the present, by Britta Benson

Another blackout poem from my exploration of Thomas De Quincey’s ‘Confessions of an English Opium Eater’. I’m having fun with this book. I love it, when the erasure leads to little philosophical musings. Here’s one I did earlier today: ‘the present’. the present obtuse, morbid, acute, symbolic, deep, mysterious, casual, sudden, special, maternal, pure, possible,

The Whispering Gallery, by Britta Benson

Another blackout poem from the ‘Confessions of an English Opium Eater’. On this page, Thomas de Quincey writes about St Paul’s Cathedral in London, hence the reference to the Whispering Gallery beneath the dome. Here’s what I made of it: The Whispering Gallery, beneath the dome… I imagine years pompously floating to and fro, selves,

Time, by Britta Benson

Another piece of blackout poetry from the ‘Confessions of an English Opium Eater’. Time, immediate, immense, besides my knowing and confidential. Time arrived, spacious, alone, whilst I stood waiting at the foot of anxiety. Time connected, or else, connected, or else parted from me by the gulf of eternity. ©️2023 Britta Benson. No unauthorized use

I forgot my gravity, by Britta Benson

I am currently on my third blackout book. This time round, it’s Thomas De Quincey’s ‘Confessions of an English Opium Eater’, bit of an odd choice perhaps at first sight, but I am enjoying my adventure. Here’s a little taster. I forgot my gravity, my eyes, a pompous sunset, a Canadian lake, and life, the

wild, by Britta Benson

Here’s my blackout response to yesterday’s Procrastinators’ Writing Prompts: Wild (https://theprocrastinators58220236.wordpress.com/2023/03/12/the-procrastinators-weekly-writing-prompts-wild/). Bit of a coincidence. Let’s just call it serendipity. And yes, it’s another one of my ‘Orlando’ pages. I hope to complete this project by the end of this month. wild wild clasped words clouds of self mused, trailed, seemed to have partners, passed

wild, by Britta Benson

A little update on where I am with my blackout poetry. I’ve finished my ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ project, typed it all up, 172 poems, a whole novel blacked out, transformed into a reflection on ‘Love in Time’. Soon, I’ll edit this piece and then, I’ll published it. Still working out the practical

lyricism, by Britta Benson

Another week or so, and I’ll have finished my blackout project! I love the poems I am finding on the pages of ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’. Themes have emerged and it turns out to be a proper collection. So excited about this, even if it is just for my own entertainment. Here’s one

the only one, by Britta Benson

Another blackout poem from my ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ project. I’m nearing the end of it. I can’t wait to pull it all together and publish the collection. 175 blackout poems. The work of two months. I’m excited about my project. I am currently looking into the legal aspect of publishing blackout poetry.

beneath an old memory, by Britta Benson

I’ve got a holiday project. A change from ‘Love in Time of Cholera’. I picked up an old copy of Virginia Woolf’s ‘Orlando’, a book she called ‘a writer’s holiday’, so what could be more appropriate? beneath an old memory beneath an old memory, half suffocated from victory, love knew the usual way croaked out

distance, by Britta Benson

Another one of my ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ blackout poems. Fifty more to go, and then I’ll have completed my project! distance distance the secret of presence life, aware of the risks involved, promised everything, but everything was left for later fear, a hurried, problematic thought, forgot forgot even the past, the anguish