Ken Whitmore, born Hanley, Staffordshire, December 1st, 1937, is prolific author of radio plays, stage plays, short stories and poetry. His writing is characterized by black humor and fantastic ideas, such as the complete disappearance of a man's house, family and dog (One of Our Commuters is Missing) and the need for all mankind to jump in the air simultaneously (Jump! - a work which was produced on radio, stage, TV and as a book.) His published stage plays are Jump for Your Life, Pen Friends, La Bolshie Vita, The Final Twist and The Turn of the Screw, adapted from the story by Henry James. He lives in the South of France and with his wife of 43 years, Rosie, he has just completed the adaptation and translation from the French of Topaze, Marcel Pagnol's masterpiece for the theater. Paul Donovan on TimesOnline quotes Whitmore as saying that his dearest wish was to write a drama that would stop people ironing. More details of Whitmore's work may be found at Diversity, and some of his more recent plays and stories are available to read on his website. Diversity Website

    Picasso at the Bateau Lavoir

	All life superbly for the taking cobbled square swaying shade of chestnut trees green iron fountain trickling silver sky so blue I can't name it but I'll mix it later a worker clatters over the cobbles singing steep squares of Montmartre tilt like decks of wrecks with whirligigs of streets thin honey houses stroke the sky dried blood shutters with ribcage slats black squiggle balconies At dawn I climb the thousand twisting steps of Sacre Coeur drink the matchstick city with toy tin tower who could see this sight and still be sad? I'd love to light this tower with the new electricity to throb and tingle silver rose and gold at night one monumental orgasm I marvel at the life beneath the roofs sad for the untalented and untouched by poetry A gipsy girl trots down the hill I fling away my cigarette, pick up a kitten and thrust it in her arms she laughs and blushes her name's Fernande come see my etchings madly she agrees I possess her in three charcoal swirls one dot and a crucifix she opens her scissor legs and cuts me in half I'm young, handsome, virile my hand accomplishes my eye's command death and failure are just herbs to sweeten the broth I'm driven to record each sensation with my brush what is this tyranny? don't think! paint! this greed to gobble each moment and still have it piled in corners, hanging on walls but best of all before me dripping wet how hellish not to be an artist under this sun Today I will invent cubism