Sun-Kissed Golden Sand



Wet were the ways twisting through to Looe

and to Tintangle then round those solid stone

phalanges fingering accusingly at heaven where

we wandered with hand-gloved hands

to love in hayfields and on golden sands.


Do you remember sitting on that lichen licked

church stone wall? Do you recall? Our drive

to that place, and the farmstead and Pablo’s dog?

Do you remember how your feet wept crimson

up to St. Michael’s Mount? Or how they’d press

the golden sand where there they would sunder

and we with the wash-waves rolled like thunder?


Those sunny days and rain-swept lanes are

like the frozen frames of our long lost cameras.

Now the freeboards and their fishermen’s bands

have, like you now, sailed from the golden sands.

Our bond was of Cornish metal and like that ore

we faded. Distance now holds our storm and strife

and we keep safe in tin cases memories of our life.


Wild claws slash the jagged rocks at our lands end.

The omnipotent ocean separates us from blows

we rained down upon our hearts and minds.

Mine now beats free from the stonewalls and

blood stained glass we constructed for ourselves.

Yet I’ll never forget those kisses on that heathen

damp golden sand, or the sweet sward of Eden.


Here my lonely weather-beaten heart is warmed,

by a Mexican tide reaching where I abide in solitude

standing guard on the sentinel slopes and cliff tops

watching the seething swell, or rain fall on rocks

and the fisher-folk and the sun-kissed golden sands

now I’m released from the cold stone of your hands.



Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15


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O, Sweet Alarm



Summoned by the bell from the deepest dreamed hell

to a steel-cold reality with a taste of mortality

buried under the weight of an unlooked for fate.

Here, in my warm bed with a pillow under my head,

I stir like a whale harpooned, like a lover swooned

longing for a sweet embrace, a chance to kiss her face

and trace long lines of lust. But time turns to dust

this wanton longing fantasy of a deadhead fallacy.

“I love the smell of fresh coffee in the morning,” I say.

“It smells like… like victory.” Smell delicious hickory.

“One day this world will end,” I, for effect, pause to send.

My cup cools towards a feeling as my mind begins reeling

from the sudden arrival of morning light and my survival

On the alter of a sweet dream of silk and lace of subtle green,

Of tangled limbs and bottled films, of chance now throttled

In a pagan pursuit of peace smeared with coaxial grease

And running, running here, looking there for hope come near,

For something ever lost and never found in time’s frost

On frozen ground by the sound of hooves as horses pound

Towards me and I see, above the parapet of work the sea,

Greens and blues that shimmer silver turning up to glimmer

Sweet, sweet sweat of love on the deck of vessels above

The deep dark depths of my imagination, and now I cry

With new born eyes while time severs dreamt hollow ties

And in dark morn I rise, then to life I go and again reprise.



Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15


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Lesson from History



A lesson from history colours my day.

Light fades on time spent elsewhere

loosely tied to a pole of a pointless grey.

On the brown kitchen table worn by years,

tired by tears, the ever growing ever green

G eats his humble tea and recounts

his knowledge of a by-gone age of people

and events, a story of a language spread

at the point of a silver sword, the skill

of the victors, the cruelty of their rule.

He ends his history lesson with musings

on getting a driving licence. At nine

the green giant G has some time to wait.

His dinner tummy like his growing

imagination is full to the brim and now

he leaves me to do other exciting things,

leaving me with a lesson from history.


Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15


Picture Credit: Malek Montag, 2015

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Many Happy Returns


Today (the 16th October) is a very special day in my calendar as it just happens to be my little Dude’s birthday. Of course, it’s a special day for him, too, and it’s always good to see him excited about the day, opening his presents, and interacting with his friends. Most come now from his class at school, but a few he has known since he was born nine years ago.

His mum hired a small hall for all the invited guests to assemble, and create chaos and havoc while having an excellent time. This, I think, is the best education he can get. Being able to mix with different people and bring them together for special occasion, and have fun, is the mark, for me, of a successful achiever. The meritocracy we live under today does more to crush esteem and character, than build it, and seems to relish division and highlights what separates us, not unites us.

The Dude’s ability to make friends wherever he goes will get him through the toughest of times, I’m sure, more than any degree award or qualification gained. I’m certain Oscar Wilde would agree with me on this point, being the humanist he was. And why do I mention the Celtic Bard above anyone else? Well, they share the same birthday, that’s why…

Happy birthday, guys!


Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15

Photo Credit: Malek Montag, 2016 (Although, I only decorated the cake)

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“I’m a Dead Poet…”


Every morning (well, almost) I dip into a wonderful light [sic] tome called Poem For The Day, which I picked up in Baggin’s Book Bazaar in the High Street, Rochester. It’s been in my possession for over a year and contributed to my already bulging wealth of pretty pointless knowledge – still, it’s good fun.

Today, I read that “American critic, poet and children’s writer Randall Jarrell was killed by a car whilst out walking” in 1965. This is terrible. I write, and I walk… a lot. Crumbs. Still, Mr Jarrell’s end is fairly tame compared with some that I can mention. For example, Frank O’Hara, a surrealist poet by all accounts (well, the one in the afore mentioned collection of poetry), was killed by a “beach buggy”. There you go. Which begs the question, how?

Most of the book, Poem For The Day, concerns itself with the deaths of writers, or mostly poets… and William Shakespeare and his extended family, servants, or anyone The Bard bumped into. The are some terrible tales, such as Marina Tsvetaeva’s suicide in 1941 (surrounded by family tragedy during the Great Terror purges in the Soviet Union in the 1930s) and the gravity of Wilfred Owen’s death, Killed in Action, on the 4th November 1918 (the Armistice came into effect on the 11th November that year).

But there are some curious demises for us scribes to ponder. For instance, Edgar Allen Poe was found in a street, in clothes that didn’t belong to him, and pretty ‘out-of-it’ (allegedly). Some say he was lying in a gutter, but other accounts refute that assertion. Either way, Mr Poe spent four days in a hospital before passing away. He was only 40 years old.

Tennessee Williams, like so many exceptionally talented and gifted writers, was well acquainted with various illegal substances, and probably legal ones too. Yet in spite of it all he gained the ripe old age of 71 years before the cap of an eye solution did for him. He choked on it. That’s why, my fellow scribes, you must always have a child with you when attempting to open difficult containers.

Mr Williams shares a curious death status with Sherwood Anderson. Ever heard of him? I hadn’t until I did the research for this piece. Apparently, he was quite influential. However, a tooth pick stabbed him in a colon. Perhaps he misused it somehow. The toothpick, not the colon.

There’s the untimely death of Sherwood’s sort-of-name-sake, a Dan Andersson, to contemplate. Born in Ludvika, Sweden, in 1888, Dan died in Stockholm in 1920, aged just 32, while staying in an hotel. Apparently, in Sweden in the early part of the twentieth century, it was customary to annihilate pests like bed-bug and cockroaches by fumigating the place with cyanide. It appears someone forgot to tell Mssr Andersson that his room was about to become a gas-chamber and more than the bugs got bitten.

In addition to these are the more infamous ends of Christopher ‘Kit’ Marlowe (killed in a brawl in Deptford over a bar-bill) and Percy Bysshe Shelley (drowned on a lake in Italy during a storm), and a plethora of tragic deaths (Virginia Woolf’s heartbreaking suicide in 1941) of that class of individuals who have furnished us with an amazing array of written works.

Bless you all: all those writers who have passed on, and to all of you who take up the pen  in your own pursuit of creativity.


Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15

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I know it’s October!

The big day is still two months away but already mince pies have gone stale on supermarket shelves and white icing on factory-farm fruit cakes has begun to yellow, and I know people who have now completed their Christmas shopping. What? How is that even possible? What do you mean, they’ve bought presents for everyone… already? (I confess, I have too… but I only buy for one person) If you’re like me (usually) and you’re still stuck for ideas, may I assist you and make one or two, or perhaps three, suggestions??

They’re great, thoroughly entertaining and they contain some of my short stories!!

The first suggestion is Short Stories and Tall Tales.


It’s still on sale here at Amazon: in both electronic and book format at a very reasonable price. And it can be bought in conjunction with this little whopper, also available on Amazon: If you’re into food, The Foodie Book is a must.


And you’ll get to read my humorous tale of cullinary exploits and attempted romance. My third suggestion is most definitely a last, but not least entry…


Figure in the Mist is a wonderful collection of tales from a varied gathering of authors. Just the thing to read while the turkey is going down and the family are fighting over what to watch on the TV. Find it here on Amazon:, and order your copy today.

And remember, all proceeds go to good causes. Happy shopping…


Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016




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On the Surface of Her Swell


I lay

upon her undulating surface,

her heaving swell,

ploughing a furrow

through her dripping valleys

rising at first high then

dipping down low.

My keel slips and slides

in her deep wetness below

and I push at her

with my bow forcing her

apart as I go.

I press on into her

deeper, and deeper as

she rises to me in her swelling

ferment of resistance.

No calm sea ever

made for skilled seamen,

and I feel her passion wash

against me, pushing back

on all sides of me,

hitting my boards and whipping

my flanks and back like

cold steel fingertips.

On her, into her I glide

plunging on further

into her slapping wet,

onwards to a haven wall

is reached,

and journey’s end comes.

There I will rest by her side

supping on her fruits,

savouring my moments with her,

and the memories born

on the surface of her swell.


Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15

Photo Credit:×300-bw.jpg


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