If you feel lonely in bed remember there are probably a few insects on you or if not millions of microbes inside you and take comfort from that..If you are lucky you may even have bed bugs.They bite but so do men sometimes.Tf that worries you boil your mattress every week. I said boil,not oil!Do listen,,,We used to boil them in a pan.Oh,no,that was our hankies.Well,boil them and dry them and then make the bed… there’s some wood in the shed.
Am I thinking?
Few people think more than two or three times a year; I have made an international reputation for myself by thinking once or twice a week.” — George Bernard Shaw
I do not agree that having thoughts,ideas or words in your head means that you are thinking.You may be obsessing or tormenting yourself….
Some quotes:
“Five percent of the people think;
ten percent of the people think they think;
and the other eighty-five percent would rather die than think.”
― Thomas A. Edison
THINKING TOO MUCH?
http://www.wikihow.com/Stop-Thinking-Too-Much
Which poetry do you remember without trying to learn it?I remember Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll…author of Alice in Wonderland and Island by W H Auden.Also the Lady of Shalott and some of Wordsworth and Shakespeare.I wonder why those?I am glad I did learn some by heart but sometimes my heart has learned them by itself!!
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21722
This is very beautifully written and worth reading if you have time and if you care about language and expression of our subjectivity
Here is a website which says so:
http://www.poeticmedicine.com/
Some people say it is but poets have a much higher suicide rate than any other people/
I read:It is diagnostic but not therapeutic [Sylvia Plath]
I also read that writing to a strict form is more likely to help you then writing free verse…seems intriguing.I believe if you have suffered a lot in life,writing may bring it to the surface.Fiona Sampson in The Expert Guide to Poetry Writing advises one to keep the phone number of the Samaritans to hand!That tells you a lot.I wonder what T.S.Eliot would say or Ted Hughes?What do you think?
Click to access poltbeyondstruggleandpower.pdf
This is a little book.Fascinating if you have the time
An interesting image here
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http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2013/05/30/lonely-thinking-hannah-arendt-on-film/
http://www.theguardian.com/film/2013/sep/26/hannah-arendt-reviewThe reason I am writing this is that at the end of this film,Arendt gives a seven minute monologue on,what is thinking?
She believed the people like Eichmann who carried out Hitler’s Final Solution were not psychotic monsters but were people unable to think.I feel unqualified to comment on that except to agree with her that true thinking is not easy and how can we learn to do it.It cannot be just a mental process but must involve the whole of a person.If we fear to think we will join a movement, a church or any other organisation which we will obey in order not to have to think.I believe many of us still do that.Thinling can be a lonely business as she said
[By the way,I am not Jewish]
So witty.. do read
Wisteria coils like snakes on red brick walls,
And catches sunshine as it turns about
My eyes feel rapture as the bright light falls,
And out go all uncertainty and doubt.
To forget this self and all my blackest thoughts.
To be by light restored and made anew;
I thank You,who mysteriously has wrought
This world and me and mine and all I know.
To see all things in glory in the sun
To value what your perfect hand has done.
On mundane errands,what a burst of love
Can pierce my heart like singing from a dove.
Give me one hour of glorious,golden light,
And I accept the blackness of your Night
See the sun
I used Google Pixir to make this.You don’t have to download it.The photo in the next post is what I began with
Read this poet
The summer of my mirth has fled:
Long since wilted are the lily,
Rose and dahlia; the sun despairs
in darkness, and the leaves are dead.
My blood is nectar for the moon:
Rotting apples of the season
Litter listless streets, where blossoms sought
To make their merry way in June.
For death has come, the world is bare:
Stillness falls on all in mourning;
Dreary clouds in desolation weep
From heavens greying in despair.
Our happiness and hope exhaust:
Roseate and gilded leaves are
Torn from withered trees; Another year
Is dead, and all we had is lost.
How my heart sings 