There’s a secret nuclear bunker ar the bottom of my street It’s on the Ordnance Survey Map along with flocks of sheep The other one’s in Essex near Brentwood says the sign Dont get on a train just yet, it’s not the Central Line
Are they for the Government or for my neighbours near? Who is going to drop a bomb and escalate the fear? Why d’ye think our tax goes up Boris drugs the goats He’s building his own bunker now, with a private moat
If the bunker’s secret, who’s it hiding from? Who can’t yet read English, but knows best how to stun Is it Meghan Markle or little Lilibet? Or someone quite invisible who makes the neighbours sweat
Should we all dig trenches and say we grow our spuds? Either way this is the end,I feel it in my gut
I feel soft ghostly hands around my throat
That want to pull me to the darkest deep
My husband cannot leave or be remote
He wishes me to join him in his sleep.
I shall resist for I desire to live
Though blind now are my hours without his face.
I have no more I hope to give
Since he withdrew from me his kind embrace.
As lonely as a swan without its mate.
As tired as swallows after they migrate
I must accept my unconsoled fate
I'll not accept this be a constant state.
From my loss I shall recover when
The birds return and summer comes again
Celebrating the painter Elstir, the narrator of In Search of Lost Timesuggests that for the great artist, the work of painting and the act of being alive are indistinguishable. For each of us, says Proust, there may be “certain bodies, certain callings, certain rhythms that are specially privileged, realizing so naturally our ideal that even without genius, merely by copying the movement of a shoulder, the tension of a neck, we can achieve a masterpiece.” The implication here is that art is not the product of the will. More than lack of ambition, it is the inability to surrender to our characteristic callings and rhythms that keeps us from fulfilling our promise.
The word surrender makes this achievement sound easy, as if the victory of each day were to wake up looking exactly like yourself. But even if we all possess certain rhythms, certain callings, not everyone is able to exist in the simple act of recognizing them. The surrender of the will is itself impossible merely to will, and we may struggle with the act of surrender more deeply than we struggle with the act of rebellion. W. B. Yeats called the moment of recognizing oneself a “withering into the truth,” and the word “wither” seems just right, for the discovery does not feel like a blossoming. Nor does it happen only once, like an inoculation. Proust’s Elstir does not inhabit himself truly until he has achieved great age.
Writers have withered into variety, excess, and vulgarity; writers have withered into purity, stillness, and restraint. Why do the latter values so often get bad press, even from artists who embrace those values themselves? In my own experience, stillness can be difficult to separate from dullness, restraint from lack of vision or adequate technique; a young writer may embrace the glamour of risk in order to avoid parsing these discriminations. What’s more, the association of artistic achievement with heroic willfulness is endemic, and it is clung to in the United States with a fierceness that belies its fragility. Lacking a thousand years of artistic craftsmanship to fall back on, the American artist is called great when he is at the frontier, taking the risk, disdaining the status quo, but also landing the movie deal. What happens to the American poet who is destined to wither into stillness and restraint, the poet whose deepest inclination is to associate risk with submis
Oh,mother,I have stitched up what you tore The cuts you slashed, the hate for me you bore I’ve mended all the holes,I darned and wept Thinking of the love we could have kept I tended all my siblings when I could Even when they hit me and spilled blood I do not hold a grudge for what evolved Life is not a problem to be solved You were left a lonely widow too You lost your mother young, so sad and blue Yet you did enjoy to buy a hat How I longed to help you choosing that I wish you’d had more money and a man You feared for us your offspring, had no plan I lay awake afraid that you would leave, Terrified and tortured by your needs Yet I love you still, where is your face? How I’d love to be by you embraced Where do mothers go when they pass on Mother,mother,show me where you’ve gone
Oh,my brother you must go ahead You always ran away when we were small I never thought that I should see you dead Oh,my brother you will go ahead And in the ground the worms will be well fed By your loss of voice I am appalled Oh,my brother youwill go ahead You always ran too fast when we were small
You cannot speak, your voice was getting weak Your eyes looked pained but you made no complaint Even when the news was very bleak You cannot speak, your voice was getting weak A single leaked tear down my cheek I forgave you in my late lament You could not speak, your voice was getting weak Your eyes looked pained but you made no complaint
Inside my shell I dream of pearls, Caterpillars,snails with whorls. I dream contented, all enwrapped With reverie and dream I’m lapped. The inner seas will comfort me, While gods allow my eyes to see Oh,sweeter than confectionery Is my worn old dictionary. The words whirl round and fall to shape The sentences, which my world drape. This furnishing is rich and strange Yet magically self arranged. Oh,sweeter than the love of manI s reading works of poets long gone. And feeling deeply their dark tides . Upon which our boat may glide. The sea infinite we float on Is the same warm sea where ancients swam. Sweeter still is this spring air And the blossom spreading fair .We’ll drown ourselves in deep green field To the gods of poetry yield. We’ll rise again and spring up tall To grow more rich until we fall. Sweet it is to live and die And to write my poetry Touch me with your ardent souls My mind and yours shall all be whole
The mind is deeper than a well and wider than a star I lose myself in waters deep ,symbolic ,sweet and clear I rest embraced by this love and wish for nothing more I dream I walk in meadows sweet The daisies in my hair
The heart has reasons and desires as if it were a mind If it’s soft as cashmere wool then it will remain kind Yet if it’s hard then it may crack and we will split ,divide I dream I walk by river fleet With heart and mind combined
The other self that dwells alone in privacy divine Needs sacred care and sweet respect and peace from what’s malign The inner nature of us all is given and then transformed I dream I walk on long white sands By seas blue, crystaline