Mary may date online but her shoes are no good

Annie the nubile ex-mistress of Stan   and colour fancying neighbour  of Mary has persuaded Mary that as Stan has run away she should find someone else.Mary is doubtfulIMG_0012First of all,Annie cried,you need some brand  new  delicate shoes.No man will be charmed by those chunky ,comfy flatties.Nor do your socks show sophistication.Though a farmer might be happy with themShe herself wore a pink tweed suit and some high heeled boots in purple patent leather over a blue silk  pair of socks.
Well,Mary,answered,I thought I should be myself because they might be annoyed being tricked.I would be.
That’s their  problem said Annie  somewhat rudely.
Well.where do I get the sort of socks a man would like,if indeed all men are the same in that way?
I’d stick with silky black ones,said Annie kindly.Then some smart black pumps.That simplifies  life.
But if I look at Soul-mates online the men will not know what shoes I have got on nor socks
That’s true,said Annie.At least until you meet one if you ever do.
Anyway if it is called Soul-mates,why does my body matter?
Don’t be so literal,dear.You know it’s just a way of indicating they want a lover. that case it’s my lingerie that matters more than my shoes.
See here,said Annie bossily.With those shoes and socks nobody will want to see your lingerie.


Just as well ,said Mary calmly.I don’t have any.
Are you telling me  you have no  underwear on,Annie cried with shock in her tone.Your trousers will need washing more often!!
I am wearing some woollen vests and underpants I got for Stan,Mary said shyly.I like wool.
What do you think a man will assume if you wear that?
That I can’t afford to have the fire on,Mary  queried timidly.
He might think you are transgender.
I have heard of transcendence but not transgender,Mary admitted ruefully.I did used to have  a purple bra, she continued distractedly.
Anyway, what about my learning and job  as a maths prof?
Don’t put  anything about maths on the form.They hate clever women.
Surely they are not all the same,Mary answered.Mary Archer is very clever and she’s been married 50 years
You can’t generalise from one example ,Annie informed her statistically
How about my love of Wittgenstein?Shall I mention it?
If you wear men’s woollen underwear and love a  dead,gay philosopher it will cut down the pool of men available.
I don’t think I’ll bother,Mary whispered.I don’t like fishing.I’d rather have a cup of tea.
Really.said Annie.I don’t know why you decided to try this.
I never did it was you.I am quite happy as I am given the dangers of this world.
And so say most of us.Amen.


What is an Ode?


noun: ode; plural noun: odes
  1. a lyric poem, typically one in the form of an address to a particular subject, written in varied or irregular metre.
    • a classical poem of a kind originally meant to be sung.
late 16th century: from French, from late Latin oda, from Greek ōidē, Attic form of aoidē ‘song’, from aeidein‘sing’.

Like startled flowers

The hailstones pounded the window
as violently,as if they had minds
bent on killing;soldiers in rows and ranks rushing onwards;
as each fell another and another took its place.
Cold and mathematical they had a simple precise force and geometry.
Into this warlike scene,floated two white butterflies
Crossing and recrossing the spaces between the hail
they followed a random path;now apart
Their unplanned,loving dance leads to mating, procreation and a future
while the hailstones can only die.
Seems that fragile freedom is more productive
than the fierce mechanical modern world can imagine.
I see the butterflies now like startled flowers
hunting for the sun

Can we find the space between the words?

How like a prison is this cubicle
So small I’m like a fish inside  a net

My heart beats with a rhythm unmusical
As with sharp terror, I am now beset.

We humans were not made to be en-walled
Our ancestors were gatherers in the woods.
Now  industry  demands freedom be stalled
For production and  consumption of  their goods.

And  executives in advertising   work
In  offices  where they  combine their words
Religiously like members of the Kirk
Yet envying the freedom of wild birds.

Can we  be ourselves in such a world?
Can we find the space between the words?

When my love’s gone

When  my love's gone and doom hangs over head
When life runs like a river to the sea
Then shall I take new lovers to my bed.
And with their carnal touch consoled be?

When true loves lie and break my woman's heart.
When life seems grey and rocks bestrew my path.
Then, shall I my life of evil start
And on the world shall I bestow my wrath?

When true loves lie and wreck all loyalty.
When puzzlement makes all the world seem mad.
Then I shall upend causality
And let myself do deeds which make me glad.

For I will not  retaliate   in hate
Despite my  grief, a new life I'll create


The uncanny is a space which I avoid

The uncanny is a space which I avoid
I do not wish to meet with spirits  vile.
Though with a man ,it’s true that I have toyed.
I  dropped them all and sane was I the while.

Yet when I met your eyes so dark  and strange
A force more strong than my own pulled me in.
A   premonition that my life would change,
Before I knew your double,your dark twin.

In dreams and  in my nightmares he will come
To capture me and take me  to his land.
I do not know what choice to make of man
Nor how to count infinity by hand

The double is an augury of death
Yet in this space uncanny is a path

It may not be this me

The  small birds are singing above me
Two  hearts are entwined in my dreams
I shall need  to be here when you call
For I have a vocation for life.
And I need to write  at  least fifty poems
Before    autumn weather arrives

The  man in the raincoat  bereaved
Had a large parcel for me.
It was the  book of your mother’s   new poems
Just as I saw in my dreams
There were sonnets and tercets of sorts
I did not recognise others  at all

I wonder will my  cousin  call
I so  want  to see him arrive
After   a meta- journey by horse and by cart
Is  the poetry reminiscent of me?
My nightmare and all of my dreams
Contribute to the themes of my poems


The illusions I create in my  dreams
Have their voices and they play  their part
But illusions are not aimed to  decide
They are soporific   nightmares on TV
I roam all around in my rhymes
Till a metaphor arrives to oblige.


I wonder if the schema of dreams,
More often our wishes distort;
So it  is transcribed in our poem
What possibility drives
The collection of folk I call me?
But it may not be this me at all.

Ode to My Socks

Pablo Neruda, 19041973

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
with threads of
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
two long sharks
sea-blue, shot
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
of that woven
of those glowing

I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere
as schoolboys
as learned men
sacred texts,
I resisted
the mad impulse
to put them
into a golden
and each day give them
and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle who hand
over the very rare
green deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the magnificent
and then my shoes.

The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
and what is good is doubly
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter.

A very bad poem

As rolling stones gather no moss
At this point in time,  one must get started
Or the best part of the day will be gone.
I think many poems are gross
Like many young lovers are parted.
And I’m answerable to no-one.
Actually, I don’t give a toss.
My  vocation has been somewhat thwarted.
I could just eat two sponge cakes or one.
Many folks suffer a loss
And  maybe some are hard hearted
Actually I just  ate your scone.
Writing like this is like floss
Ing your teeth when they are bartered
I feel like a biscuit or ten


If I no longer love you

If I no longer  love you when you die
And quickly fill your space with a new man
Then perhaps my  claiming love was  but a lie
And I can fill  you place  with anyone.
Are not our  friends unique and therefore lost
When death pulls them away to darker shores?
Yet we  will love each one despite the cost.
And when we weep,  is this not  what life’s for?
Loss and gain and loss and gain again
A pattern from the infant to the sage
So joy and pain and joy and pain remain.
Who knows what is inscribed on the page?
To feel,to suffer, then feel joy once more
Will open up  to show us Heaven’s door

Is writing poetry good for you?

“The power of the metaphor, simile, parallel… figurative language is not only a good way to put things into perspective, but metaphors are easier to remember than a complex set of interactions.  This is a way to grasp deeper meaning from perhaps a very mundane, or complex identity.

It builds an understandable identity with which to contrast that is easier to grapple and engage in, in the process building pathways in your brain that would have been stopped cold otherwise.

And poetry exercises this muscle by encouraging figurative language providing a sounding ground for your ideas, feelings, reminiscences by putting them into a concrete perspective.

A cat ponders

My images


I’m sitting under the coffee table.By rights ,I should be given some cafe au lait in a traditional French style wide cup with a silver brim plus a matching saucer.I am shocked that Stan has never asked me to partake.I need a coffee’s hard work spying all day!
I heard Anne talking on her mobile while Stan was looking for the graph paper.She must be talking to another woman…. she said she’s just bought some Revlon primer lotion to put under her light beige mousse foundation.Ye Gods,it sounds as if she’s painting the wall.She was moaning she can’t afford Lancome any more.Mousse foundation..that sounds tasty! She wants some heather coloured lipstick but she couldn’t find any.She’s put a new one on anyway and Stan came in to give his opinion:
Congratulations,Anne.You have found some  lipstick that’s exactly the same colour as your own lip .She was mortified.I could see tears in her eyes but luckily she had her waterproof mascara and purple eyeshadow on.
Well,it makes me glad to be a cat…we have no need for skin products
and we have no lips as such.Why do humans have lips?Is it mainly for kissing?
And perfume………we like the natural odors but I’ve never seen Stan go up and sniff Anne’s netherregions…though I admit I took a sniff and she smells very intriguing… probably some musk she’s bought.
I envy Stan in a way.Because I’d like to kiss Anne but my lips are too small….I could lick hers with my little raspy tongue!
Maybe if she falls asleep i’ll have a go.i love that woman so..
A cat may look at a king,but can he lick a lady’s lips?
Well,must go and take a walk around my territory and sniff out who’s about….face primer.What next.Paint stripper? What a waste of time and money.I could be chasing dandelion clocks round the garden