Photo Source: Win Mckenna/Getty Photos

To stand
a chance
of being
a woman
has to be
modest and polite,
and yet erudite.

She must,
at all costs,
her voice
from being
tainted by

She must break
her silence
and efface
her lifelong,
keen of rage,
suppress her pain
and somehow
numb herself to
the nauseating
shame of being

before the
smug white
men in suits
who sit in
judgement of
her truth —

a truth
she has to find
the courage to
before the world
to honour and reclaim
a teenage girl’s
a truth —

a truth

“Behead yourself” – Rumi

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash:

It took six hard
chops from the
rotten butcher’s
axe to lop off
Cromwell’s head
at thebloody block.

And Mary Queen
of Scots bore
three cruel cuts
to crack the chord
connecting cranium
and spine.

Yet, one thin sinew
didn’t give
and only split
with the lifting
of her dripping head –

but then her wig
came off
in the axeman’s
greasy hand
and the gory ball
rolled all across
the hall…

and for fifteen
minutes more,
her moving lips
shared silent secrets
of her meeting
with Eternity.

It makes a
seem a dream
to die for…

Louis MacNeice Credit ; Kurt Hutton/Picture Post — Hulton Archive, via Getty Images

“Marina Bay Sands” Singapore” by Lily Banse on Unsplash

I watched Crazy Rich Asians on the day it opened in Singapore, the tiny island nation where the story is mainly set. To be honest, I hadn’t expected anything. To say I was surprised to find myself with a lump in my throat would be an understatement. I don’t even like romantic comedies as a rule (apart from the marvellously witty work of Nora Ephron, that is) and you would normally have to put a revolver against my head to make me go and see a non-satirical film about the filthy rich.

Thinking about the movie afterwards, though, I realised…

“Brown Acoustic Guitar Near White Leather Padded Sofa” by rawpixel on Unsplash

I’m sitting on my morning bus,

Surrounded by Candy Crush

And mute Korean dramas

While Pleasures Of The Harbor

Waves and swells in my ears.

The softness of its strings

Asserts that beauty is a thing

On which you can still place

A portion of your faith,

And I wish Phil Ochs was here.

But my breakfast of toast and bombs

And coffee and atrocities won’t stop

Playing in my primed, exploding mind,

Like death’s contorting bassline

Beneath the strings’ elegant veneer.

Childrens’ wild, enormous eyes

And their weeping mothers’ cries

Condemn the blank cocoon

Of our tortuous commute,


“White House, Washington DC” by David Everett Strickler on Unsplash

I have spent hours listening to an 11-minute phone call to President Donald Trump recorded, with his permission, by the legendary Washington Post journalist Bob Woodward. The call took place on August 14th this year and relates to the journalist’s attempts to arrange an interview with the president to get material for his forthcoming book Fear: Trump in the White House.

Woodward is an absolute A-lister as far as American journalists go. With his colleague Carl Bernstein, he played the most important role in bringing President Nixon’s criminal involvement in the Watergate scandal to light in the early 1970s, a…

The Buxton children, late 1930s. My father, Robin Buxton, is on the far right.

Photo “Couple Holding Hands” by Min An from Pexels

All the stories

we could tell

of love and how

it turned to hell;

of certain vows

believers made

and all the ways

they got betrayed;

of images

we won’t forget

that taught us how

our course was set;

of cruelty,

or awkwardness

that seemed so cruel


“Body of Water” by Borna Bevanda on Unsplash

(For Douglas Harding and Colin Fox)

Be still and see that I AM God.

Be still and see that I AM.

Be still and see That.

Be still and See.

Be still.


© 2018 Brendan Buxton

‘The Laughing Philosopher: American Poet Walt Whitman (1819–92) by George C. Cox (1887) Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Digital ID ppmsca.07549 Public Domain

I feel I might bump
into you, Walt Whitman,
each time I turn
a corner onto Broadway
or cross Houston
onto Bleeker,
might meet your
bright hooded eyes
beneath your cocky wideawake,
checking out the
handsome cab guys,
strolling down to Pfaff’s
in your cowhide boots
and open, unbleached shirt
to watch and absorb;
always in and out the game.

But all the waistcoats
and the whiskers,
all this studied Soho
hipster cool indifference isn’t you.

I want to run into you, Walt,
need your open, honest hug
of democratic faith.

For, now, the zealots
are orchestrating chaos. …

Brendan Buxton

I write about anything that interests me.

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