A Melancholic Introspect

Ross Clark is an Australian poet.


Father of a friend.

He haunts my mind with images and a sense of loss.

We will probably never meet yet I know him.

For, from different causes, I saw myself when reading his words;

“The big men proclaim ‘black dog’ and
we all know what they mean, but my landlord
does not permit me pets”

Perhaps, one day, I will find the skill to create happily although I may be running out of days. I no longer have half a century to write the Australian masterpiece.

I shall continue to write my follies under the gaze of that dread black dog. It is a comfortably unproductive life at the moment as he is off chasing other prey. Frustrating, though. I have ideas, feelings, urges, yet need the return of that vicious hound to help me sort the syllables.

For the moment, my staid self-censoring landlord will not permit me my necessary pets.

I do not even have my well-thumbed Omah Khayyam with me.

And many a Knot unravel’d by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.

4 responses to “A Melancholic Introspect

  1. your follies are festive – but i’ve heard the growl in your words, and seen the hackles in your photography… would love to meet the black dog…


  2. Thanks for those words, daisyfae. I try to hide that growl but sometimes my photographs betray me. Trust me, that black dog is not a comfortable guest. I often wonder why creativity and depression are so often linked.


  3. I am considering Churchill’s answer to the black dog’s visits: namely, taking to wearing nothing but oversized navy blue overalls and a cravat, smoking inordinately large cigars, drinking neat scotch and shouting at people.



  4. A Cravat – I have never tried that – could be very Noel Cowardish. And may I have the Brandy, not the Scotch?

    I don’t shout, it hurts the throat – I create nasty little limericks about those who annoy me!


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