Sunday, September 6, 2009

Feature: Douglas C Pugh Day 1

Our feature this week is Douglas C Pugh. His creativity spans through many areas including, but not limited to: editing, poetry, fiction, & painting. He is also an AMAZING Scrabble/Word Twist player! We are very pleased to be able to share a sampling of his offerings here for you this week.

Welcome to *Mnemosyne*, Doug!

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The Cricket’s Song

The cricket sings
While somnolent shimmers
Play chase
As the sun bakes down,
Its toll exacting
Retribution in silence:
Too heated
To move,
To live,
To breathe;
But still
The cricket sings.

Nature pants
In shallow whispers,
Afraid the sun
Will see
And burn
That bit more in spite
And defiance,
Basking in aridity.

The lizards flicker
And fur and feather
Crawl into the
Darkest of shade,
And still
The cricket sings
Its turbulent rasp
So shrill
In glee-expounding life
Broadcasting its knowledge
That the sun is deaf
And the words pass by
Though noise is heard
And the world
Sleeps along.

To the joy
Of the vocal warrior
As the cricket sings.

© Douglas C. Pugh (previously published by Bewildering Stories)

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Douglas Pugh is a man of so many parts that even he (especially he) does not know where to start. Poet, novelist, short story writer, artist, philosopher, cook, husband, father, son and well ... we'll see about that Holy Ghost bit, eh?

A Shropshire lad from the UK, one of Britain's undiscovered jewels of countryside and history (think 11th century castle in the middle of the county capital, buried Roman cities and Darwin's birthplace) he was schooled at Adams' Grammar School, which to this day is virtually a boys' only school that has an amazing record of academic excellence. Here, he discovered poetry amongst the 16th century corridors. Although entranced by the imagery of Wilfred Owen and others he took many years to realize his own form of expression.

A factory manager in his career in the UK; he now manages The Glade, a country home in the northern wilds of Ontario (quite possibly the most beautiful place in the world), helps run the increasingly successful onlinewriters' forum, The Write Idea ( and co-edits its spin-off ezine, TheRightEyedDeer ( There, he is the smiling lunatic in the asylum, with his focused wife (Donna Gagnon, herself a good playwright and poet) desperately trying to keep him reined in. He also often pokes his irreverent tongue out at his many friends on Facebook.

Doug's work appears in Voices of the West Country (Anchor Press) and in a wide selection of poetry and fiction anthologies published through The Write Idea and Slingink forums. His poetry and fiction can also be found at Bewildering Stories, The Fib Review, Leaf Garden, EveryDayPoets and The Smoking Poet.

Totally unconvinced of the worth of his own words, Doug is always surprised by the wonderfully kind comments that he receives from readers. His art (or as he terms it, 'daubing') is much the same. But he will ALWAYS smile, encourage and help others on the same path.

Although frustrated by health issues recently (he has recently lost the sight in his left eye and is undergoing investigation for possible MS), he always uses some advice he was given when he started work in UK factories many years ago: 'Never let the buggers get you down.'

Doug is currently seeking an agent for his two novels, A Pocketful of Feathers and Downtown, and hopes one day to get the chance to write a chapbook or two of poetry.


  1. Wow.. love the poem.. But love the Bio !! What an interesting person.. Someone I clearly need to get to know better.

    Welcome to Mnemosyne Doug!!

  2. What a cool image (a cricket) to work as metaphor upon the natural lay of the land: beneath it, a code of burning life-force is conveyed to us human shade and ease seekers.

    A delirious, oblivious insect...zenning himself in the sun or sunning himself in the zen...says to life, "Bring it on!" --

    Its turbulent rasp
    So shrill
    In glee-expounding life
    Broadcasting its knowledge
    That the sun is deaf

    This reminds me (oddly) of a Scriabin piano sonata. The composer's annotations speak of insects (bees, I think) whizzing in the intense sunlight, as a poetic symbol for his music's attempted apotheosis.

    Burn, baby, burn...

  3. And this poem also is exceptional on technical grounds: words spill fluidly and "musically"...the rhythm crisp, staccato, chirruping its way to the end.