Month: October 2016

British Summer time ends in two days

This day is  warm and balmy  like mid-June
Though British Summer time ends in  two  days
So dark will be our evenings very soon
Today is warm and balmy  like  hot June
Alas the   summer flowers are not  in  bloom
In  damp earth, the worms and beetles play.
Today is warm and balmy  like mid-June
Though British Summer time ends in   two  days

Why one should write every day

img_0042img_0034img_0039

 

http://www.writing-world.com/life/everyday.shtml

I didn’t write every day at the beginning.I only wrote when I got inspiration.But when I wanted to learn to write in form, I did it every day because I wasn’t going to get inspiration before I began.
Also , I am not writing to earn money and so if the quality of one poem is worse than others it  may surprise some people but it doesn’t affect my life.Sometimes it can help to try to understand why some  are better and what qualities they have.
Also ,you  can become inspired after you start writing.Writing humorous pieces or playing with words can sometimes throw up a good idea.
Bob Dylan could write  the words for a song in 15 minutes.Leonard Cohen could take months.Sylvia Plath wrote Ariel in a few weeks but at other times she was less prolific as she was having her children and  helping Ted Huges.
The other thing about putting them on a blog you need not use your own name, so none of your family or friends needs to know [until you get better].
You don’t have to  put them on the web,you might like just to write for yourself.However , it is good to share them as they are meant to be read or heard.
There are sites just for poetry like Poetry Soup.I was amazed how many people write.But it is addictive in a sense.
Learn   about free verse as well as form.Write all in rhymes if you like that.Do what makes you pleased.

 

A poet explains how he makes a living

http://www.artofmanliness.com/2012/03/22/so-you-want-my-job-poet/

So You Want My Job: Poet

jordan chaney african american poet on stage with microphone

Once again we return to our So You Want My Job series, in which we interview men who are employed in desirable jobs and ask them about the reality of their work and for advice on how men can live their dream.

There are legions of aspiring writers out there–would-be journalists, novelists, and bloggers are a dime a dozen. But I had never met someone who aspired to write verse, until I connected with Jordan Chaney. Perhaps you too never gave any thought to being a poet as a job, figuring that full-time poets died off a century ago or were reserved to those chosen to be poet laureates. But as Mr. Chaney discusses in this interview, being a poet can still be a real career in this day and age; it just takes a lot of hustle and heart.

1. Tell us a little about yourself (Where are you from? How old are you? Describe your job and how long you’ve been at it, etc.).

My name is Jordan Chaney, and I live in Kennewick, WA, right in the heart of wine country–though I was born in Alexandria, VA all the way across the map near Washington D.C. When I meet a person for the first time and they ask me what I do for a living, I tell them very confidently, “I am a poet.” I usually get a raised eyebrow or shy “ah, ok” or “hmmm, interesting.” And I don’t blame them; in my 32 years on earth I have never seen an ad in the classifieds that read: Wanted: An energetic sap that has a soft spot for metaphor & rhyme. Must have their own pen, paper, and car and be willing to travel to random locations on any given week. No 401K. No healthcare provided. A road less traveled indeed. I started pursuing life as a poet in 2003 and have been at it full-time for about a year now. Between the ages of 16 and 24, I had over 54 different jobs. I was everything from a concrete form layer to a pharmaceutical rep, and every job that I ever held had one very agonizing thing in common: a boss! I’m not the type that has a problem with authority or anything like that, it’s just that I believe I have just as much personality, creativity, and go-getter-ness in me that I decided to take a leap of faith and go after my wildest childhood dream, and that is to be who I am today: a poet with a paycheck.

2. Why did you want to become a poet? When did you know it was what you wanted to do?

When I was 7 years old, my mother showed me a poem titled “Mr. H.” The poem was about a young woman who was in a poisonous and toxic relationship with a man by the name of Mr. H. Mr. H was abusive towards her. He was controlling and jealous and spent all of this young girl’s money, but no matter how evil he was to her, she could not leave him. She wouldn’t leave Mr. H even though the relationship was truly becoming deadly; this woman would do anything she could to be with him. At the end of the poem it is revealed that Mr. H is really the drug heroin and this woman is losing a battle to her addiction. I know that that is really heavy reading for a 7-year-old, but it did two very powerful things for my consciousness. 1) It illustrated a very real and scary issue that a lot of people face in our world. 2) It gave me a high understanding of metaphor as a tool for expressing myself with word. I didn’t know then that I wanted to be a poet, but 14 years later when I was living in one of the most crime and drug-infested neighborhoods in Phoenix, Arizona, I was up late writing and watching HBO, and a movie came on called Slam, and a poet by the name of Saul Williams recited a poem called “Amethyst Rocks.” The poem reminded me of “Mr. H;” it felt like the message came full circle. It gave me the chills, and I knew then at 21 years old that I wanted to save the world with my poetry…………………..

 

10. Any other advice, tips, commentary, or anecdotes you’d like to share?

I have been successful at what I do because I understand something about grinding to make your dream come true, and I’ll sum that up in this short anecdote…

Every day in Africa when the sun comes up a gazelle knows that it must outrun the fastest lion in order to survive. And every day in Africa when the sun comes up a lion knows that it must outrun the slowest gazelle in order to survive. The moral of the story is this: It doesn’t matter if you’re a lion, gazelle, or a poet: when the sun comes up you better start running.

Don’t be a dreamer be a dream Do-ER!

The blind dance free

Why did you  shout at the French police?
Hallucinating  bulls who  cross the sea.
Know  what I thought mirages must  cease.

You  say you’re wrapped in jelly  for  the geese
Yet you  have  heard voices  speak to   me.
Deluded, you  cut out a   flounce  for peace

The prodigal will  not  have  a watch  unswitched
What seemed  good now will not   say, Hi Di
Such wry  messages  are  all  untidy,  creased.

My  specious  grace by worry is now teased.
I would have graded all the people’s  wee
You  shut out  my dance by wearing fleece

Those  who  feel  commotions are the least.
What’s  a bum?Whatever let it be!
So , from  messaging, I  made  a frieze.

 

In   private parts, I shall curtail your lease.
No longer   yours, I   want   the BBC!
Why did you   snack on the ounce of peace?
Now my Cohen oranges make beasts.

“We judge ourselves before we have a chance to see ourselves (as though in panic).

480
https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/05/23/against-self-criticism-adam-phillips-unforbidden-pleasures/

Freud termed this droll internal critic superego, and Phillips suggests that we suffer from a kind of Stockholm syndrome of the superego:

We are continually, if unconsciously, mutilating and deforming our own character. Indeed, so unrelenting is this internal violence that we have no idea what we are like without it. We know virtually nothing about ourselves because we judge ourselves before we have a chance to see ourselves (as though in panic). Or, to put it differently, we can judge only what we recognize ourselves as able to judge. What can’t be judged can’t be seen. What happens to everything that is not subject to approval or disapproval, to everything that we have not been taught how to judge? … The judged self can only be judged but not known. [We] think that it is complicitous not to stand up to, not to contest, this internal tyranny by what is only one part — a small but loud part — of the self.

Stan wants a chamber pot.

Stan was recovering from his long feverish cold and cough.He had Emile standing on his desk under the windows
cleaning it with a microfibre cloth fastened to his right front paw.
Very good,Emile,he said in a husky voice.I think I’ll get up and make a hot drink.I feel better now than I did and I
enjoyed the Reith lecture on the radio.Mary came into the room wearing a long dressing gown with a zip front.
Where did you get that,Stan enquired jocosely.
It was hanging behind the door, she said.I must have bought it in a sale.I get almost all my stuff in sales.It makes it more of an achievement.
But are they really want you want,Stan enquired tactfully
I am happy with them because I like bright colors but most folk don’t so they end up in the sale.I just bought
some pewter shoes for £29.99 when in black they were £79.99.
Will pewter shoes not be too heavy?Stan joked.
It’s the colour dearest.It’s a good colour for when we are going out in the evening to a do.
But we never do go out nowadays .he told her sadly.
I live in my imagination,Mary responded, and so I get clothes and shoes for any possible event
… funerals.weddings,evening balls.circuses…
The only balls you see in the evening are at home ,he murmured vulgarly.
I don’t think that’s very funny,Stan,she told him.I am a woman of gentle birth even if I was born in a coal mine.
I am sorry dearest,my mind is not right since I fell out of bed and banged my head on that heavy tin chamber pot.
That’s a flower vase,she told him honestly and directly.We no longer use chamber pots now we have an ensuite
here and a cloakroom downstairs plus an outside lav too.
Well,I do.Stan said.I was brought up with one and I always use one at night.
That’s strange Mary told him.Where do you find them? I have never bought any,not even in the Sales.
In the kitchen,Stan said.In the cupboard
Those are my baking bowls, she said crossly.I forbid you to use them to wee into.
Well,will you buy me one? he asked her tenderly as he stroked her curly light blonde hair just washed in Boots Dandruff and Acne shampoo. with Rosemary and Rose Essence.
Of course,darling,if it will make you happy.I’ll go online.I am sure they are still made though originally they were used when people had outside loos.
That can be my Xmas present,he joked,if you pay for express delivery but don’t have it gift wrapped.
Adulterous Annie their neighbour came in.She wore a grass green trouser suit and pink calf high boots.Underneath she had spanx hip and thigh control pantees and a blue lace bra which peeped out as she had forgotten to put a blouse or jumper on despite the cold weather.
What is that, in your hand,Annie ? Stan asked thoughtfully.
It’s a pewter chamber pot that we inherited from my granny, she said
Gosh,how amazing,it’s just what Stan needs,Mary informed her.He’s been using a vase..
That is very naughty,Annie told him.You should know better
Naughty!That’s a  strange word to use.I am a man.I can do what I want.You’ll see.
But can you want what you do,Mary asked like an Oxford don on speed.
I can if I choose to ,he said.
So do you believe in will power? Annie asked curiously.
Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, he replied ambiguously which was one of his defense mechanisms when he was with two clever women.
I see,you twist the world around your little finger.
That’s a strange parallel,Stan told her.But parallel lines on the earth’s surface do meet at the Poles which proves
that Euclidean geometry is not the only sort possible.
Why is that?Annie asked,though she really had no idea what he was talking about
Because one of Euclid’s axioms is that parallel lines never meet .
It sounds a bit like men and women nowadays,Stan said thoughtfully.We will only meet if we go up the pole
I wonder what the origin of that phrase is,Mary said curiously.It’s a strange world.
Meanwhile ,Emile finished the window and was polishing the dressing table mirror.What luck for Mary and Stan that Emile loves microfibre and Windolene.Next they are hoping to buy him tiny vacuum cleaner… that would help to
gather up all the dust from the floor and let Mary get on with her book :Mirrors and the development of the pre-oedipal child’s theory of integers and meta-language as hypothosised by
Jack Lacanne.Part 1a.

I miss handwritten letters

 

10311359_705010262972188_5083699697339120623_nI can’t remember now the last time I got a real letter..These days all the addresses are typed and even cards may come by email.Why does it matter?
How nice it was when mingled with the bills there was an envelope with your name on with handwriting you recognised.
When I became  an adult this was still common because long-distance phone calls were expensive.And at that time not everyone had a phone.
I can tell a lot from handwriting.It is the person,in a sense.So emails and texts are impersonal by nature. And is it because we have no time to write letters because life moves faster in cities in modern states?Or has life got faster because we can fit more in.The washing is inside  the machine.The ready meal is in the fridge.And it was ordered online.Most people don’t iron their clothes.So we should have more time.
But we must check  emails and texts and reply ASAP.
We may have photos to download, the computer to update.We wash our clothes and bodies more often.
Yet we don’t entertain at home like we did in the 70’s.We might meet in a coffee shop instead.
The home is different.Both adults may be at work full time,children at a minder’s.Then they need lessons after school.
They don’t play out much.Purposeless activity seems to have disappeared.The traffic is too dangerous and hordes of villains roam the streets ready to kill or kidnap anyone they meet.
Actually, crime has not gone up but we are afraid.
Is this why we have Call Blocking, ignore Withheld Numbers,let the answering machine answer.
Every blessing has a curse, or we think it does.People want phones and computers  but now criminals  have found ways of getting money from us by pretending to be friends.
We are genuinely afraid.Wars abound.We hear too much beyond the boundary  of what we can affect.The world seems dangerous. Maybe even  using our own handwriting seems to give away too much.Typing hides our personality.We want to hide but have 400 friends on Facebook.Paradox and contradiction have left philosophy and come  into real life.
And the cost of living rises because we need to have computers now to deal with our bills,access government services etc.So  money to pay for broadband is needed.Children may need iPads or other devices.And phones. All the family need their own car.In London, it’s not so bad to travel on a bus  except late at night.Elsewhere buses have  gone, like local shops.
We need phones because GP’s send texts with test results or reminders.And because we are lonely.Letters could be carried around and re-read.
Well,it’s not going to change backwards so we just have to find other ways of telling people they matter to us.

 

Rules for Writers-Michael Morpurgo

The Guardian did a series of these which you can google if you wish.I find I like to know about how other people  live and why they do as they do though we can never totally understand others especially between cultures

.But we all live and die like flowers

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2010/feb/23/michael-morpurgo-rules-for-writers

The many meanings of grace

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

What is blank verse ? How to write it

photo1196

http://www.instructables.com/id/How-to-Write-Poetry/step2/Blank-Verse/

Free verse neither rhymes not has fixed meter.Blank verse does have meter,often it is iambic pentameter… five beats to a line ,like a sonnet.But unlike the sonnet it has no rhymes.
The poet Ezra Pound was the person responsible for encouraging poets to leave fixed forms  like the sonnet but now some poets and many readers have tired of free verse and of poems which appeal  only to academics.There is a movement back to form
My own writing history followed that path.I wrote mainly free verse,partly because to write sonnets seemed very hard and almost impertinent for a beginner.But once I began I realized the pleasure of getting intense feelings into a shape.
If you want to write poems as a form  of therapy, they say narrative poems are best for that.Are those called ballads  narrative verse? Like Young Lochinvar…
I suppose people could  it memorize better when few people could read or write.
Blank verse is harder to memorize

 

Blank
My neighbor locks her door with a brass key.
She walks  by trees  and gazes at the birds.
Onto a Western  omnibus she mounts
To get to town to buy herself a man.
Or is it ham that she is in great need  of?
For she is tired of men and needs no love
Yet ,even when alone, we need to eat
And, to ourselves ,we must in silence speak
I use the video camera on my laptop
To recite the events of every day.
I think this blank verse is quite dull
So I’ll have to write a different way.

Unblank

The leaves are turning red on my computer
The apples ripen  better on TV.
But  my friend says that red  won’t mute  her
So for a new blue coat, she makes a  loving plea.
But as I only learned to speak in BASIC
I do not know if she will understand.
If I write a letter, she’ll deface it.
For my letters tend to be too bland

An email is a different  sort of  kettle
Not the  type we use for boiling fish
So let the  old men find their mettle
And get a  frozen fish  from off a dish

Toss it into Heinz baked beans  a boiling
Let it simmer for a few more days
Then invite  a friend for utter  spoiling.
I’m sure she’ll inundate you   with her praise.

Follow up with custard creams in gravy.
Serve the  peanut butter on a tray
That’s what the folk  eat in our  great Navy.
Eat and eat and pray and disobey.

 

 

And impossible

What seems like death,may be a new beginning
Not the beginning of what we had planned
But the beginning of what was hidden,only symbolised
It’s not the strength of  the man, the father
It is the strength of women
Afraid,suffering ,lost, they carry their newborn across rough ground
The strength to enter an unknown future with no provisions
No,only life itself will carry them forward.And if they die
At least they have tried,unlike their men,The men who lusted
The men who have no care.What  is one seed  when they have so many.
Yet  out of one  seed a new  being can grow.
Our plans are provisional and worry us
Already the supermarkets beg us to book our Xmas delivery.Don’t let an unknown person steal your slot!
We may miss out.Our minds are caught on these hooks
While we miss the great river.
Everything  comes from  a chance meeting of two beings who did not know what they were doing.
Unthought,unknown,but possible.And true.And impossible

 

Strange dreams

Mary  fed Emile on meat jelly.Then she went to bed and had a worse nightmare than she had ever had before.No doubt some News had infected her  mind.

photo-2 12

From  a photo I took of my face in the autumn last year

She was heavily  pregnant yet was walking alone through a grey desert full of rocks.And indeed it was  utterly deserted with not even a building or a shack in sight..But suddenly her fear increased as she realised she was going into premature labour.A doctor appeared whose face was absolutely  invisible.He delivered her child and then indicate wordlessly that it was dead.She lay back on the desert sands  feeling full of grief after seeing him toss the body onto a heap of  dead children nearby.Where these came from was impossible to know.

After a few days Mary realised that she would have to move on  or she too  would die but first she wanted to see her dead child.She walked acro ss and looked down.There was her baby… and he opened his eyes and gazed at her then smiled.Filled with shock and disbelief she picked him up and hugged him close to her bosom..

What should she do now without any help?Who would aid her?There was nobody there at all.Just the pitiless grey sand and the stony rocksSuddenly she felt a determination in her soul despite her terrors.She could  not remain  where she was or they would both die.So holding her baby tightly,she began her long and unknowable journey into  their future on the other side of this grey blankness and grief

No meaning?

http://www.slate.com/blogs/quora/2015/02/25/why_is_poetry_difficult_to_understand.html

Her face ,half covered by her phone ,looks out
Some might know the brand , but I do not
So if she’s showing status,I shan’t pout.
For I don’t  know which phones are  truly hot.

Perhaps she’s shy and so withholds the whole
Yet  she wants to show an image,just in part.
At least she shows more than a  furry mole
A creature that likes living in the dark.

Sometimes there’s no meaning in an act
She shows a  photo  easy to upload.
Maybe she employs a certain tact
In hiding her own soul and its abode.

Interpretations,possible , exist
W scarcely know  the clues  we  choose to miss

What we mean

 

unnamed

A number of people I know always wait for some younger member of their family to sort out their problems with smartphones,laptops etc.If I ask them why,  they say they are no good at doing it themselves.But I think many of then have never tried to do it.The obvious way is to buy a book like say,Computers for the Older and Wiser.But then I heard a friend repeat several times that she can’t cook.I just don’t believe that someone could not cook anything at all.Maybe they are thinking of  a Cordon Bleu level of skill.
But I see that if you have someone near you who can do all those things then you are unlikely to bother to learn them
Some people seem to believe that clever people know how to do things without learning them just as they believe top level musicians don’t need to practise.Of  course ,some of us are quicker than others.But, if you really want to cook, you will learn.
The disadvantage of constantly asking your children to do things for you is you feel less intelligent than you really are.And you don’t  seem to realize that to learn anything takes time.Remember riding a bike?
Since we all learn to talk except for babies born deaf, then we can learn other things
Perhaps  it is a way to get your children to visit! And it stops people asking you to fix their gadgets

 

Life is an art

Anxiety is the price of life.
But don’t pay over the top.
Calmness is good at most times.
Dread is a bad friend.
Exploring nature soothes the soul
For what are we but part of it?


Gentle music helps the mind
However we do it,
Listening is a kindness to ourself.
Ink is the friend of the writer.
Judgment is another one.

Kindness is essential to the good life.
Lessons are available daily.

Money is necessary but not sufficient for happiness.
Needs are simpler than we imagine.

Oxygen is good for the brain.
Prayer is good for the mind.

Quality is hard to judge quickly.
Rest is often a good idea.

Tension inhibits ideas.
Work should involve play.

X- rated films are optional
Yes…You are a valuable person.

Z is the final letter
And life is an Art.

Where is your Nobel Prose?

 

img_0030

The sun shone on Rosa Benchez ,as it had no alternative.She ran down the street in  her  yellow raincoat and a pair of gym shoes.Usually ,she wore a dress as well but times they are a changin’.She saw Mr Leonard Cohen walking across the road shouting,where is my blue raincoat?
Am I going mad,she wondered.Shall I call 999? Can you call 999  when you are  running down Upper Street? What a pity she had no friends around to advise her.
Mr. Cohen, she said,I love your music especially,  How many toads?
You are confusing me with Dylan,he murmured in a deep  voice.
Well,I  prefer you.Where is your Nobel Prose?
I write poetry mainly, he said shyly smiling his sheepish yet delightful smile.He certainly had good jaws.His top and bottom teeth met unlike Rosa’s.What did that signify?
Yes, she said.I know.I bought one of your books.
He suddenly began running   into a pancake house and Rosa stood there wondering why he did not make a pass at her as his reputation was enormous..Perhaps he hates  yellow on a woman, she  muttered.Maybe he is depressed by the prospect a the next few years and yet he says his depression has gone and he has both his children nearby and grandchildren too.
But why is he here in Knittingham? she asked herself.Nobody has mentioned it.Why would he come here in late October?Why would anyone?
It is fruitless to think like this, she thought.Will anyone believe me?Suddenly she felt very sad and muddled .She took out her iPhone and rang 999.
Can you send Dave round to lower Upper St.I feel like I am going crazy.I am going into Mary’s house as seeing her and Emile might help.If not,Dave can advise me and have some tea too.
Certainly,madam, the clerk replied.Nothing is too much for your NHS.
You  are very perceptive said  Rosa.My name is Rosa Benchez by the way
I recognised  your  lovely voice.Thanks again for calling.
Rosa went up Mary’s path and rang the doorbell.When Mary appeared she said.
I am feeling very  strange, so Dave is coming round.Will you make me some tea?
Of course,said Mary.Come in and talk to Emile.He fell into a pool of water so he is sitting by the fire.
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.Her period had begun.Do you have any  female protection,Mary? she called.
From what?
It’s the usual.
Where is your handbag?I used to carry my protection in that.A gun
In my case a few tissues  might help.
Oh I see,Mary murmured.Did you know you have no clothes on?
Oh, dear,said Rosa.Can you lend me an old dress?
Just stay there and I shall look after you
And so pray all of us,except Len as he does not know as yet.

That smirk on your poem

http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2014/07/18/does-poetry-matter/poems-hold-the-mysteries-of-the-present-dreams-of-the-future

leonard-cohen-cds-008

 

 

http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2014/07/18/does-poetry-matter/wipe-that-smirk-off-your-poem

Does poetry matter?

http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2014/07/18/does-poetry-matter/poems-hold-the-mysteries-of-the-present-dreams-of-the-future

 

http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2014/07/18/does-poetry-matter/wipe-that-smirk-off-your-poem

Another kind of mystic

You’re an egghead ,a nerd and a freak
I’m a brainbox,unfeminine ,a geek.
So we cannot get wed
Then ramble to bed
Our offspring  face an outlook too bleak

They may go to the other extreme
Smoke pot and have marvellous dreams
Let’s say we’re autistic
Or another kind of mystic
Avoid cocktails and not shout nor scream.

I suppose feeling and taste  we may lack
As we prefer numbers to  be painted in black
And  fearful  infinity,
The uncountable  divinity.
Is an 8 lying down on its back

Russell said maths had no sense
Though its priests may be over-intense
Cold as the Arctic
I read it,I  marked it
Then I sceamed, Oh, Satan get thee hence

 

 

What is poetry?

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Lucille Clifton
“I think that were beginning to remember that the first poets didn’t come out of a classroom, that poetry began when somebody walked off of a savanna or out of a cave and looked up at the sky with wonder and said, “Ahhh.” That was the first poem.”
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/lucille-clifton
The book that followed Clifton’s dual Pulitzer nomination, Quilting: Poems 1987-1990(1991), also won widespread critical acclaim Using a quilt as a poetic metaphor for life, each poem is a story, bound together through history and figuratively sewn with the thread of experience. Each section of the book is divided by a conventional quilt design name—”Eight-pointed Star” and “Tree of Life”—which provides a framework for Clifton’s poetic quilt. Clifton’s main focus is on women’s history; however, according to Robert Mitchell in American Book Review, her poetry has a far broader range: “Her heroes include nameless slaves buried on old plantations, Hector Peterson (the first child killed in the Soweto riot), Fannie Lou Hamer (founder of the Mississippi Peace and Freedom Party), Nelson and Winnie Mandela, W. E. B. DuBois, Huey P. Newton, and many other people who gave their lives to [free] black people from slavery and prejudice.”

Enthusiasts of Quilting included critic Bruce Bennett in the New York Times Book Review, who praised Clifton as a “passionate, mercurial writer, by turns angry, prophetic, compassionate, shrewd, sensuous, vulnerable and funny….The movement and effect of the whole book communicate the sense of a journey through which the poet achieves an understanding of something new.”

Our defences keep out any muse

He  wore a  suit  dark with discernment
He smiled as if laughter were tears
His eyes   showed a hint of  that moment
When one triumphs despite the  fierce fears.

He sang with  his lyrics   lamenting
The blindness of unblinkered men
The grief made him almost demented
There was no one there to  cry out,Amen.

They imagined he  hypnotised women!
Oh, he had the  magnetic  eye.
But ,in a dark sea ,he was swimming
There was no father to say to him,why?

He saw through the layers of language
The word of  god was  conserved in new forms
Hearing it gave him great anguish
But deafness   allows  devilish harm.

It’s an illness to  be sad when we lose;
We must stay calm and  keep smiling along
Our defences keep out any muse
And   ignore   wilful acts and  dark wrongs.

He drove   alongside  the  river one night
And  threw  all his medications  down there
“I weep  as it’s   getting  so late.
If I go down ,I  shall  scream my own prayer”

He ‘s wry, melancholic and blue
He’s   slight and he’s thin  with fine hands
All of his lyrics are true
We can  see   his face carved by   demands.

Hail glorious St Brexit

 

 

images

The Pope sings along.Or is it the poet?

 

They are waiting for our partitions.
It’s Purgatory.It’s cool
Hail glorious St Brexit.so  bad for our isle.
Still,tarry a while…maybe you will tone down
Say but the word and my sole shall be heeled
Who mends shoes nowadays?
Popes  don’t polish.No,they heal
And  says God ,thou shalt Remain.
Is God in Europe still?That is surprise.
England needs  a sovereign vagrant.
To God’s fear we will say naught.
My identity is being human.
I will wash your  torn bare feet.
Jesus wants  me to Remain here,
Far from Brexits so displayed.
Hail glorious St Spastic..dear saint for the Isle
That’s not pc.
How ironic can one get?
If I need to spend a penny ,
I agree  that I  have paid
Satire is dead.
And I  tell you in this country
You are free to get  eggs laid.
St Brexit,vexed it.
The Remains  are away.Just for the Day
We like St Elastic best.St George was a Turkish Jew or Roman
.Jesus was a Jew too. 160% or so.
What, a coincidence?
I have paranoia now.Is there a vaccine?
Hi,Maxine.Come on in, we are eating our words tonight.Welcome

Rosa wants a new name

p1000273-23p1000273-2

It is a truth totally unacknowledged  by human beings that Professor of Linguistics and  Word Mismanagement Rosa Benchez hates her own name.It is for this reason, she is keen to get married.Unfortunately ,her only suitor is Charlie Blogge. the well known TV biology  expert
Does Rosa Blogge sound any better, she asked her friend Amy Panicker.
I find it hard to judge ,Amy answered. Ar least it’s not Bloggess.But there is another answer.
Rosa and her cat Lucy looked up expectantly.
Go on tell  us!
Change your first name.Have you got any other name besides Rosa? Don’t say Wooden or Iron,I beg you.
Rosa looked surprised.
In a way that is harder emotionally,she began, because that’s what all my friends and family call me
They must have been dim to call you Rosa,Amy cried.
Don’t say that.Who wants to be compared to a lightbulb?
Well ,who wants to be compared to rows of benches? Amy retorted.
Well.grandad was called I.Ron Benchez.Rosa shouted.He was from the USA.
Thank God ,he is not the President,Amy smiled
I think that is stupid.The name of the person has no bearing on how they can lead a government.
Well,how about Trump? Is it a real name or did they pick it from knowing the word trump from card games,Amy asked quietly
I  have no idea,said Rosa.I shall look it up now
Wow, you have a new iphone!
Charlie gave it to me,Rosa confessed shyly blushing dark pink
You had better check whether he  is tracking you, Amy told her anxiously.You never know what men will do nowadays.
But can’t you track folk on Samsungs or Nokia Lumias? said Rosa in  her mellow voice.
I don’t think it is very romantic to give a lady  a smartphone instead of some jewellery,Amy cried.You can sell jewellery but who wants a second-hand iphone.
As a matter of fact ,some old Nokias from the 90’s are now worth a few hundred pounds
So if you have one keep it unless your  home is already overflowing with collections of pens,watches old newspapers and cats like my friend Percival’s,Rosa retorted.
Percival? what  is his last name?
Joyce.Rosa whispered.He is related to the writer.
Rosa Joyce…. how does that sound?
Well as you know any word you keep repeating begins to sound odd and the same is true of names.Even the nicest name like Katherine With-Doubt begins to sound odd when  delivery men ask you for it.
Are you with doubt? one had asked her, she told me
Who is without doubt she had replied courteously.
Who indeed said the clever Polish doctor working in the UK  delivering stuff for AAmazing,dot com.He lives round the corner:Thom Without-Doubt
Thank God you are not called that.
Amy asked Rosa if she could make a pot of tea.They sat in the old orange walled kitchen eating cream crackers and cheese and sipping hot tea.
Lucy was eating some cat biscuits and suddenly   had a good idea
Why don’t you and I swap names, she mewed to Rosa with a  loving smile.
Do you know,said Rosa,I am so fed up with names I shall change mine to a number if we carry on like this
Do you think 678 Benches sounds any better,giggled Amy.
I was thinking more of a name like Platonic form or pyramid
How does Platonic Benchez sound. Or Platonic Blogge?
And so ask  all of us.

What we most fear

How like a monster is my fear of pain
Expanding to fill all my heart and mind
Swelling like a  giant sponge left  in rain,
This fear begets  new  feelings more unkind.

For humans beings chased by lions fierce,
Fear gives us the strength to  dash away.
But when by inner turmoil we are pierced
We cannot run  yet need  not be its prey.

Most strange ,we need to do   what we most fear;
Walk towards the pain with curious calm.
As else we may be maddened like King Lear
With no Cordelia to bring us balm.

To  feel in proper ratio to our   pain.
We need perception,grace and all their gains.