Cave painter stood and knelt on the floor.
Whoever he was, he knew how to draw.
Blue bison, red elk, grey mammoths,
animals his tribe hunted and saw,
he captured on the wall of his cave,
not knowing long after he had gone,
the demolisher time his art would save.
To him the stars were sparks from a flint.
In the dark, he watched them flicker and glint.
White moon, yellow sun, brown mountain,
to what lay beyond they were a hint.
His hand amazed, four fingers and thumb.
Not even the old scratcher of signs
could give him pictures of what was to come.
Build a bridge of jade
to pass over the river
to reach the far shore
that cannot be held
in the glass of a mirror.
Shed the plans you made
till there’s nothing behind you.
All your dreams discard,
so your step is light,
watch the knots you tied undo.
My book, Klubbe the Turkle and the Golden Star Coracle, was chosen as a Finalist in The Wishing Shelf Book Awards for 2015. Here is the feedback I got for my book.
Title: Klubbe the Turkle and the Golden Star Coracle
Author: Philip Dodd
Star Rating: 5 Stars
Number of Readers: 26
Of the 26 readers
26 would like to read another book by the author.
22 thought the cover was good or excellent.
25 felt the writing style was excellent: easy to follow and descriptive.
16 thought the ending was excellent.
“This author created a very interesting world for his characters. I enjoyed it a lot.” Boy, aged 13
“Very easy to read. Fun and interesting.” Girl, aged 13
“A very light, fun read with interesting plot and fab characters. I liked the style of language and the ending was fun. I thought the cover was not so good and the blurb’s a bit dodgy. But, all in all, a good read. My kids enjoyed it.” Parent, aged 37
“I liked the humour and the hobbit feel of the magical world.” Girl, aged 12
“Sweet and fun.” Primary school teacher, aged 29
“A fun, atmospheric novel. A finalist and highly recommended.”
The Wishing Shelf Book Awards
Klubbe the Turkle and the Golden Star Coracle
The Blue Orchid
Surely this is the way.
Yes, the road sloped steeply down, like this one.
These flat roofed buildings on either side look familiar.
We turn the corner and we should be there,
but what if it’s gone?
Hear what she said, the local woman:
“You mean the little hotel, the Blue Orchid?
It stood there. They knocked it down.
Said it was too old to repair,
that they’d build something else on the site,
but they never did.
Just a flat waste of broken stone now, as you can see,
shadowed from the sun,
silent, except when it rains,
and it runs down the grid.”
Well, that’s it. Sorry for leading you here.
The past kept what it hid.
It is just that I was young and I was happy there.
Never go back, they say.
Perhaps they are right.
Should’nt have come.
Left it as a memory.
But there’s more than pain in yesterday.
I am kakapo,
humans named me so,
up wood plants I go,
on giant rocks they grow.
I am a parrot.
Though wings I have got,
to fly I cannot.
My big claws I stamp,
eat leaves wet and damp,
to trees I climb I clamp.
Good at climbing trees,
which is fortunate,
for I live in a forest,
to have a pause in prose.
Sure as hives have bees,
the forest bends its knees.
Huge trees older than I
thrust up to the sky.
Do much the same each day,
green grub I eat and play.
Keep my claws in joint,
find a nice view point.
The parrot I prefer
to any bird out there,
for such I am one,
like a leaf here and gone.
Do not know I die,
immortal then seem I.
Of time not aware,
leave that to human care.
I boom to my mate,
my intentions state.
Forest I walk and climb
in my own green time.
Other birds can fly,
watch them flapping by.
No brain to envy,
like water I flow free.
Wild the wind will blow,
acceptance peace I know.
I am kakapo.
Analytical Engine I do not understand,
no head for numbers, only words,
weave your programmed pattern,
compute for me some music,
activate the wings of mechanical birds,
motivate my mind to stimulate machinery.
I will tell you something about history.
Navigate the ocean,
map the waste of water,
Analytical Engine, Victorian computer,
amaze me like a Mayan calendar.
Tell me of Ada Lovelace, Byron’s daughter,
who knew of your potential,
had a vision for you,
beyond that of Charles Babbage, your designer,
but she left the stage,
long before the computer had its age.
We all have our limits,
the universe has none.
Almost I grasp what is,
then the moment’s gone.