Month: August 2014

To win, we need to lose

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As days of war now seen to be the norm
And watching bombs be dropped seens like  a game..
We need to think about the  long term harm.
Yet morally most of our world seems lame.

We see,because we have new tools to use,
Dead children gathered into shopping bags.
The horrors and the violence all bemuse
The burials are in grey and bombed out crags.

This is not a movie made for fun…
We must accept it’s real and kills or harms.
Whatever  way its consequences run
I see we repeat today the ancient forms

Can Imagination lead to wider  views?
Can we accept to win we need to lose?

Face to face

I found the message on your door,
You don’t love me any more.
Once you said “Oh,je t’adore”
Confusin’ ,musin’ losin’.
Why leave your message on display?
It’s been pinned up there all day.
I feel it’s such a cruel way.
Posin’,.musin’,.choosin’.
Can’t you tell me face to face,
Are you so short of human grace?
A brief letter would show more taste.
Deludin,broodin,floosin’.
Let me learn a lesson here.
I will not live my life in fear.
I’ll just shift into high gear
Illusion,fusion,musin’.
Once I thought that you loved me.
You announced it on the BBC.
Was it just publicity?
Amazin’,fazin’,crazin’.
Everybody has one life,
Sometimes filled with woe and strife.
Your loss went through me like a knife.
But,thank God I’m not your wife!
Musin’,choosin”,loosin,boozin’.

Love alone

Apples hang low near the ground.
robins chirrup all around.
sun on glowing maple leaves
gives a red glow that deceives.

Autumn air is flowing near,
though it’s still bright summer here.
wind dismays the flowering rose
as with arrogance it blows.

Leave me one flower for my eyes.
Leave me roses as I sigh.
Leave me not, my dearest one.
Soon enough we shall be gone.

What remains is love alone.
If your heart is not of stone,
Fear not sorrow,fear not woe.
Into this earth all must go.

Then we shall be mixed as one;
all distinctiveness soon gone.
Whether foreign or home grown
None of us shall be alone

Worms don’t see our passport stamps;
Beetles know naught as they tramp…
We will be but food for free…
As we rest beneath the tree.

Meeting with Lions in the Mara

Wonderful photographs of lions

Tish Farrell's avatarTish Farrell

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It is late afternoon when Daniel, our guide, takes us to the rock-strewn  place where he knows  the lions will be.

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The males are hiding away in longer grass, but the females and cubs are out in the open, enjoying the last of the sun. The light is spectacular. I wonder if the lionesses have chosen this place on purpose: because their young blend in so well with the landscape. In any event, they seem utterly relaxed. This mother (above) simply watches us as she feeds one of her cubs. There is another at her tail, disguised as a boulder, while the third one takes off on a small adventure.

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The quiet proximity of these lionesses is breath-taking, our intrusion on their family life above their notice. We watch them until the sun goes down and it is time to return to our camp on the Mara River.

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Ailsa’s travel…

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Molly put the skittle on

You are too prissy,Mary,Stan told his wife.Everybody uses four letter words know except you.
What is so special about four letters,she replied mathematically.
I can’t say ,said Stan.
Is it because they are expletives s have to sound like bullets being fired.For example
“F*ck off, you old sh*t bag”
Sounds different from
“Kindly go away,old thing.”
That is true,said her 98 year old husband,
So why do you want me to swear?
Well,now you have a tablet computer and a chromebook you need an iphone and you need to talk like the young do as well.
I phones are very expensive and you know me,I’m crap at finding where I leave the f*cking things.
Now,Mary,control yourself.I am your husband,you know.
What the hell has that got to do with it.
You should be nice.
So whom do you wish me to swear at,darling man?
I’m not sure.Maybe when you sing in the kitchen you could alter the words of the songs..
As I waltzed out to f*ck at 8 pm
The lambs were running home all all full of grass
I heard a neighbour complain of all this crap
So I’m going to Waterstone’s for to buy a map

Something wrong with the metre here methinks,said Stan.
And somehow,swearing does not seem to blend with your personality and gentle quiet nature,Mary,darling.
Cut the crap.It’s too late now.I’ve become addicted.
But how many four letter words are there?I might find it limiting.
Some fourletter words are not swearing
like
tame,kind,wind,fluff,hair,lips,nips,twit
but some are like
f*ck,shit,crap,tw*t.
So twit is ok but twat is not,the demure old lady replied.Anyway don’t you know any more?
Damn!
Perhaps we’ll have to buy a book and learn some new ones but to whom shall we say them
Would your mistress,Meldickadivsa know?
Well,I can ask her.
But is it sensible?
If women want equal rights it’s not the same as being compelled to use words that only workmen used to use.
It’s like saying we can’t have public conveniences for women;they will have to use the gents!
What will they use the gents for, one of them queried.
For sensual gratification and relieving tension.
Is it legal?
Anything is legal as long as you don’t pay in cash!
That reminds me of Russell’s Paradox.
Oh,my God,don’t say you are on to Russell!
It’s more like he is on to me.
Whatever do you mean,Stan said.
He is trying to invade my mind.
Well,make it password protected!!
How do I do that?
Go online and find out.
Perhaps we can password protect your tongue to stop you saying all those words like tw*t!
But I don’t want to stop.
In that case you must invent some more or they get boring you see.
Flaff off you crum!
Eff doff you runt!
Don’t you leak to he like tratt
Why egger nuts?
Clean your morgan in the mawnin.
What is so runny about swap?
Goody bell,the vicar is beer!
Lie down and he won’t bee us on the door!
It’s very dirty down here.
Get the vacuum out!
The vacuum is clean,it’s the carpet that’s full of nap!
I blame you,
For what?
Basting my rhymes in wine.
Well,it’s time for wee now.
Go and but the skittle on the stove.
By George,I feel terry funicular!
I’ll put some neatener in your wee.
I’ll come here again!
Stop that askance!
Can’t I rake a glance?
Show you can pot?
Pot what?
The wee pot.
You are very mod!
Blank you so crutch.
Puck off,it’s time for twerk.
Oh,my dear!
It’s being so near.
what makes ‘em leer..
I am disgusted by my weir
I shall arrest myself and put an end to it.

The oxymoron class

There is a sentence often spoke
In jest or repartee:
“See how the cookie crumbles,mate.
Why don’t you have more tea?”

But my cookies don’t crumble
They bend in multi-ways.
Why here are some I made for you
Only yesterday.

You want to know why cookies bend?
Well,mine are made from rubber.
They look impressive on the plate…
As good as any other.

But when you pick one up to start
And press it in your hands
It does not crumble,but just falls
Into a thousand rubber bands.

The guests suffer embarrassment
As they gaze down in dismay.
But the children and the dogs and cats
are happy as they play.

I gave my lover,one cookie
I gave him three or four
But he was never satisfied
Until I gave him more.

Then when I met him later on
He seemed to be in pain…
And claims his doctor told him off
For eating food again.

So now I’m having lessons
In how to bake real fakes.
It’s called the Oxymoron Class
And you should see our cakes.

I made one,I made two,
I made fifty four.
But now the freezer’s full right up
So I can’t make no more.

I want some crumbly cookies,
But mother doesn’t know.
She has gone to heaven above…
Oh,how I miss her dough!

Oh,play your poignant music for me with your meditative art.

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You play on your clarinet;

 

I play on my cello.

Your music is poignant;

My music is mellow.

I can’t read your music;

You can’t play from mine.

Our music must be transposed,

But will not be the same.

I have longer fingers.

You have bigger hands.

You play some from memories

which I don’t understand.

I play from my own history,

You compose your own.

You have tragic feelings,

which I have never known.

Would you play my music?

Then it must be transposed;

but we can’t transpose our feelings,

Unless we are shown

how to draw out symbols

From the dark Unknown.

I love the music that you play

and I know you do love mine.

But can we play together

with a meaningful design?

Transposing keys and feelings

Is an arduous,lengthy task;

Much easier to play falsely

and never,never ask.

I can’t share your lifetime hurts

and you cannot share mine.

Is it easier to share happiness

and in love to entwine?

Oh,play your poignant music for me

with your meditative art.

I shall listen with my ears

and listen with my heart.

And then I shall respond to you.

My instrument is here.

I am playing quite new music.

I feel you drawing near.

Suddenly we are moved to play

A completely new design.

I seem to feel your feelings

And I can hear that you feel mine.

Together we seem to make a work

Of torment and release.

This music is so tragic,

Yet its design has brought me peace.

Play on,play on,for now I know

I begin to understand,

without more words or gestures

than those from your curved hands

Your face is map enough for me

Your face is map enough for me ,

Your gaze,your smile,your frown,your glee.

And if I want to know the rest

The shape your posture‘s made is best

For showing what your life is now.

A look,a gesture all this show.

Till who you are is then disclosed

And I am in your arms enrobed.

Love vanishes when analysed,

And thinking too

by  Love’s despised’

Choose the means to fit the end

And then I’ll be whom you intend

Details create the big picture…..

You must see the magical colors of Janet’s work.. it will bring happiness to you

janetweightreed10's avatarMy Life as an Artist (2)

During the middle part of my career, from 1986 til 1999, I painted large murals for corporate entities.      They weren’t always paintings I was excited about, but they paid the bills and kept my tools honed, which in turn gave me freedom to paint what I wanted to paint.  

Something I learned, which has stood me in good stead, is that if you change one small area of a huge mural….the whole image changes.       

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A relatively small change might not seem obvious to the viewer, but the fact is that every brush stroke added or deleted changes the rhythm and energy of a painting. 

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And so it is with all of life.        

Rachel Carson in her book Silent Spring, first published in 1962, recognised the early signs of relatively small changes within the environment.    …

View original post 121 more words

How even the best writers are affected by bad reviews

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I have mentioned that I very much liked the writer Kenneth Gergen and especially his book,” The saturated society”

http://identitythoughts.wordpress.com/2009/02/11/the-saturated-self-dilemmas-of-identity-in-contemporary-life-kenneth-j-gergen-pt-2/

http://www.qualitative-research.net/index.php/fqs/article/view/553/1198e”

I think it’s  beautifully written and explains the bad side of post modernism but also how differently it could be used.He got a very good review on the Washington Post but later got a terrible one in the NYT.In an interview he told how this affected him badly until the man who wrote the review died ten years later,I’ll put a link in here later.http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=SweMLEe6TpgC&pg=PA294&lpg=PA294&dq=kenneth+gergen+the+saturated+self++washington+post+review&source=bl&ots=_lKF4I_lVi&sig=VEbgQl1ZpIwcLgfw3S5M5sI9__U&hl=en&sa=X&ei=JJ_VUtfLEeaP7AaviYHwCA&ved=0CGwQ6AEwCA#v=onepage&q=kenneth%20gergen%20the%20saturated%20self%20%20washington%20post%20review&f=false.

!He used to wake up at night with thoughts of what he’s like to do to this person.This shows how even someone of high quality can be wounded easily/

Most people who read English novels have heard of Virginia Woolf. She was highly acclaimed yet had breakdowns whilst awaiting reviews .Eventually she committed suicide during WW2.Her husband was Jewish and she was afraid of what would happen if the Germans invaded Britain.

But her mental health was fragile after losing her mother and favourite older sister in her teens and also possibly being sexually assaulted by her half brother.Despite al this she had  much happiness and is one  of the most highly acclaimed women writers of the 20th century…not much good  to her of course

Sylvia Plath a great poet  a generation after Woolf also committed suicide and later became known as one of the best poets of our time

http://www.neatorama.com/2008/03/18/writers-who-suffered-from-the-sylvia-plath-effect/#!scilW

Would you like to be a tormented genius and enter the literary canon or just be an ordinary,moderately happy person? Most of us are not so gifted in any case.

Some of us believe that others with more gifts,more money,more winning personalities are much happier,but it’s not true.Many geniuses are troubled.

On the other hand being troubled by itself will not make you a genius,alas.Everybody is troubled at times.Sometimes a poet may use it

Your music is so poignant

You play on your clarinet;

I play on my cello.

Your music is poignant;

My music is mellow.

I can’t read your music;

You can’t play from mine.

Our music must be transposed,

But will not be the same.

I have longer fingers.

You have bigger hands.

You play some from memories

which I don’t understand.

I play from my own history,

You compose your own.

You have tragic feelings,

which I have never known.

Would you play my music?

Then it must be transposed;

but we can’t transpose our feelings,

Unless we are shown

how to draw out symbols

From the dark Unknown.

I love the music that you play

and I know you do love mine.

But can we play together

with a meaningful design?

Transposing keys and feelings

Is an arduous,lengthy task;

Much easier to play falsely

and never,never ask.

I can’t share your lifetime hurts

and you cannot share mine.

Is it easier to share happiness

and in love to entwine?

Oh,play your poignant music for me

with your meditative art.

I shall listen with my ears

and listen with my heart.

And then I shall respond to you.

My instrument is here.

I am playing quite new music.

I feel you drawing near.

Suddenly we are moved to play

A completely new design.

I seem to feel your feelings

And I can hear that you feel mine.

Together we seem to make a work

Of torment and release.

This music is so tragic,

Yet its design has brought me peace.

Play on,play on,for now I know

I begin to understand,

without more words or gestures

than those from your curved hands

You’re just the same age as your heels

My body’s becoming a nuisance
My joints have decided to flare.
If you think  that flares are about trousers,
I guess you’ve never been here.

I went to the doctor on Wednesday
He said there is nothing to help.
he never looked into my eyes at all..
His gaze was aimed right at my scalp.

I bought a style mag and I read it.
I didn’t find much help in there
Except for a piece entitled
“They say I’ll be younger next year.”

For age is defined by our gadgets
Don’t wear a watch on your wrist…
You just take a peek at your smartphone
Unless that’s an update you missed…

You need to buy a new tablet
An android or kindle fire 2…
And get a portable laptop…
Carry it so it’s in view.

Walk into Starbucks for coffee
Connect to their wi fi in haste.
Sit down and open your netbook
You must practise copy and paste.

And do not wear any smart clothing
For sportswear’s the new type of cool.
I doubt if Leibnitz would have worn it,
but it might have appealed to George Boole.

I crawl up the road for a paper…
Alongside a few slugs and snails…
Fortunately they do not tell me
“You’re only as old as you feel”

I see more fighting in Gaza
And in Israel rockets still fall.
In Syria thousands are murdered
and in Russia new cold thoughts have formed.

So why do I think of my dresses
And wonder if I’m going bald?
My heart has gone numb like an ice cube…
Otherwise I would have bawled.

 

 

We weep  when we are  new born babies

For babies are dependent on mum.

I weep now over the newspapers..

I think Armageddon has come

A lamb dies; call him Abel

I am able I am assembled
I aim able.To kill Abel.
I blame Abel,I.
Am I emblematic
Of blame?
Abel,am I to blame?
At home,I am
Unable to tell.
A lamb is an emblem.
I am unable to help Abel.
Help me ,Abel,are you able?
My name is unable to be,
I mean I am unnameable.
I am Abel,I am an object
Of fraternal hate.
Love was unable
to be,to embrace. Enmity and time
Beat me.Killed me.
Dead.
They aim to disable,
A lamb dies.Call him
Abel.
I am bereft, for hate
Was able
To destroy amiability.

I aimed hate at my brother,Abel.
Hate will be unable in the
End to win.

I miss you, Abel.
My brother.
I miserable,Abel.
I am unable ,Abel,
To live,to love.
Abel,I bad.
No balm,no love,
I unable.
I un…
Un,undone.
Oh, Abel.
I bereaved myself,
Unable,
blind.
I lost,ability,
Love.
I live not.Yet
Not able
To die.
Unable.
Undone.
Done for.
Cain.
No brother.
No cousin.
Noone left but me
Who am not Abel.
Disabled

In hell

 

Photo1043I have now got 2 pairs of reading glasses.. what I thought was,next time I’ll just get a monocle… or a manacle…A manacle is a miraculous man…so I am told.
At last I can read books again…after meeting a mysteriously wonderful young lady who helped me.But where are all my novels?
I seem to have lost them…so now for a new author…a woman author who writes about people like me… a bit like me but which bit?
We focus on our differences but we are all quite similar except on what we read.
I do not wish to read books like

Fifty Days in the Haystack
Don’t let a cherry get in your ways and means
How I love being beaten in May and June
How to keep house for dirty women and loose cats
How to cook for the  wilfully blind.
How to be mysterious. in minutes
How to get a man to do anything for you except make love real
Five hundred new masochistic delights for girls
Sadism is the new black and decker
Teach your cat to say crap or die.
Getting into the shit of it;war for beginners
Dreck for  other beginners.
Love appals again.
How to swear  well for old Christian ladies.
Merry matings in hell

Too many miles

 

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Feeling the sadness in my heart
and in my arms a tender feeling
as if the flesh is calling out;
My breath’s coming in gasps and
my throat makes a murmur
as if trying to speak.

Sensitive skin on my inner arms yelps
and my heart aches like
I’ve run too many miles .
My legs feel strong
My mouth is dry and my back
needs an arm around it
for protection.
My eyes are wet with the moisture
that might have made saliva.

My cat died
And then my other cat died.
Whatever.

New store, more zero hours

How very dreadful to treat people this way

christopherjamesstone's avatarFierce Writing

A new Morrisons on Whitstable High Street

As you may know by now, Morrisons is due to move onto Whitstable High Street in the near future, having taken over the premises currently occupied by Cain’s Amusements.

At present the opening date is unclear. However staff training starts on the 25th August, so we can expect the shop to open soon after that, possibly in early September.

Recruitment is currently taking place, with potential staff being referred there by the Job Centre.

This is sad news for the independent retailers of Whitstable who will certainly be threatened by the existence of yet another chain on our High Street.

It is also dire news for the unemployed as the much hyped jobs on offer will be at the minimum wage.

What’s worse, most of the jobs appear to be a variation on the zero hours contract, where people have to sit…

View original post 214 more words

Emmanuel Levinas, Don Quixote, and the Hunger of the Other Man

Menachem Feuer's avatarSchlemiel Theory

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Like many Jews over the centuries, I am fasting to commemorate the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in 70 AD.  Now that I’m in middle of the fast, I’m having a hard time distracting myself from my hunger.  In the midst of being enthralled with my hunger, an academic memory came to my rescue.   I remember how the Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, in apposition to the German philosopher Martin Heidegger, argued that it’s not about my death and suffering (as Heidegger would say (in translation) my “being-towards-death”), it’s about the death and the suffering of the other.  Echoing this, I thought: perhaps Levinas is right, it’s not about my hunger; it’s about the hunger of the other.

Strangely enough, Levinas writes about the “hunger of the other man” in relation to Don Quixote (a comic figure which has appeared quite often in Schlemiel in Theory).  In…

View original post 1,428 more words