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  1. This is a debut story by a new author and was prominently placed on my Amazon Prime reading thing to attract my attention when I was browsing looking for something to read but too tight to actually want to fork out good money for something which would be an impulse buy. I read the blurb and it said it was a psychological thriller. After reading it though I am not entirely sure why this was advertised as a psychological thriller as it wasn't one. It started off predominantly as a story of family angst. It was a complex story of abandonment and the scars of resentment and insecurity that leaves along with the attempts at healing and reconciliation. It had so much potential and it could've been outstanding but there was something just not right about it, something missing. It was just an OK story, a bit mediocre really with a bunch of characters who were all flawed and not entirely likeable. I stuck with it though as I am physically incapable of abandoning a book and I argued it was free, I had nothing better to read and it was readable. I stuck with it and the more I read the more it grew on me and I did start to get into it. Then about three quarters of the way through it suddenly took off into the realms of the totally bizarre and more than a little bit over the top. I had pretty much worked out the twist as the way the story was leading it was just too obvious as to who it was pointing at to be the long lost brother and I turned out to be correct in my assumptions as to who it really was. Then it ended, actually it didn't end it just stopped and it stopped with a plethora of unanswered points and the gaping plot holes were left unfilled. The climax of the story was actually an anti-climax because of the way it was constructed, the way it didn't entirely make sense and the way all the subplots that surrounded it were just left hanging. As I say this was an Amazon Prime freebie and all I can say is I am so glad I didn't pay good money for this, which is a shame as it had a lot of potential and could've been outstanding.
  2. Apple

    BGO Memories!

    I showed up here after it was recommended by Luna after she left Big Readers. I noticed and was amazed by how friendly everyone was here as I had always felt belittled for my tastes in books and my POV made to feel as though it was worthless probably because most of the time I disagreed with what the mods said and they didn't seem to like that. I don't post often and my membership has been sporadic but it was always comforting to know this site was here.
  3. I like some Catherine Cookson books but I found the stories became too samey and I kind of went off her. The formula generally went along the lines of young working class victorian girl gets raped by rich victorian brute and has his baby. There are some different stories but they all generally revolve around this premise. As for the High Banks query, the majority of her stories are set in the North East of England, around Newcastle, North/South Shields, Hebburn and Jarrow area. Some locations are real and some are made up but you can generally work out roughly where she was talking about and make an educated guess as to where the made up places were based on. Some real historical companies are mentioned in some of her stories for example Palmers Shipyard gets a mention in a number of her books.
  4. So, hoping this year will be better than last (but it can't be much worse!) RATING: *****5 stars - Outstanding! Brilliant! Highly recommended, read it, read it now! ****4 stars - Very good, recommended, ***3 stars - A good enjoyable read, read it if you want to, **2 stars - It was ok, not totally sure about it so don't blame me if you think its rubbish *1 star - Not good, just about readable but not recommended No stars - Utter crap, don't bother - should never have been published! (R) - Re-read FICTION: Finding Grace by K L Slater ** Feral Sins by Suzanne Wright * My Lovely Wife by Samantha Downing ** The Daughter by Lucy Dawson *** The Secrets you Hide by Kate Helm *** The Man Behind Closed Doors by Maria Frankland **** Reapers Pack by Rhea Watson*** His Wife's Sister by A J Willis *** When She Returned by Lucinda Berry **** (I gave this 4 stars because of how good it was for the majority of the book) Without Her Consent by McGarvey Black **** What Lies Between Us by John Marrs *** Never Alone by Elizabeth Haynes *** Wicked All Night by Jeaniene Frost **** The Graveyard Shift by Darynda Jones *** Family by Owen Mullen ***** Beautifully Cruel by J T Geissinger *** Freed by E L James *** Blaze by Suzanne Wright *** Ashes by Suzanne Wright *** Embers by Suzanne Wright *** Shadows by Suzanne Wright * Omens by Suzanne Wright *** The Locksmith by Linda Calvey**** Behind Closed Doors by B A Paris *** Fallen by Suzanne Wright *** Choose Me by Tess Geritsen & Gary Braver **** Home Truths by Tina Seskis Her Last Breath by Hilary Davidson **** Leave Well Alone by A J Campbell * The Charley Davidson series (13 book series) by Darynda Jones (R) NON-FICTION: Helter Skelter (The True Story of the Manson Murders) by Vincent Bugliosi & Curt Gentry *** Inside Broadmoor by Jonathan Levi & Emma French **
  5. It has just occurred to me that I never listed my reads for last year. I think we can all agree last year was unlike any other. It wasn't a good year for me I couldn't get 'into' books, to be fair I couldn't get into anything and as a result my list is quite poor and none really made any impression on me apart from Slash's autobiography. I may give a few of these another try this year to see if it was the book or just me not engaging. No stars - Don't bother! No words adequate to describe how bad this was. * - Barely readable not sure how it got published but managed to finish it ** - Just about passable *** - Meh! It's OK I suppose, read it if you want to **** - A good solid read would recommend it. ***** - Read it, read it now! Fiction: The Perfect Son by Freda McFadden *** The Black Mile by Mark Dawson ** The Sense of Ending by Julian Barney ** Walk into Silence by Susan McBride *** The Man of Legends by Keneth Johnson Too Close by Natalie Daniels ** Burn by Suzanne Wright*** Wicked Bite by Jeaniene Frost*** Non-Fiction: Slash Autobiography **** Re-reads:
  6. For what it's worth I would like to see the site continue. I'm not shy about posting reviews on books but I tend to only post reviews on books which I've either adored or hated no middle of the of the road this book was ok 'Meh' type reviews as I don't think they worth doing.
  7. Blimey! That's a roller coaster of a thread. I make one of my random periodical appearances and after reading all that I feel kind of guilty now that I don't drop by more often than I do. I've always liked this group but my reading habits are pretty hit and miss. It's all or nothing with me. I'm either reading nothing at all or devouring every book in sight. (I'm currently doing the latter at the moment which prompted my return). For what it's worth, I'm glad that the group appears to be carrying on.
  8. Possibly, but I don't think so, as IMO there really wouldn't be enough of a story there to make another book, and if they did it would just be milking it. It was just a number of basic unanswered questions mainly surrounding 'Kate' the woman who went to the cult. Questions which you had because the story had been so in depth and so well written. The story from the perspective of the family she left behind and the second wife was complete, you were just left thinking 'but what happened to Kate in the end?' and a simple epilogue answering them probably written from the daughters POV would've just been enough.
  9. Another Prime Reading freebie and whilst I thoroughly enjoyed it I was slightly disappointed by the ending as to me it didn't, it just stopped with a number of unanswered questions. The premise of the story is a woman who leaves her family and joins a cult. Only to turn up again a number of years alter after the family she left behind has moved on. I have watched a number of documentaries on cults to know how they work and get into peoples heads and this felt very accurately written. I loved the in depth narration detailing everything and laying out the story and almost walking you through it step by step and showing you how and more importantly why everything happened the way it did and it really captivated me from the start. There were two time lines the 'now' timeline was written from three different perspectives, 'Kate' the person who was brainwashed by the cult, 'Abbi' the daughter she left behind and 'Meredith' the new wife and stepmother to Abbi. Then there is the 'then' timeline explaining how and why Kate got involved with the cult and her back story and that is told completely from her perspective. The fact it was so in depth made the ending seem all the more jarring. I can see why it ended like it did but in my opinion it shouldn't have done so, there should've been an epilogue to round it off and answer the questions that were just left hanging there at the end unanswered.
  10. This was a weird one. The premise of the story is a woman being cared for who has been in a coma for 12 years suddenly and unexpectedly gives birth. You automatically think that she has been violated by a seedy male member of staff, or someone who has broken into the facility where she is being cared for, however the truth is far more bizarre. This was a Prime Reading freebie and whilst it seemed to be more than a bit incredulous and the person who is responsible goes off into la la land at one point and partakes in some rather over the top responses to avoid being discovered. It is a strange story part psychological thriller, part crime drama and part family drama and sometimes it doesn't seem to know what to settle on but despite that and despite the fact it does get quite incredulous at times especially when the truth comes out it was a compelling read and I would recommend it.
  11. Go Luna! I don't drop by very often as my reading habits tend to be all or nothing, and a lot of the time the books I've read don't actually warrant the time spent on a review but this is one of my periodical prodigal returns as I've just read a couple of books which I felt deserved a review one which has been an on going joke on this site and one which was seriously a good read. Anyway, less of my rambling well done Luna and good luck in your new role as moderator!
  12. This was not a book I would normally read. It was a gangland thriller and a story about two brothers living in London, one who was a complete psychopath and who ruled his patch with ruthless violence and varying levels of lunacy and the other who basically wants out and nothing more to do the family business after spending a number of years in prison. It was a freebie Prime Reading story which popped up due to the fact I'd read a couple of mafia stories so I picked it up with 'it's free so the what's the worst that could happen' attitude and it completely grabbed me from the first page and I read it in one sitting as I literally could not put it down. The twist at the end is jaw dropping you really don't see it coming (I normally spot the twists before they happen and work out what is going on) but this one hits your right out of left field but then you stop and think and all the vague references and subtle hints are there throughout the story and you think 'oh yeah' and for me that is the mark of a good writer that you don't manage to figure it out before the end. I don't really want to say anymore as there is a very good chance I will unwittingly add spoilers and this is a book you really need to read blind. But if you like gangland type stories (or even if you don't) and a good thriller then I would totally recommend this.
  13. FREED By E L James Well, it had to happen. The book Freed by E L James has been released, which is the final instalment of FSOG told from Christian's perspective and if you read my previous review you will see I was actually looking forward to this one. Mainly because Fifty Shades Freed was the book which made me realise that this could've been a fabulous story if the author had any writing talent at all and going right back the beginning this book actually got into my head a bit. In Fifty Shades Freed of the original trilogy you saw just how vulnerable the character of Christian was and how damaged. That came across loud and clear and so I was interested to see how that played out in reading the story from his point of view. It was totally different from the other two. The first one was basically the same story with she replaced with he a lot of the time and there really wasn't much else to say. Darker was better and this one, I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed it. (I know!) Don't get me wrong, the writing wasn't brilliant, but compared to the others it did at least look like it had been edited but it was quite jarring in places as the new stuff was much better than the original so when you were reading about situations which had previously been written but had to be there as both characters were present with the familiar dialogue from the original books you could really tell the difference. The story was familiar of course but the opening chapters were totally different and told the story of what happened between the time of the proposal and marriage (the second book ended with the proposal and the third started with the honeymoon with flashback of the wedding ceremony). It was actually quite heart-breaking to read in places as Christian was portrayed as a man totally in turmoil most of the time and trying to hide his vulnerabilities and present to the world a person who was totally in control. You read how he was terrified that something bad was always going to happen. These fears manifested in nightmares and seemingly unreasonable behaviour. It was quite upsetting sometimes to read, seeing how deep seated his issues were and how his mental health was totally damaged by his life experiences and also the hold his abusers still had over him. I'm glad I did read it though and finished what I started. I will say though, if E L James had been a better writer the whole series could've been a complete masterpiece and a fictional textbook showing how mental health problems manifest themselves. But sadly because the original books were so badly written and too much emphasis placed on the never ending sex the real story behind the superficial never got chance to come through - until you saw glimpses of it in the third book, so in a way Darker and Freed rectified that even though there still was pages and pages of unending sex. In conclusion, not brilliantly written but far better than anything that she has written previously. Not so repetitive, and far more descriptive, but that jarred with the sections of original dialogue. This particular book was head and shoulders above the others (I am uncertain if that is because Fifty Shades Freed was my favourite out of the original trilogy or because it was better written or a combination of both), but I would say if anyone was curious about FSOG don't read the original trilogy, read 'Grey' 'Darker' and 'Freed' instead.
  14. This year has been fairly decent reading wise, I managed a total of 36 books. Much less than last year but I have also been reading unpublished stuff on Wattpad and Wordpress. There is a lot of crap on there but if you are prepared to look you can find odd gems here and there. I haven't really seen any films this year as I haven't been to the cinema. But the telly has produced a number of excellent dramas. 2020 has a number of my favourite bands releasing new stuff but this year the stand out album for me was from Slipknot. REVIEW OF THE YEAR – 2019 Favourite Book: Times Convert by Deborah Harkness Favourite TV Programme: Chernobyl (close second: A Christmas Carol - the one from the makers of Peaky Blinders with Guy Pierce as Ebeneezer Scrooge and Stephen Graham as Jacob Marley) Favourite Film: Favourite Music Album/Song: Album – Slipknot: We are not your Kind/ Song – A Liar’s Funeral by Slipknot, from the album ‘We are not your Kind’
  15. THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL By Oscar Wilde I He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed. He walked amongst the trial men In a suit of shabby grey; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by. I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellow's got to swing." Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel. I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die. He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space. He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day; Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray; Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey. He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom. He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows. He does not know that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Slips through the padded door, And binds one with three leather thongs, That the throat may thirst no more. He does not bend his head to hear The burial office read, Nor while the terror of his soul Tells him he is not dead, Cross his own coffin, as he moves Into the hideous shed. He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass He does not pray with lips of clay For his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek The kiss of Caiaphas. II Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard, In the suit of shabby grey His cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay, But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every wandering cloud that trailed Its ravelled fleeces by. He did not wring his hands, as do Those witless men who dare To try to rear the changeling hope In the cave of black despair He only looked upon the sun, And drank the morning air. He did not wring his hands nor weep, Nor did he peek or pine, But he drank the air as though it held Some healthful anodyne; With open mouth he drank the sun As though it had been wine! And I and all the souls in pain, Who tramped the other ring, Forgot if we ourselves had done A great or little thing, And watched with gaze of dull amaze The man who had to swing. For strange it was to see him pass With a step so light and gay, And strange it was to see him look So wistfully at the day, And strange it was to think that he Had such a debt to pay. For oak and elm have pleasant leaves That in the spring-time shoot: But grim to see is the gallows-tree, With its alder-bitten root, And, green or dry, a man must die Before it bears its fruit! The loftiest place is that seat of grace For which all worldlings try But who would stand in hempen band Upon a scaffold high, And through a murderer's collar take His last look at the sky? It is sweet to dance to violins When Love and Life are fair To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air! So with curious eyes and sick surmise We watched him day by day, And wondered if each one of us Would end the self-same way, For none can tell to what red Hell His sightless soul may stray. At last the dead man walked no more Amongst the trial men, And I knew that he was standing up In the black dock's dreadful pen, And that never would I see his face In God's sweet world again. Like two doomed ships that pass in storm We had crossed each other's way But we made no sign, we said no word, We had no word to say; For we did not meet in the holy night, But in the shameful day. A prison wall was round us both, Two outcast men we were The world had thrust us from its heart, And God from out His care And the iron gin that waits for Sin Had caught us in its snare. III In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, And the dripping wall is high, So it was there he took the air Beneath the leaden sky, And by each side a Warder walked, For fear the man might die. Or else he sat with those who watched His anguish night and day; Who watched him when he rose to weep, And when he crouched to pray; Who watched him lest himself should rob Their scaffold of its prey. The Governor was strong upon The Regulations Act The Doctor said that death was but A scientific fact And twice a day the Chaplain called, And left a little tract. And twice a day he smoked his pipe, And drank his quart of beer His soul was resolute, and held No hiding-place for fear; He often said that he was glad The hangman's hands were near. But why he said so strange a thing No Warder dared to ask For he to whom a watcher's doom Is given as his task, Must set a lock upon his lips, And make his face a mask. Or else he might be moved, and try To comfort or console And what should Human Pity do Pent up in Murderer's Hole? What word of grace in such a place Could help a brother's soul? With slouch and swing around the ring We trod the Fools' Parade! We did not care: we knew we were The devil's own brigade And shaven head and feet of lead Make a merry masquerade. We tore the tarry rope to shreds With blunt and bleeding nails; We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, And cleaned the shining rails And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, And clattered with the pails. We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, We turned the dusty drill We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, And sweated on the mill But in the heart of every man Terror was lying still. So still it lay that every day Crawled like a weed-clogged wave And we forgot the bitter lot That waits for fool and knave, Till once, as we tramped in from work, We passed an open grave. With yawning mouth the yellow hole Gaped for a living thing; The very mud cried out for blood To the thirsty asphalt ring And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair Some prisoner had to swing. Right in we went, with soul intent On Death and Dread and Doom The hangman, with his little bag, Went shuffling through the gloom And each man trembled as he crept Into his numbered tomb. That night the empty corridors Were full of forms of fear, And up and down the iron town Stole feet we could not hear, And through the bars that hide the stars White faces seemed to peer. He lay as one who lies and dreams In a pleasant meadow-land, The watchers watched him as he slept, And could not understand How one could sleep so sweet a sleep With a hangman close at hand. But there is no sleep when men must weep Who never yet have wept So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave— That endless vigil kept, And through each brain on hands of pain Another's terror crept. Alas! it is a fearful thing To feel another's guilt! For, right within, the sword of Sin Pierced to its poisoned hilt, And as molten lead were the tears we shed For the blood we had not spilt. The Warders with their shoes of felt Crept by each padlocked door, And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, Gray figures on the floor, And wondered why men knelt to pray Who never prayed before. All through the night we knelt and prayed, Mad mourners of a corse! The troubled plumes of midnight were The plumes upon a hearse And bitter wine upon a sponge Was the savour of remorse. The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, But never came the day And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, In the corners where we lay And each evil sprite that walks by night Before us seemed to play. They glided past, they glided fast, Like travellers through a mist They mocked the moon in a rigadoon Of delicate turn and twist, And with formal pace and loathsome grace The phantoms kept their tryst. With mop and mow, we saw them go, Slim shadows hand in hand About, about, in ghostly rout They trod a saraband And damned grotesques made arabesques, Like the wind upon the sand! With the pirouettes of marionettes, They tripped on pointed tread But with flutes of fear they filled the ear, As their grisly masque they led, And loud they sang, and long they sang, For they sang to wake the dead. "Oho!" they cried, "the world is wide, But fettered limbs go lame! And once, or twice, to throw the dice Is a gentlemanly game, But he does not win who plays with Sin In the Secret House of Shame." No things of air these antics were, That frolicked with such glee To men whose lives were held in gyves, And whose feet might not go free, Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, Most terrible to see. Around, around, they waltzed and wound; Some wheeled in smirking pairs; With the mincing step of a demirep Some sidled up the stairs And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, Each helped us at our prayers. The morning wind began to moan, But still the night went on Through its giant loom the web of gloom Crept till each thread was spun: And, as we prayed, we grew afraid Of the Justice of the Sun. The moaning wind went wandering round The weeping prison-wall Till like a wheel of turning steel We felt the minutes crawl O moaning wind! what had we done To have such a seneschal? At last I saw the shadowed bars, Like a lattice wrought in lead, Move right across the whitewashed wall That faced my three-plank bed, And I knew that somewhere in the world God's dreadful dawn was red. At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, At seven all was still, But the sough and swing of a mighty wing The prison seemed to fill, For the Lord of Death with icy breath Had entered in to kill. He did not pass in purple pomp, Nor ride a moon-white steed. Three yards of cord and a sliding board Are all the gallows' need So with rope of shame the Herald came To do the secret deed. We were as men who through a fen Of filthy darkness grope We did not dare to breathe a prayer, Or to give our anguish scope Something was dead in each of us, And what was dead was Hope. For Man's grim Justice goes its way And will not swerve aside It slays the weak, it slays the strong, It has a deadly stride With iron heel it slays the strong, The monstrous parricide! We waited for the stroke of eight Each tongue was thick with thirst For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate That makes a man accursed, And Fate will use a running noose For the best man and the worst. We had no other thing to do, Save to wait for the sign to come So, like things of stone in a valley lone, Quiet we sat and dumb But each man's heart beat thick and quick, Like a madman on a drum! With sudden shock the prison-clock Smote on the shivering air, And from all the gaol rose up a wail Of impotent despair, Like the sound the frightened marshes hear From some leper in his lair. And as one sees most fearful things In the crystal of a dream, We saw the greasy hempen rope Hooked to the blackened beam, And heard the prayer the hangman's snare Strangled into a scream. And all the woe that moved him so That he gave that bitter cry, And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, None knew so well as I For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die. IV There is no chapel on the day On which they hang a man The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, Or his face is far too wan, Or there is that written in his eyes Which none should look upon. So they kept us close till nigh on noon, And then they rang the bell, And the Warders with their jingling keys Opened each listening cell, And down the iron stair we tramped, Each from his separate Hell. Out into God's sweet air we went, But not in wonted way, For this man's face was white with fear, And that man's face was grey, And I never saw sad men who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw sad men who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue We prisoners called the sky, And at every careless cloud that passed In happy freedom by. But there were those amongst us all Who walked with downcast head, And knew that, had each got his due, They should have died instead He had but killed a thing that lived, Whilst they had killed the dead. For he who sins a second time Wakes a dead soul to pain, And draws it from its spotted shroud, And makes it bleed again, And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, And makes it bleed in vain! Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb With crooked arrows starred, Silently we went round and round The slippery asphalt yard; Silently we went round and round, And no man spoke a word. Silently we went round and round, And through each hollow mind The memory of dreadful things Rushed like a dreadful wind, And Horror stalked before each man, And Terror crept behind. The warders strutted up and down, And kept their herd of brutes, Their uniforms were spick and span, And they wore their Sunday suits, But we knew the work they had been at, By the quicklime on their boots. For where a grave had opened wide, There was no grave at all Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideous prison-wall, And a little heap of burning lime, That the man should have his pall. For he has a pall, this wretched man, Such as few men can claim Deep down below a prison-yard, Naked for greater shame, He lies, with fetters on each foot, Wrapt in a sheet of flame! And all the while the burning lime Eats flesh and bone away, It eats the brittle bone by night, And the soft flesh by day, It eats the flesh and bone by turns, But it eats the heart always. For three long years they will not sow Or root or seedling there For three long years the unblessed spot Will sterile be and bare, And look upon the wondering sky With unreproachful stare. They think a murderer's heart would taint Each simple seed they sow. It is not true! God's kindly earth Is kindlier than men know, And the red rose would but glow more red, The white rose whiter blow. Out of his mouth a red, red rose! Out of his heart a white! For who can say by what strange way, Christ brings His will to light, Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? But neither milk-white rose nor red May bloom in prison air; The shard, the pebble, and the flint, Are what they give us there For flowers have been known to heal A common man's despair. So never will wine-red rose or white, Petal by petal, fall On that stretch of mud and sand that lies By the hideous prison-wall, To tell the men who tramp the yard That God's Son died for all. Yet though the hideous prison-wall Still hems him round and round, And a spirit may not walk by night That is with fetters bound, And a spirit may but weep that lies In such unholy ground, He is at peace—this wretched man— At peace, or will be soon There is no thing to make him mad, Nor does Terror walk at noon, For the lampless Earth in which he lies Has neither Sun nor Moon. They hanged him as a beast is hanged: They did not even toll A requiem that might have brought Rest to his startled soul, But hurriedly they took him out, And hid him in a hole. They stripped him of his canvas clothes, And gave him to the flies: They mocked the swollen purple throat, And the stark and staring eyes: And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud In which their convict lies. The Chaplain would not kneel to pray By his dishonoured grave Nor mark it with that blessed Cross That Christ for sinners gave, Because the man was one of those Whom Christ came down to save. Yet all is well; he has but passed To Life's appointed bourne And alien tears will fill for him Pity's long-broken urn, For his mourners will be outcast men, And outcasts always mourn. V I know not whether Laws be right, Or whether Laws be wrong All that we know who lie in gaol Is that the wall is strong And that each day is like a year, A year whose days are long. But this I know, that every Law That men have made for Man, Since first Man took his brother's life, And the sad world began, But straws the wheat and saves the chaff With a most evil fan. This too I know—and wise it were If each could know the same— That every prison that men build Is built with bricks of shame, And bound with bars lest Christ should see How men their brothers maim. With bars they blur the gracious moon, And blind the goodly sun And they do well to hide their Hell, For in it things are done That Son of God nor son of Man Ever should look upon! The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison-air It is only what is good in Man That wastes and withers there Pale anguish keeps the heavy gate, And the warder is despair. For they starve the little frightened child Till it weeps both night and day And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, And gibe the old and grey, And some grow mad, and all grow bad, And none a word may say. Each narrow cell in which we dwell Is a foul and dark latrine, And the fetid breath of living Death Chokes up each grated screen, And all, but Lust, is turned to dust In humanity's machine. The brackish water that we drink Creeps with a loathsome slime, And the bitter bread they weigh in scales Is full of chalk and lime, And Sleep will not lie down, but walks Wild-eyed, and cries to time. But though lean hunger and green thirst Like asp with adder fight, We have little care of prison fare, For what chills and kills outright Is that every stone one lifts by day Becomes one's heart by night. With midnight always in one's heart, And twilight in one's cell, We turn the crank, or tear the rope, Each in his separate Hell, And the silence is more awful far Than the sound of a brazen bell. And never a human voice comes near To speak a gentle word And the eye that watches through the door Is pitiless and hard And by all forgot, we rot and rot, With soul and body marred. And thus we rust Life's iron chain Degraded and alone And some men curse, and some men weep, And some men make no moan But God's eternal Laws are kind And break the heart of stone. And every human heart that breaks, In prison-cell or yard, Is as that broken box that gave Its treasure to the Lord, And filled the unclean leper's house With the scent of costliest nard. Ah! happy they whose hearts can break And peace of pardon win! How else may man make straight his plan And cleanse his soul from Sin? How else but through a broken heart May Lord Christ enter in? And he of the swollen purple throat, And the stark and staring eyes, Waits for the holy hands that took The thief to paradise; And a broken and a contrite heart The Lord will not despise. The man in red who reads the law Gave him three weeks of life, Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul's strife, And cleanse from every blot of blood The hand that held the knife. And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, The hand that held the steel For only blood can wipe out blood, And only tears can heal And the crimson stain that was of Cain Became Christ's snow-white seal. VI In Reading gaol by Reading town There is a pit of shame, And in it lies a wretched man Eaten by teeth of flame, In a burning winding-sheet he lies, And his grave has got no name. And there, till Christ call forth the dead, In silence let him lie No need to waste the foolish tear, Or heave the windy sigh The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. And all men kill the thing they love, By all let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword.
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