War memorials are placed in our cities
To commemorate and also to pity.
A hypo took John
And his face hit the stone
Soon he was beyond being witty.
From time immemorial men
.Have fought wars over again
But why waste our greens
On memorials half seen?
If not now,then just tell us when.
| synonyms:
|
ancient, old, very old, age-old, antediluvian, timeless, dateless, archaic,long-standing, long-lived, time-worn, time-honoured; More |
antonyms:  |
recent |
Was Robert Frost underestimated? Read the article
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/251952
I HAVE BEEN ONE ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Form: Terza Rima
What is below is a quotation.I have lost the source.
Although Peter Lomas was a psychoanalyst he was a rare rebel, a wonderful writer and a master of the language
I read his books regularly for their wisdom and courage.And his stories.Most of all I love his truthfulness
“In this regard, the centrality of ethics in human relations, I think Peter has much in common with Emmanuel Levinas, the French Jewish thinker who put ethics at the very heart of our being, as what makes us human beings, ethics in the sense of the priority of the other and our responsibility to that other. Of course Levinas’s language was not Peter’s, but for myself I still find him inspiring, despite the predictably obscurantist and cliched ways in which his thought has been taken up and the horribly religious-like tone of too many conversations about his work. Not for the first time is a return to the source called for.”
My attraction was marmoreal
I was aloof and quite hyperreal
So men of a certain type
Tried hard to grab my heart,
Till I became impurely transcendental.
I was born in an ugly old town
With mill chimneys and houses with frowns.
Yet from time im-marmoreal [should be immemorial]
I loved the arboreal
And I have garbled my marbles unsound.
Marmalade’s an orangey jam.
Sevilles are the best for old men
For the flavour is bitter
Thus makes their tongues gnatter,
Which forces their mouths to uncram.
His marmoreal gaze chilled all lest
The boundaries of love he transgressed.
He had lovers, of course,
Whom he carefully chose
With reasons that we thought grotesque.
A marmoreal word in my ear
Made my mind cold yet brilliantly clear.
At last , I saw logic
In what I felt tragic.
My senses were lukewarm with fear.
: of, relating to, or suggestive of marble or a marble statue especially in coldness or aloofness
“‘Thank you for your submission,’ the note begins with marmoreal courtesy. It ends with a wish for success in placing your manuscript with another house.” — William Germano, The Chronicle of Higher Education, 20 Feb. 2011
“Marble … has always been synonymous with artistry and luxury. Had it not been glowing marble would Michelangelo’s David and the Pieta have looked the same? Not to speak of our Taj Mahal, whose marmoreal splendour has moved many poets to wax eloquent about its beauty.” — Soumitra Das, The Telegraph (India), 1 June 2014
Most marble-related words in English were chiseled from the Latin noun marmor, meaning “marble.” Marmor gave our language the word marble itself in the 12th century. It is also the parent of marmoreal, which has been used in English since the mid-1600s. Marbleize, another marmor descendant, came later, making its print debut around 1854. The obscure adjective marmorate, meaning “veined like marble,” dates to the 16th century and hasn’t seen much use since.
The most obvious confusion between metaphor and reality is when society labels emotional/interpersonal problems/divergence from norms of society as mental illnesses.In the USA childdhood disobedience is now a mental illness and there are many similar crazy notions.Homosexuality was labelled as a mental illness for years but no longer.
Now if you are suffering terrible anguish in various forms it may help to be told it is an illness… or it may make you worse.I am sure that often excess fatigue,personal characteristics like overworking constantly,not eating well,being distressed by the state of the world are very common but there are no blood tests nor any other tests to identify such as being illnesses.Though often physical illnesses casuse mental distress and depression either directly or because of shame and anxiety and other reactions to being ill for a long time.
The writer Thomas Szasz identified this confusion many years ago.If you disagree and say how can medication help unless a person is ill then I’d say that the placebo effect is one reason and another is that if someone is exhausted and needs to rest then medication maybe helpful to give them a little peace.
Gerard Manley Hopkins,A Jesuit priest and a poet seemed to be given a job in an Irish University which was exhausting and debilitating but owing to his vow of obedience to his superiors in the Jesuit Order he could not change his life except by dying… so he thought.
The poet Gwyneth Lewis who has been the National Poet for wales wrote a book[Sunbathing in the rain] about her severe bout of depression.In the book she seems to be claiming that there were personal mistakes and decisions in her lifestyle and job which led her into depression.She saw it as necessary for change.However she did use medication in spite of feeling it was a spiritual turning poimt which she needed to get back onto her true path or vocation in life.
Her mother had been depressed frequently when she was a child and so she would have learned by this as a way of problem solving.
Also despite her immense intelligence she had failed to realise that abandoning her strong hopes to have a child [given the age of her husband and the need to earn a living] was going to cause her huge distress.In fact marrying someone who has been sterilised seems unusual for w young woman who wants children.But it is sometimes reversible and maybe she didn’t think so far ahead.
This blindness to our own feelings seems to lead many of us astray.
We sometimes get clues to our hidden feelings in dreams or we could find someone to talk to when going through a major life decision.
Some people don’t know that grief and mourning exist and are stunned when they feel sad and often their families criticise them for “not coping well” Coping here seems to mean remaining happy and calm all the time;this is a selfish demand on a bereaved person or anyone really.
I also noticed over the years that many famous people suffered from depression but when you examine their lives they seem to demand too much from themselves and be afraid to ask for help
.Poor Sylvia Plath wanted to be famous which she is now but alas she is dead. It’s hard to know why she felt the need to work so hard except her upbringing was one where acadenic excellence was valued and why she married someone with no obvious way of providing support either financial or emotional… when it got tough he ran off… but who knows why? The point that interests me is that she was compulsively driven to achieve… and she did so much in her short life… but was it worth it?
We all need to examine our life to see if we are acting stupidly.
But when worn out mentally it seems thinking is a mistake whereas simple manual work is beneficial as is being outdoors or being with kind undemanding friends…. and if a person has few friends coping with emotional trauma is much harder.This affects people who move to another state or country.And older people moving house even can bring on mental confusion.
And if we are people who find friendship and intimacy hard then it’s likely that we will suffer more from any problem we run into.
Finally,is the idea of a vocation for each of us of value?We each have unique gifts plus a need to earn a living.It depends on many factors outside our control whether we can find a job that combines these.Many poets and writers work in menial jobs to earn a living and then they write at night.[Teaching seems to sap creative energy.]
Other people don’t feel they have a calling but train for something they feel will earn a living in a way that suits them.Electricians and plumbers are in great demand…
And apart from finding our own true needs we need to contribute to society in some way.And to have a feeling of enjoying being alive which is perhaps denied those millions in Asia who make our clothes,i phones and other goods.
Dear Aggie
My husband said he never wanted to see me again in May and a week later he died.I did nurse him at home for ages single handed and got a bit irritable now and then.
Is there a God and does he give people what they want like that?
Fearfully
Anxious Alice
Dear Alice
Do you really think a journalist can answer your question? If prayer worked in that simple way we’d be in a different world.You need a theologian or a rabbi or somesuch
Don’t you see that a husband who said that must have been ill already and his death would have come soon anyway.It was merely a symptom of his suffering.We all get a bit irritable when tired so your best course is to be a loving mother to yourself.
Lie in bed reading, Hello.Eat nice food and go out with toy boys.Or stay in with one.You’ll feel quite different after a few weeks like that.Get a cat and play games.Anything light is good.A light toy boy is always handy.Otherwise , try a stuffed animal to hug.My friend has a big rubber frog! Go for a manicure and have your hair done.Waste money on trivia and lie on the beach in summer.
Hope you feel better soon
Aggie
Dear Aggie Aunt
When I visited my new boyfriend’s home, I found he has eyes in the back of the bed.He said it stops mice or other creatures from mating there but I have my doubts.What do you think? Is he dangerous?
Thanks
Worried lady
Dear Worried
Whatever made you look at the back of his bed? Leave that till he proposes or he might make you hoover the entire room.And if he is is so new why are you in his bed already?
I suggest that you have a semi-Platonic, more romantic relationship for now and should you eventually marry insist on moving into a brand new home with a new bed.
However, it does seem a bit odd.Where did you meet him?Are you ever subject to hallucinations? Maybe you need to break away before he has arms in the bed and a gun at your head…
Remember that, when older, many ladies are becoming gay these days.Think about it.Do you really prefer a man? How about a rabbit in bed instead plus some companions and friends in the day time.I do and I prefer it this way.Rabbits are easier than men but men do have some advantages if you find a decent one.Let me know!
Take care
Aggie Aunt
My husband liked being recumbent
He was lazy in all of his ways.
I never knew he was dying
As he kept on smiling.
What can I say in his praise?
I told him off for keeping me waiting
Not knowing his heart had a leak.
In a way I admired him
For keeping cabs standing
And being reluctant to speak.
He rarely addressed these cab drivers
But blessed them each with his gaze.
He sat with composure
And little disclosure…
Though sometimes his guns were ablaze.
When the drivers were told he had passed,
Some wept and my hands they each grasped.
Oh, my dear lady
We were all ready
To drive you to Hampstead quite fast.
The compassion from the humble and lowly
The love from the poor and the weak
What can I say for
We miss all his labours
If only we could at least hear him speak.
I held his left hand for an hour
I held it again for much more.
I felt a stiff tendon
Which refused any bending
And massaged it as I sat on the floor.
He never repeated me he loved me,
Nor how I should live when he’d gone.
I suppose by that time
He believed all was kind.
And his earthly endeavors were done.
It seems like a dream, a performance…
And I keep thinking life will resume.
I see no apparitions
Have no new intuitions
This is my life,I presume.
I was lying recumbent in bed
When the older incumbent fled.
He said,I’m a virgin
So lay off your urgin’.
And he buttered my plateful of bread.
I said,please will you make me some tea
Unless over-weary you be.
Alright,my bubbala,
He sang tra la la la.
I wish we were down by the sea.
Oy vey , Oy vey,I am sad.
For humans seem to be very bad.
Original sinners
There ain’t any winners.
My analyst has been driven quite mad.
yet potent words
that fit its present thoughts,
creates a replica
of wounds afresh.
If, like a welcome sun,
new light will shine for me,
reveals,
transforms.
I’ll then
perceive
those frozen narratives of loss
as only part of me,
New words,
New sentences.
New narratives,
New stories made from generous recognition grow,
if what’s perceived is held,
like iron in the fire,
till transformation comes.
Burned into being by this blazing,
Transmuted, changed.
New conceptions
linked to draw, as from a different view. point.
Then, recognised, by heart and soul,
They shall combine to makes a larger whole.
When Oscar sits on the window sill
And sees someone within,
His mouth opens wide in soundless cry
He gives us his cat grin.
Oscar rubs around my legs.
He’s such a friendly soul.
He next rolls round upon his back,
He waves his long striped tail.
But after Oscar’s greetings done
He goes to do his rounds
He sets off from the white back door
To the long thin garden’s end.
Every inch of soil and plant
Is subject to his nose.
The garden looks the same to us,
But he can sense much more.
I wish that Oscar cat could speak
And tell us what he’s found.
Ten thousand spiders weaving webs,
A slow worm on the ground.
A million ants climb up the rowan,
I sometimes watch them too,
I see the wasps and honey bees
In this small rural zoo.
The hedge hogs have long been gone
But we have diverse birds
Oscar sits on our tall stool and watches them for hours,
Mathematics is full of signs which are often used as metaphors by non-mathematicians.My husband, for example, used to say: The distance from zero to one is bigger than that from one to two.I fully agreed with him, realising what he meant.However, I refrained from saying that was why he could not learn maths at school.But it would be a good thing if maths teachers realised that some children live in rich worlds and find it hard to strip down to the bareness of mathematical signs and equations.
A student once told me she saw Zero with a lot of tiny numbers floating around it like butterflies which showed possibly great insight into infinitesimals but which would not aid her in learning Econometrics or any other such nonsensical stuff hich was her chosen destiny.
And the precision and clarity [up to a point] of mathematics does not do well when applied to broader issues as a “friend” kindly pointed out to me before being very rudeNow we mathematicians criticise each other’s methods but we are rarely rude as it does not aid the mind.And it’s in the mind we live.Which is not a good idea but maybe we went there as a safe place when life was too much to bear.
For life is much harder than Mathematics,as King Lear might have said.
Relaxing improves our perception,
Doing nothing is good for the complexion.
I love to look out,
And see birds about.
While glimpsing if any of them have specs on.
Deep in a sad and nervous state,
Relaxation is hard to create
I feel so tense I can’t sit down
My eyes glare out and then I frown.
I talk too fast ,I lack patience
I lose touch with my common sense.
To follow instructions from a book
Seems hard when I feel my brain’s been spooked.
So what to do to help ourself,
Not to mention soul and health?
I discovered that very deep inside
A pleasant silence often abides.
To be tranquil, we need to sit
And to consciousness peace admit.
Deep down inside we are at rest
And with love the soul is blessed.
All we have to do is wait
To get in touch with this sweet state.
Our own deep peace is always there
Too often hidden by common cares.
Pretend the chair is full of glue
We have some here called UHU.
I pretend that I can'[t get up,
An elephant sits gently on my lap.
Gaze in wonder at a tree.
Discover what we rarely see.
So let your thoughts float by like clouds
Your mind will slow down when allowed
Your angel was near you today
I saw her but I couldn’t say.
You were tied up in a network of thought
On that smartphone you have just bought.
An angel was by you today
But your mind was too far away.
You didn’t even glance ay this sight
Your eyes were entranced by screen light,
If we could abandon our cybernetic romance,
If we weren’t all so deeply entranced,
If we could all look up even once
Our angels might teach us to dance
His writing is over full of invented commas.
He came to a full stop when his paper blew away.
His writing has no compasses and yet goes round in squirkles
She gave him full squarks for detrying.
She gave him a quotation to park.
She likes inverted comas but he didn’t.So they split at 45 degrees.
His colons were semi-detached.
What a narragraph!
He writes like a narrative.
Life is full of stories without punctuation, beginning or blend.
His fiction caused friction as it was clearly debased on the facts of wife.
Her poetry was full of forms but bereft of feeling.
What, a stunner, what a formata.
Just write and add the commas when you flirt
Your writing is so deft it seems unpeeled.
A capital letter? Das Kapital, ok?
Marx was keen on literacy and strangluage.
Can your feelings fill a form? If so, you cannot be published till you freeze them
Take it or weave it.You have my words.
Odious grammar deters the readers.
The wind is gently swishing round
And now the soft-breathed breeze has found
Some old leaves resting on the ground
And piled them up into a mound
Against our red brick wall.
The sun is shining here today.
I hope its light is here to stay
I want the summer now, always.
Azalea blooms to bless my way
No more frost at all.
But yet the wind has gathered force
The weather shows us no remorse
We must submit to Nature’s course,
Yet listen for that still, small voice.
For God, it is, who calls.
Stan was outside polishing the brass doorstep.”My, these microfibre cloths are wonderful” he thought resentfully.Mary was out taking a load of stuff to the Oxfam Shop.Suddenly he heard a loud cry., then he felt a pair of hands fondling the top of his bald head.”Eeh, no rest for the wicked, even at 81,” he screamed.He staggered to his feet and rubbed his knees.”
.”Just give me a hand” , he said,”I’ll have to stretch my hamstrings.They tighten up so.”
“I’ll stretch them for you!” Annie whispered roguishly.Stan leant forward to touch his toes and she could not resist the temptation to give his bottom a hearty slap.”
“For Pete’s sake, Annie” he shouted faintly.”Someone might see that.””
“Don’t worry , there’s no-one around at this time of the day” she tittered.
“Oh, yes there is!”
It was Dave, the paramedic.He had been lying behind the wheelie bins, all three of them standing plaintively in the tiny front garden.”
“I’m an MI5 spy ,and I’ve been reading your blog, Mr Brown.”
“I’m not called Brown” ,said Stan nerdishly.
“Refuses to accept reality, “Dave wrote in his little notepad with some blood he had taken from himself earlier.
“Jesus Christ!”, said Stan.”
“Now,now” said Dave,”that’s not your name,
“No my name is Tan, not Brown, you’ve been reading the wrong blog!” “Stan Tan!”
Dave appeared crestfallen,” Any chairs need mending today?”
“My what beautiful ears you have , sweetheart,” he said to Annie,
“They look like sea shells.”
“Your eyes are like shallow pools in Lake Windermere during a thunderstorm.”Annie replied womanfully.”Are you still a transvestite?” she faltered on incoherently.
“No, I had a mystical experience and now I’m a Zen Buddhist”
“How did that happen? ” demanded Stan querulously.
“Well , I was knitting myself a Shetland lace sweater in pale blue mohair, and I suddenly had the feeling that everything was interwoven.Going forward or backwards, sideways or straight ahead, it is all part of the warp and weft of life.”” mistakes don’t matter” he continued idly.”Oh,yes,they do,”Annie said pouting her full lips., cherry pink by
“Oh,yes,they do,”Annie said pouting her full lips., cherry pink by courtesy of L’oreal of Paris and New York, lip balm by Yves St Laurent, peach foundation by Lancome also of Paris, toning smokey grey mascara by Max Factor, handbag Annie’s own,deep burgundy 70 denier tights by M&S. Grey pointed ballet slippers by Bally of Switzerland.[also available in black, red and teal].Raspberry lingerie by, strangely, M&S.
“As I was saying..,”
Dave dived back behind the wheelie bin.
Stan polished the brass vio;ently and Annie disappeared in a puff of smoke.
It was Mary’s famous imitation of a bicycle bell that had alerted them to her imminent return from the Oxfam shop.
“Don’t they make bike bells anymore?” Dave boringly wondered as he carried on reading the new life of Emily Dickinson”A loaded gun.” He had thought it was an army training manual, but, hey, mistakes don’t matter!Or do they?Read the next instalment soon at your local newsagent’s or here.
Reblogged on WordPress.com
Source: Everything I Need to Know I Could Have Learned in Sunday School (But Didn’t)
I used to love my mother
but then I got too old.
She didn’t want to feed me
Because I felt the cold.
My feet and hands were purple
which she told me was wrong.
I couldn’t change the colour
so had to change my tongue.
I used to love my father
Until he went away.
They said he’s with the angels
and small girls ought to pray.
And then I loved the cat we had
And all four kittens too…
Until my mother got fed up
and sent them to the zoo.
I said I am disheartened
Life is far too hard…
or else I’m hypersensitive
and must become a bard.
I loved a Spanish waiter.
A young man from Peru.
I loved a lot of others–
No more than ninety two.
That is just an estimate
An average, a norm.
It’s what I told the doctor
When he filled out a form
He said to me,You err,my dear
And I mistook his speech
I thought he meant he loved me.
But he just meant to teach.
What he meant was quantity
is not what we desire..
One man is sufficient
Unless he is a liar.
And in the darkness of the bed
What matters is their smell.
Some men smell like honey..
much more I cannot tell
for though these men pursued me
I had such poor eyesight
I didn’t see them properly
especially at night..
I was more keen on Wittgenstein.
and whether I am real..
Maybe I’ve gone crackers
And don’t know I’m surreal
I don’t want any lovers now
for love brought so much pain
I’d rather be a jellied eel
than fall in love again.
But friendliness and welcome
Are what we humans need…
And cats and dogs and willow trees
Which don’t make our hearts bleed.
One man is sufficient
And necessary too..
Without my own sweet husband
whatever would I do?
He listens with his heart and soul
And he is never harsh…
He likes to hear me singing
Across of Southwold Marsh.
He likes to take the ferry boat
Across the River Blythe.
But now I hope the ferryman
will not yet arrive..
We have to cross that river
We have to let life go…
We have to be untied and freed.
We think,but do we know?
In the silvery moonlight,
Time gets her own way
In the darkness of the night
Time will have her say.
Time has come and gone again
And so the hand descends
So I bid you fond farewell,
We have reached the end.
Oh,wrap me up dear mother
in my winding cloth
Take me in your ancient arms
for I have had enough.
I’ve loved and loved and loved again.
I’ve puzzled and I’ve pained
but all I want’s a writing tool
To write down words again
I’d like to lie beside you,
so we’d be face to face.
Then we could, at last. enjoy
A sweet visual embrace
Then I take my fingers
way across your brow;
my fingers linger on your lips-
somewhere,somehow.
.
I trace these dear lines of old age
which wander round your eyes.
I run my fingers down your nose.
My touch is satisfied.
I’d like to trace your smiling lips.
that look so fine and strong.
With my own pink finger tips.
Would you think me wrong?
I’d like to boil your hankies
In an ancient pan
On a big coal fire..
Though the coal fires are long gone.
I’d like to rest my curly head
Upon your bony chest
I’ll test your antiperspirant
And the whiteness of your vest.
I’ll treat you very tenderly
and keep you free of dirt
For as they used to say one time:
Oh,how real loving hurts!
A little knowledge in a dangerous song ,stirs up the workers and makes life better than wrong
A little learning is a dangerous thing; drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, and drinking largely sobers us again.
Pray ,Father.
I am praying.
I want to confess.
Not again.
That’s not very nice.
God is not very nice.
I’ve already deduced that.
Well, stop confessing so much.It’s a form of narcissism , you know
You mean it makes us think if ourselves too much?
Exactly.I believe it’s best to forget yourself and get immersed in something like learning Chinese or painting or your work, of course.
Or men or women?
Or those whose gender is fluid…that is something to think about
I’d prefer not to.Yet I know some folk are born with differently configured private parts.
I know.That must be tough.Althiugh better nowadays.
Well, that took my mind of my sins.
We were raised to believe God was always watching us but, in fact, it’s one part of us is watching the other parts.
Yes,I can see how wrong that could be if frequent.
So from now on,confess only annually.Amen
http://www.fluentu.com/english/blog/useful-english-proverbs/
They say it’s a good way to learn English.
EXAMPLE
The pen is mightier than the sword
That is a good one and by learning a few by heart you can make your voice mightier than the aggression of the nasty or bad tempered.Of course we never err ourselves!
How my heart sings 