I've been thinking about poor Syd Barrett, the founder of Pink Floyd, for a few days. The story is well enough known. Syd burnt bright early in his life and was the founder, songwriter, guitarist and singer of the early Pink Floyd. After their early success in Britain and America he declined into madness and the other members of the band decided to get rid of him and replace him with David Gilmour. As PF became ever more massive, the songs became more and more a lament for the absence of Syd. The man himself, meanwhile, had returned to his Cambridge home where he became an almost complete recluse. He is still living there today. His sister who lives next door does everything for him.

I wrote a poem about poor old Syd.


Ave Syd


Was incipient madness always there?
Or was the startling suddenness of fame
Too much for one of temperament so rare
And fine? I guess it’s difficult to blame
Any of the band too much. The crazy eyes
Were always fixed upon them in disguise.

Those early videos of black and white
Presaged an odd rejection of the real;
As if some stricken soul had taken fright
And hidden in a lunatic’s surreal
World… Ave Syd! I think you were relieved
When finally you had to leave the field.