The old kitten is replaced by a new baby kitten the old dog by a new pup like a dead Monday by Tuesday. They stroke the new kitten in their laps so that their excess affection won’t go sour, so that it will love them in return, like the old one did. But for me they aren’t replaceable, not the kitten, not the Monday, not anything else; for me they never die. They only distance themselves, or dwell in me disappearing into the distance: they dwell in my heart and ears, like the Moonlight Sonata dwells in a piano. Gone? No new rain rinses the shower-scent of an old Monday from me, no matter how hard it pours, hisses, stream
Month: August 2016
Black Cat Rainer Maria Rilke, 1875 – 1926
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:
just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.
She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once
as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.
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Serious art that is funny
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/serious-art-thats-funny-humor-poetry
Quote:
“Carolyn Forché, someone who has never been accused of being a funny poet, has said “irony, paradox, surrealism . . . might well be both the answer and a restatement of [Theodor] Adorno’s often quoted and difficult contention that to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.” But what did the philosopher and critic Adorno mean by this fatuous statement? No poetry? Or just a very, very serious and earnest poetry? Because, let’s face it–earnestness is almost always bad art. Good art makes us think; it has more questions than answers. Often, but not always, satire does this too. But earnestness almost never does this–that’s not its job. Earnestness is comforting. It wants to hug us. And we want to be hugged sometimes. But sometimes we want to laugh while poking holes in self-righteousness and oppression, whether it be literal political oppression or oppression of a quieter sort – cultural and aesthetic oppression. Irony and satire are such a good antidote to oppression because oppression needs to be earnest (or at least look earnest) in order to be feared by those it seeks to cow. Oppression cannot work alongside irony because it believes in its own righteousness and a monolithic concept of truth that must be asserted to the oppressed with a straight face. Irony and satire are the tools by which the oppressed get to make fun of the oppressors without the oppressors getting it.”
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Where nude police with guns strut stiffly by.
He says we’re going to bed this afternoon
As melancholy clouds droop from the sky
I like the sun to fry, to heat my womb
I like the flowers each with its dull dead blooms
On burning grass with him, I sinned to fly.
He says we’re getting bail this afternoon
If there is no sun, there is no moon.
If we cannot stalk, then we can lie.
I out my sins to thrive, to bring down Rome
I scorn the beach, where Europe showed it’s ruined
Nude starched police with guns strut stiffly by.
He says we’ll have the climax S & hemmed,
I sing in tunes invented by my clones
I would be dumb yet how the grey ghosts sigh
I hear the sunbeams screaming in the Zone
If it’s very hot I have clothes my own
Burkinis are the big hits of today
They says we’re going to Jail this afternoon
I hope that God will speak and throw us down
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Hermaphrodites can do it all and tweet!
Every cloud its silver lining has
Get your sheets white using mega Daz
Finders may be keepers in some hands
I keep my hair on with elastic bands.
Whiskas cat food’s quite enough for me
The cat eats all my dinner in the tree
Remember not to roll on mossy banks
Rolling stones may tumble on your flanks
I had a bird in my hands just the once
My parents looked at this and ,cripes, they winced
They made my punishment fit my so called crime
So now I live free doing my own Time [jail in UK]
Too many cooks can spoil my broth today
For soup’s unsuitable in summer gay.
I’m marrying a clever maid who’s also sweet
Hermaphrodites can do it all and tweet!
You may be cutie pie and like free love
But I prefer an eagle to a dove
Yet love needs payment , even round the bend
In the end lies the beginning of the penned
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5 ways to start writing a poem
http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/advice/5-ways-how-to-write-a-poem
5 Ways :How to Write a Poem
Okay, so there are probably about a million ways how to write a poem, but the five methods below help me when I’ve been stuck in a rut. If you have other ways to get those poems started, then feel encouraged to share in the comments below.
Here are 5 ways how to write poetry:
- Capture a moment. One trap I can sometimes fall into is that I try to write the big poem or the poem filled with ideas (like love, hate, etc.). What always works better, for me anyway, is to focus on one moment that expresses an emotion or works as a metaphor for a bigger idea.
- Steal a conversation. My first chapbook includes a poem titled “Eavesdropping,” which is basically several conversations I overheard while in airport terminals. I took notes in the terminals and worked on the poem while doing my laundry at a laundromat. Listening to others can kickstart poems, because you’ll hear things you would never say or think yourself.
- Describe something or someone. Specificity strengthens a poem, and it’s hard to get more specific than throwing all your attention toward one thing or person. The only trap with these poems is that they can sometimes read like lists.
- Respond to something. Response poems have been around forever. In fact, an argument could be made that all poems are response poems. To what could your poem respond? For starters, you could respond to another poem, a piece of art, something someone said to you, a cool-looking car, etc. Nothing is off limits.
- Use someone else’s line. This is kind of like eavesdropping, I suppose, but there are poems that will take a line from another person’s poem and make that the first line. In this tradition, it is also good form to mention the poem is “after (poet’s name here).” How this can help is that you’ve already got a great line out of the way–and just need to write the rest of the poem.
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Be a better writer
http://99u.com/articles/7082/25-insights-on-becoming-a-better-writer
Jennifer Egan: On being willing to write badly…
[Be] willing to write really badly. It won’t hurt you to do that. I think there is this fear of writing badly, something primal about it, like: “This bad stuff is coming out of me…” Forget it! Let it float away and the good stuff follows. For me, the bad beginning is just something to build on. It’s no big deal. You have to give yourself permission to do that because you can’t expect to write regularly and always write well. That’s when people get into the habit of waiting for the good moments, and that is where I think writer’s block comes from. Like: It’s not happening. Well, maybe good writing isn’t happening, but let some bad writing happen… When I was writing “The Keep,” my writing was so terrible. It was God-awful. My working title for that first draft was, A Short Bad Novel. I thought: “How can I disappoint?”
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Emotions and desires with syntax meet
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/glossary-terms/detail/foot
Poetic form, oh architecture sweet,
Sonnet,terza rima,villanelle;
Let me sense your truth in sentence neat
Emotions and desires with syntax meet;
The sentences, like waves, each softly swells.
Poetic form, oh architecture sweet.
Like Shetland lace, the patterned forms repeat
Oh,draping shawl, be not obsessive hell.
Let me sense your truth in sentence neat
Our language starts as babbles and small greets;
From interactions, we learn words as well.
Poetic form, oh architecture sweet.
Poems and music , each has rhythmic beat.
Each may give us peace or vital thrill
Let me sense your truth in sentence neat
Underneath the oak trees take your seat.
Read aloud or silent,as you will.
Poetic form, oh architecture sweet;
Let me sense your truth in sentence neat
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IF THIS BE LOVE
If this be love,then let me have your hate.
If you be true then let me hear your lies.
For this, my heart, your message comes too late.
For now my need is for the thoughtful wise.
If this be marriage,let me have divorce.
If this be holy, hasten I to hell..
For love comes in its time without such force.
And of its message ẃho am I to tell?
If this be love,then let me dwell alone.
If this be love, I will be forever chaste.
Your love is like a bomb. that breaks my bones
A love that lays your world and mine to waste
.
Love can shake us to our inner core.
Hence of your love I wish to hear no more
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Writers’ studies
Where nine writers work
Nigella Lawson from article below
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Parody
parody
ˈparədi/
noun
noun: parody; plural noun: parodies
-
1.an imitation of the style of a particular writer, artist, or genre with deliberate exaggeration for comic effect.“the film is a parody of the horror genre”
-
an imitation or version of something that falls far short of the real thing; a travesty.“he gave her a parody of a smile”
synonyms: distortion, travesty, poor imitation, caricature, mockery, misrepresentation, perversion,corruption, debasement; apology for“an appalling parody of the truth”
-
verb
verb: parody; 3rd person present: parodies; past tense: parodied; past participle: parodied; gerund or present participle: parodying
-
1.produce a humorously exaggerated imitation of (a writer, artist, or genre).“his speciality was parodying schoolgirl fiction”
Origin
late 16th century: via late Latin from Greek parōidia ‘burlesque poem’, from para- ‘beside’ (expressing alteration) + ōidē ‘ode’.
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Where is the boundary?
If there is bad poetry and good poetry how about grey poetry?
The poem was not a diamond nor a pearl
Nor was it even moonstone they surmised
But in the weekly news, it got a mention
Which gained the author looks of great surprise.
The postman and the milkman lingered longer
The dustmen were all eager to commend
They rescued other writing from recycling
They told the author it was in demand.
Or if not now, then maybe in the future;
Like Ted Hughes, we ought not to destroy.
The driver’s done an OU course in writing
Everything from Pontefract to Troy.
The postman wrote us verses every Xmas
The milkman gave us readings from our palms.
The dustmen read the Times if it was folded
If it was creased, then they were up in arms.
Save letters, lists and diaries when handwritten;
Even the old table where you write
Perhaps your golden pen from Haifa
And the Esterbrook which knew your daily plight.
I don’t know where Sylvia’s stuff was quartered
But now it fills great rooms with gravitas
Innumerable academics sift it
Has all her suffering brought her down to this?
So build a shed and make it dry in winter
Get heavy duty bags from Shangri La
Every single sentence you have written
Put it there before you cross the Bar
In your Will,do mention your grey verses
Leave all to the University of Rome
If they don’t really want to shelve them
Make a university of your home.
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Get used to how deserted spouses gasp
The art of living is to stay relaxed.
The art of living’s not to keep or grasp.
Ignore the signals of the phone and facts
Ignore the peeling paper and the cracks.
Ignore the buzzing of the angry wasps
The art of living is to stay relaxed
Don’t bother how the other folk react
Do not extend your hand, in case it’s clasped
Ignore the signals of the phone and facts
Keep your suitcase in the porch and packed.
Get used to how deserted spouses gasp
The art of living is to stay relaxed
Remember phones de facto can be tracked
Remember all you’re breaking is their trust
Ignore the signals of the phone, and facts
Don’t let the ten commandments keep you fixed
Facades, in the end, all come to dust
The art of living is to stay relaxed
Ignore the signals of the phone, for I will fax
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A tyrant’s spell makes ruin seem like fate
Writing poems is easy,in the end
For they exist already in the tongue.
We remove excess, and inappropriate, mend.
Hence what is left cannot be written wrong.
The longer and more complex is the poem
The easier for the poet to sculpt to shape
But brief and succinct verses hide, or roam.
Empty is my paper and I mope.
Or are words a mere random heap of stones
A poet , a builder of a drystone wall?
Skeleton, or heap of beggars’ bones
Awaiting flesh , for which desire they call?
Maybe a hidden body in the woods,
A hand protrudes and dogs run all a-bark
Lazarus waiting for his unique God
Who alone provides the living spark
Frankenstein or Saviour, who can tell?
Construction may obscure and then too late;
Both good and evil can be written well.
A tyrant’s spell makes ruin seem like fate
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One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
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The most vital element in poetry is rhythm
Our fascination for bad poetry
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/articles/detail/69448
I suppose,moreover,it’s never easy to tell
To coin a phrase,what is new and great
From what is bad
And it’s darned uncomfortable sitting astride this fence
I suppose it has to be nice,full of cliches and perhaps rhyming
And rarely scanning;
Or it’s about sort of hackneyed type of stories
With nothing new under the sun in them
And with a few too many adverbs, prepositions and no nouns like names
Just to get the ball rolling,here’s my point of view
Would you like it read out at your third wedding?
Or your one and only funeral
Don’t keep me guessing.I like a quick response
I am not easily bored but when I am bored it’s easy to stay that way,kinda thing.
When I feel paralysed and stare at the things piled on the sofa
And wonder how to sort them out..
Ah,well,many a mickle makes a muckle
And lions roar while cheetahs chuckle
Bite your own knuckle.Oh,fuckle.
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He who owns the camera owns the zoom
He who pays the piper calls the tune
He who owns the camera owns the zoom
We used to make hay down in sunny Froome
While shepherds watched their flocks outside the town
Laughter is the antidote to loss
If you’re hurt then it’s ok to curse.
Many hands make lights work after dark
If you have a car, you need a park
If you die make sure that you are clean
All that’s well ends with a happy cheer
Many like to drown their guts in beer.
A bird in my hand nipped me with its beak
My bladder’s full so I must take a leak.
My clothes are cleaner than a Bishop’s Dream
If you meet one ,all you do is scream.
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I can’t stop getting it
I can’t stop getting it
The Radio Times,lost , unread.
The newspapers all writ with blood
I can’t stop getting it.
I get that you are gone for good
I get my tears may cause the flood
I can’t stop getting it.
The mustard, yellow, in its pot
For my taste, too wild and hot
I can’t stop getting it.
The cutlery I bought to cheer
Those new plates, the bottled beer
I can’t stop getting it.
You think I’m smart,
I have no heart?
I only like pure numbers cold,
Transcendental,undersold.
I write while sentences still dart
I write because we are apart
I can’t stop getting it
The LRB, Arthritis Care
The Oldie,Damart,what men wear.
The Guardian Weekly,Africa
Apartheid, Sharpeville.what you saw.
I can’t stop getting it.
I’ve got it all.I’ve got the warmth
I’ve got the memories of calm
I’ve got it all,and yet, and yet
I’ve got nothing,I’m bereft.
I can’t stop getting hit.
I can’t stop getting it.
Save me with your wit.
Your mobile features,not your phone,
The abject utterance of your groans
The trolley in the A & E
How you died , right next to me.
I held your hand and sang the psalms
You smiled at me ,at last you calmed
I can’t stop getting it
The groups of doctors just outside
Listening to me sing you right.
The nurses stopped ,like frozen film
That was heaven,not a prison
I can’t stop getting it.
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Happy to do nothing,nothing seek
Rich deep silence brings pleasures unique
From peaceful green of trees where small birds hide.
The work within the mind may be complete
About our souls, we each must be discreet
Even to those who’re living by our sides
Rich deep silence brings pleasures unique
Happy to do nothing,nothing seek
Innocent as young,beloved bride
The work within the mind may be complete
Ignorant of Latin,Hebrew,Greek,
The heart needs no such learning to decide
Rich deep silence brings pleasures unique
I listen to the world around me speak
Underneath the turmoil,love’s alive
The work within the mind may be complete
In our society, sensitive means freak.
Yet, by our intuitions, we may guide
Rich deep silence brings pleasures unique
The work within the mind may be complete
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Cliche
cliché
ˈkliːʃeɪ/
noun
noun: cliché; plural noun: clichés; noun: cliche; plural noun: cliches
-
1.a phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.“that old cliché ‘a woman’s place is in the home’”
synonyms: platitude, hackneyed phrase, commonplace, banality, truism, trite phrase, banal phrase, overworked phrase, stock phrase, bromide; More -
a very predictable or unoriginal thing or person.“each building is a mishmash of tired clichés”
-
-
2.BRITISHa stereotype or electrotype.
Origin
mid 19th century: French, past participle (used as a noun) of clicher ‘to stereotype’.
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How to make your poetry worse.Part 1
Write in form but make sure the lines don’t scan
Iambic pentameter
I love my love with all my human heart
I bake Dan apple tart
I love his wicked face and legs
I love to cook him loads of scrambled eggs
Use cliches as often as possible
CLICHED POP UP
Every cloud its silver lining has
Get your sheets white using mega Daz
Finders may be keepers in some lands
I keep my hair on with elastic bands.
Whiskas cat food’s quite enough for me
The cat eats all my dinner , while I wee
Remember not to roll on mossy banks
As rolling stones may gather on your flanks
I had a bird in my hands just the once
My parents looked at this and made me wince
They made my punishment fit my so called crime
So now I live free doing my own Time [jail in UK]
Too many cooks can spoil my broth today
For soup’s unsuitable in summer gay.
I’m marrying a clever maid who’s also sweet
Hermaphrodites can do it all and tweet
You may be cutie pie and like free love
But I prefer an owl to a soft dove
Yet love needs payment , even in the end
In the end is the beginning of the penned
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Maturity
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When shadows fall and night begins again
When shadows fall and night begins again
When artificial light is all I have
I feel the grief of loss in biting pain
And by the evening ,energy is drained.
We list the memories of those we’ve loved
When shadows fall and night begins again
So like the moon ,my feelings wax and wane
And sunlight does not fall from far above
I feel the grief of loss in biting pains
When no words seem appropriate to explain
The river rushes fast, but I’ve no boat
When shadows fall and night begins again
At least I do not look for who to blame
But wish to live surrounded by a moat
I feel the grief of loss in biting pains
A premonition warned me of what came
And down I sank forgetting how to float
When shadows fall and night begins again
I feel the grief of loss in biting pain
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MW Insinuate
Suggesting night by Katherine 2015
Word of the Day : August 24, 2016
insinuate
verb in-SIN-yuh-wayt
Definition
1 a : to introduce (as an idea) gradually or in a subtle, indirect, or covert way
b : to impart or suggest in an artful or indirect way : imply
2 : to introduce (as oneself) by stealthy, smooth, or artful means
Examples
“They are confident buildings, but not boastful ones. They have a way of iinsinuating themselves into the landscape, behaving as if they’ve always been there.” — Karrie Jacobs,Architect, 18 June 2013
“Pokemon Go players couldn’t catch much on Saturday. That’s because the game kept crashing. … [A] group called PoodleCorp claimed responsibility for the server crash in a series of tweets. The group also insinuated that another attack on the game was imminent.” — Ahiza Garcia, CNN Wire, 16 July 2016
Did You Know?
The meaning of insinuate is similar to that of another verb, suggest. Whether you suggest or insinuate something, you are conveying an idea indirectly. But although these two words share the same basic meaning, each gets the idea across in a different way. When you suggest something, you put it into the mind by associating it with other ideas, desires, or thoughts. You might say, for example, that a book’s title suggests what the story is about. The word insinuate, on the other hand, usually includes a sense that the idea being conveyed is unpleasant, or that it is being passed along in a sly or underhanded way (“She insinuated that I cheated”).
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Very funny if you can understand the accent
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Canny- what does it mean
Canny is used a lot in the North of England and canny lass is Geordie
canny
ˈkani/
adjective
adjective: canny; comparative adjective: cannier; superlative adjective: canniest
-
1.having or showing shrewdness and good judgement, especially in money or business matters.“canny investors will switch banks if they think they are getting a raw deal”
synonyms: shrewd, astute, sharp, sharp-witted, discerning, acute, penetrating, discriminating,perceptive, perspicacious, clever, intelligent, wise, sagacious, sensible, judicious,circumspect, careful, prudent, cautious; More -
2.NORTHERN ENGLISHSCOTTISHpleasant; nice.“she’s a canny lass”
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The rage of living
The point of living is to feel alive Not caged by too high walls or steely fence We want to love,be taken by surprise. Our wounded mangled self we can’t deride, Recalling fights and struggles lived through once. The point of living is to feel alive. We dither to and fro in puzzled ways We feel the anguish, still and quite intent. We want to love,be taken by surprise. The self’s spontaneous, not a thing contrived; Formed with love and hate,with all intense. The rage of living is to be alive. When washed away by feelings glad,immense That cross our borders without our lament The hope,the need of living is our life We want to give and take yet fear surprise
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In those lost lands, I saw your face
In the land which dreams dwell in where love and joy and life begin; how swiftly the deep rivers flow from those lost lands of long ago. I wander through wild poppy fields Underfoot the dark earth yields…. I see the flowering fruit trees start Their blossoms gather round my heart… I hear the sparrows sing with joy And bees their busy wings employ. In those lost lands I saw your face And now I long for your embrace. Are you real,am I deceived? From this earth we all must leave. Earth to earth and ash to ash Glory,pride and boasting pass. Leave me now,my dearest one Soon I too will be called on. Nothing lasts but truth is real Keep the truth and your ideals.. Earth to earth, we rest in clay We must give all self away Softly on this earth I roam Seeking still my love and home, for until the very end Love and kindnss may descend. Soft as wings of butterflies Tears well up and wet my eyes. My heart has melted into yours Thus we grow and die like flowers
How my heart sings 
Kurt Vonnegut