9078526803998I prefer dresses in hot weather but so far  we’ve only had one week when I could wear one,or in fact two.One is very thin cotton voile.The other is a bit heavier.I think I look better  in a dress but it’s regarded as eccentric now unless it’s a sleeveless maxi-dress.
There are 2 things wrong with those
1 They have no sleeves hence display a part which is better covered
2 They trail around ones feet getting dirty and also possibly one might catch a foor aand fall over.
Killed by maxi-dress?
A hardworking internet writer fell over the hem of  her dress while  getting onto the  downward escalator at Warren St  tube station.

Her last words:

“I should have gone to Foyles.” or “I wanted some foil”

But a doctor said that Tottenham Court Rd was also dangerous.She has left her money to a charity for the disabled to install  lifts in more underground stations

There, that’s a fantasy for you.Anyway they look like curtains!

Ostracised by the cat

I was ostracised by  my own cats
Who refused me the use of my mat
They sent me upstairs
With their fierce  amber glares
And refused to converse after that.

I went to Cambridge  with my new  little cat.
She’s been awarded a  degree, aegrotat
For being sick in the exam
And  having a fit in a pan.
She’s hysterical,how about that?

A cat can’t have any therapy
For they cannot speak human ,you see.
So how could they know
A neurosis ain’t so.
And moreover they can’t pay a fee.


Definition of stasis in the Oxford Dictionary

Definition of stasis in English:


Pronunciation: /ˈsteɪsɪs/



[MASS NOUN] formal or technical

1A period or state of inactivity or equilibrium:long periods of stasiscreative stasis

1.1Medicine A stoppage of flow of a body fluid.


Mid 18th century: modern Latin, from Greek, literally ‘standing, stoppage’, from sta- base ofhistanai ‘to stand’.

Words that rhyme with stasis

basis, oasis

For editors and proofreaders

Line breaks: sta¦sis


Stasis in darkness.

Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Berries cast dark
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Something else
Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning

Stanley Plumly

“Ariel” is, of course, Plath’s singular and famous example of the form completely at one with its substance, the language exactly the speedy act of its text. The point for the poet is obvious: “How one we grow,/Pivot of heels and knees.” The speaker thus becomes as much Ariel as the horse, and together they become the one thing, the poem itself, “the arrow,/ /The dew that flies/Suicidal, at one with the drive.” The run from stasis in darkness into the red eye of morning is a miraculous inhabiting, in which the natural and referential world dissembles, blurs into absence, to the point that the transformation of the horse and rider can become absolute. “Something else / / Hauls me through air . . . ” In seconds, she is a white Godiva, unpeeling dead hands and stringencies, then, almost simultaneously, she is foam to wheat, and at that freeing instant, in terror or in esctasy, the child’s cry melts in the wall. “Ariel” is as close to a poetry of pure, self-generating, associative action as we could hope for, as if the spirit, at last, had found its correlative, had transcended, in the moment, memory.

From “What Ceremony of Words” in Ariel Ascending: Writings about Sylvia Plath. Ed. Paul Alexander. Copyright © 1985 by Paul Alexander.

Words and feelings.

Words were spoken long before any alphabet was invented.Feeling into words can mean many things.But if we feel into an actual word,we feel into the sounds in the word when someone uses it.We say sometimes people’s voices have n o affect.Other’s have melodious voices,some speak as if they fire bullets.We might put more of our own feelings into our words or  try to hide how we feel.Possibly we pick up much more from each other than we realise.
But how do we put more feeling into a poem and how do we avoid it being a kind of longer cliche? I think the rhythm  is one factor.
Sometimes poems are savage like Sylvia Plath’s late ones

.We can imitate various sounds in nature… bird song,machine guns,feet pounding on the ground.Sometimes we plan it or ,more usually, we leave it to happen naturally.If it does not the poem may sound banal or dead even if it is  very good technically.

Ostracise from Merriam Webster



verb AH-struh-syze


1 : to exile by ostracism

2 : to exclude from a group by common consent


Athletes who cheat risk being ostracized by their peers and colleagues—in addition to suffering professional ruin.

“Hateful speech is employed to offend, marginalize and ostracize. It’s replaced reasonable persuasion by those too lazy or ignorant to be thoughtful.” — Tom Fulks, The San Luis Obispo (California) Tribune, 26 Dec. 2015

Did You Know?

In ancient Greece, prominent citizens whose power or influence threatened the stability of the state could be exiled by a practice called ostracism. Voters would elect to banish another citizen by writing that citizen’s name down on a potsherd. Those receiving enough votes would then be subject to temporary exile from the state (usually for ten years). The English verb ostracize can mean “to exile by the ancient method of ostracism,” but these days it usually refers to the general exclusion of one person from a group at the agreement of its members. Ostracism and ostracize derive from the Greek ostrakizein (“to banish by voting with potsherds”). Its ancestor, the Greek ostrakon (“shell” or “potsherd”), also helped to give English the word oyster.

I’d be sent to buy mint

Do you remember squirming under the table
Banging your head on the corner
Or falling down    the stairs.
I broke my leg once.
Knees scabbed and bruised; we don’t see that now
I suppose they don’t do the dangerous things we used to do.
Mr Turner had an allotment where he grew flowers and herbs
I’d be sent to buy mint sometimes and a bunch of flowers
Then the council made the land into garages for rent.
And hardly anyone had a car.Until Beeching.
The Great Train Robber.

Red coals

The red coals glowed warming us like a mother
Faces and little men were formed and disappeared
In the back room,the kettle was always on
There was a special grate with a flat top.
Kettle  blackened  on one side was always simmering.
Before,we had a fireplace with an oven where our nightclothes were warmed
Or potato cakes baked.Why,it even heated the water for the hot tap
We didn’t have a bath,only the tin one
Coals  sacred  like the burning bush,bring
Memories of love and joy at Xmas
With smiling parents and brothers calmed for once
I think the next year he was ill.
I don’t want to forget they were happy for  7 years
And mother was a mother then