Welcome to my writings, musings and comments on life. You'll find new poetry, veering towards the religious and spiritual, alongside some observations about the world around us. There's also information about my editing, writing and journalism work. It's all storytelling, in the end; that's how we understand things; it's hard-wired into our brains.
You're very welcome to peruse, subscribe, and even to leave your comments. Perhaps it's enough to know that you're a member of a small but growing community of smart, tasteful, intelligent people!
I write and edit books and magazines for a living, so if you need help with beautiful copy, crystal clear English, intelligent journalism or merciless copy editing, I can help. Browse the rest of the site and feel free to contact me via the contact page.
Warmest regards
Peter Chaplin
Writer, journalist, editor, plain English expert
Thursday, June 4, 2009 at 09:17AM I've decided that choosing life has to become a first priority in my decision making from now on. Which of the many options that face me every day is the most life-orientated one? Many mundane decisions don't require any such loftiness, though I suppose with a certain mindset one can frame the small questions of life in this way too.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009 at 03:39AM Last week I attended an open day for the Interfaith Foundation in London, England. I went along with a certain amount of trepidation, largely, as I realised later, because the world is full of people with their own private revelations, some of which are turned into profitable enterprises by slick design and marketing, but which are generally in the recycling business, and so consequently sell you something that you can get completely free eslewhere.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009 at 01:55PM I grew up in Christian shoes. In fact, I think I may have been born with Christian shoes on. But I certainly remember always having the sense of structure, boundary and support in my spiritual walk while I was in formal religion.
Friday, April 17, 2009 at 09:57AM An angel stirred up the pool at noon
one bleak brown day in winter.
We dragged ourselves up,
on haunches, on crutches,
on brittle bones, on pressed pills and radium rays,
not racing any more these days,
preferring this half-dead unhealing so old we can finger only scars.
And no luck again today, nor soon.
Dad's spirit gathers from the lucid lime-bright water,
rises like steam, coalesces towards me,
drags over the waters,
commands ordered columns from the shapeless vapour,
arms flung extravagantly wide,
forgives my sin,
softly seeping through my broken skin.