You Cannot Chain A Phoenix


SKU ebook Category

175 in stock


By Nigel Pearce

ISBN: 978-1-78382-033-7
Published: 2013
Pages: 47
Key Themes: Mental Health, Philosophy, Poetry, Creative Writing


Nigel, B.A (Hons), Dip.H.E, who is the author of four previous books published by Chipmunkapublishing and has spent the last year deeply immersed in the Western philosophical tradition. This has opened new avenues of enquire and some new solutions. The poetry reflects these influences in part but also the struggles and trumps of living with both mental and related physical illnesses. They are the poems and meditations of a Phoenix, who has been left for dead many times but he has always confounded the psychiatrists and physicians by rising resplendent and renewed when they had left him for dead. Nigel is currently pursuing a Humanities Degree in Creative Writing

About the Author

Nigel was born in 1959 into a family with profound faults lines. When these cracks became chasms he runaway and lived in the ‘counter-culture’. He has both interrelated mental and physical health problems which persist. However he continues to rise like a phoenix from every death-in-life and has gained a B.A (Hons) and a Diploma of Higher Education at the Open University and a Certificate in English Studies from Warwick University. At present he is studying for a Humanities degree with a specialism in creative writing. Nigel is the author of four previous titles with Chipmunkapublishing

Book Extract

The Corpse.

The corpse of the ancestors lies uneasy in a sea of shimmering silver memory,
Rememorized tides which break with stern certainty on this poet’s black pages,
His was born in a tremble of fear and fists he was regularly informed as a child,
Therefore poetry was a refuge from his threats and her corrosive suicidal spits,
A book and then a pen and pad were walls he built for protection from a family,
He could sniff a putrid stench of this damned and green wormed corpse home,
It overcame him and cast a spell of musing that metamophorised into dreams,
The doctors would call this insanity a madness born of a dopamine deficiency,
And who would believe the poet’s scream of pain written in reams of red verse.

Corpses of family lie buried deep and are nothing now than haunting spectres,
I exorcize them not with holy rite but with a sacred sacrament of wording write.


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