN by Kelp Queen) titled “Cities of Light and Darkness,” encompassing the memories and images my mind collected during tours of Florence, Rome, Pisa, and Crete, all filtered through Motrin and pain. I suspect that was when I started thinking, occasionally, in more poetic language and wondering why I no longer wrote such thoughts down.

I hope to change that soon, and I will probably drop a few of the poems I come up with here…just so they get out to breathe. I’ll end today with another – this is one of those I wrote for “Cities of Light and Darkness.” I still have some copies for sale of the broadside set – illustrated and with cover art by Lisa Snelling, if anyone is interested.

St. Paul's Basilica - (A Cautionary Statement)

By David Niall Wilson

They built their lives
Into the walls of
The Basilica in Rome.
Days, years, lifetimes,
No difference to the stone,
No difference to history.
Only the church remains.
Men long forgotten carved stone,
Painted visions,
Worshipped with characters from
The world's best selling novel,
And died.
We never met them,
But we know them through the walls,
Rising to challenge the skies,
The paintings, brilliant and inspired,
Ancient and admired.
Through colonnades and altars
They reach to us through time,
Embracing each new face,
Filling each mind, heart, and soul
With the wonder
Of their lives.
We cannot reproduce,
In our modern, technological world,
What they built from desire.
We cannot copy what they
Accomplished through faith.
We have walked upon the moon,
The cost the heart of the Earth.
They built their lives
Into the walls.
We fling ours to the stars.

12:21 9/23/94

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