Month: December 2016

That bleeding bomb

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When I was young and not yet here
I had a problem with my fear.
My mother’d not known what to do
And I kept running to the loo
At last the doctor’s mind was clear
They sent me to a nuclear seer.

The man looked up, the man looked down
I’d never seen him in the town
He asked me if I had bad dreams
Or ruined my sleep with howls and screams
I never knew quite how to say:
The nuclear bomb might go astray.

They told us what to take inside
The nuclear shelter, where we’d hide
Tampax weren’t allowed as they
Might break our hymens on the way
So we had our bags of big white pads
As seeing our blood ‘d dismay the lads

We must lie down in the hedgerows
But not day dream or take a doze.
In our mill towns we had no hedge
It was a metaphor I grudged.
Clutching bags of bloody cloths,
We would come out and see God’s wrath.

On the nuclear fires we’d burn
The sanitary towels society spurned.
I hope before the bomb comes back
The Bishops will permit some slack
For tampax are so small and neat
Our bin would have an odour sweet

We might be turned into grey ash
And our hymens all out-blast
We’d never know our clitoris
By a lover’s soft caress
So get together while you can
Before they drop that bloody bomb

Hymns and other sentences

O God our help in rages past,we’ll mope in tears to come
Praise to the Sword,the Almighty,the King of Destruction.
As I parked down the road  upset and dumb.
Wrath of our fathers living still.
Guardian angels set heaven alight.
Dear St Joseph,you were simple.
Oy vey ,Maria.
Our Father,whose heart’s in Devon
Do you my revision and I’ll burst into song.
All natures of a blog are wrong.
Comfort me with your hisses
Three nice men.
There were leopards abiding in the fields.
God bless our hope

It has occurred to me that some of the saints of the Christian church were not Christian;Mary the mother of Jesus and Josepph possibly his father and John the baptist were  not Christians.I said to a friend that Jesus was not a Christian ; he was, she said,  as he was baptised by John the Baptist.So does that make John the founder of Christianity?Then again,why should it be rational?

For we need not answer ill with ill

When true love’s gone and doom hangs overhead
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 my love lies,so breaks my tender 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 love lies and wrecks all loyalty.
When puzzlement makes all my world seem
Then I shall upend causality
And  charge  myself  to do  what makes folk glad.

For we need not answer ill with ill
I turn towards goodness  with a better will

 

 

 

This is the circus of despairing clowns

This is the circus  of despairing clowns
Where manic comics hang themselves  at dawn
This is the place where hearts are always down.

This is the place where love cannot be found
Despite the sunshine on the fine green lawn
This is the circus  of despairing clowns

This is the place where tarts wear wedding gowns
This is  the  Camp where  Jews were  oven thrown
This is a place where hearts must cease or drown.

This is a place where evil black dogs frown
This is the place where love  is  rarely found
This is the circus  of despairing clowns

This is the place where evil seems to win
This is the place where rooks  foretell in caws
This is the place where  good was  overthrown.

From this place all mercy has  long gone
With  rulers  strident on their  standing stones.
This is the place where love hides underground
In  the  detritus of despairing clowns

Love will outdo death..

Fat from the madding rowdy crowds
with you I long to be.
Away from noise and music loud
My soul desires to pray.

As palms were waved  and smiles blazed free
Jesus came to town.
Yet soon a different sight they’d see…
And hear the deathly groans.

From joy to woe we humans pass
From one hour to  the next.
For sins and troubles do harass…
And our dear hearts are vexed…

Yet we are told that in the end
Love will outdo death..
And so we beg for grace to lend
To us the strength to last.

This is the winter solstice of dismay.

No wind,no sun,no storm,just   foolish grey
The clouds are shaded  with a yellowish tone
This is  the  winter solstice  of dismay

Our  blind leaders  with white sticks  go stray.
And in  the  darkness I hear human groans.
No  truth,no sight,no mercy,  dull and grey

Where fools decide what motives to display
And hide  like   insects under  heavy stones
This is  the  winter solstice  of dismay.

We   make-believe our souls  in heaven will play
Yet, round  Belsen, ghosts still   sieve  Jews’ bones
No  thoughts no angst,no  worry,just   cool grey

Can we buy our ethics on E bay?
Can we tell if we are never shown?
Is this  the   sunless solstice  of dismay?

When we rise our faces are still drawn.
In  depressive winters,  there’s no dawn
No saviour,sun,no spirit ,just  this grey
This is  the  winter solstice  of dismay.

Love in order to forget

 

“If you want to forget something or someone, never hate it, or never hate him/her. Everything and everyone that you hate is engraved upon your heart; if you want to let go of something, if you want to forget, you cannot hate.”
― C. JoyBell C.
I think  this means acceptance.

Therapeutic writing

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 Mike Flemming 2016

I have doubts about whether writing poetry is always therapeutic because it can draw up memories from the unconscious mind.So it depends on how bad your memories are.

http://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2015/01/19/the-power-of-writing-3-types-of-therapeutic-writing/

 

Pen poetry. “Poetry is a natural medicine; it is like a homeopathic tincture derived from the stuff of life itself ––your experience,” writes John Fox in Poetic Medicine: The Healing Art of Poem-Making.

But it also can be intimidating. Here’s an exercise from Fox’s book to ease into writing poetry:

  • Make a list of images from your childhood. Pick the ones that have positive memories. “Treat them like snapshots you might look through after many years,” Fox writes. Recall the sensations you experienced — what you saw, smelled, heard, felt and tasted. “Absorb the image into your body — feel as if you are reliving the remembered image.” Describe your experience quickly.
  • Write down the emotions associated with these images, such as “wonder about flight” or “love and sadness for the hurt of a creature.”
  • Write a poem using the details you’ve collected. “Stay in touch with your senses as you focus on your image; listen for the voice of the image; and then express the feeling drawn from your primary image.” Show the feeling in your poem instead of labeling it as ha

It’s as though one bird could be the owl of the moral perception.

In a memoir about  her lusty twins, she exclaims,
that her husband  sought  cruelty  as a   Christian
and  willed masochism  for  people who  disdained to be happy
or  who desired happiness  in love or other  irritations of life .
which made  many men sadistic
His  gross interference  was the undesirable rendition
of the untried prisoners in the Bay windows of the suburbs
It is easy to  forsake  all   presumptions ;
Why a person would not  sell you happy sentences is now history
Why we   misread   when it is  seriously important to get it right
Flight must  be seen as a genuine alternative to happiness;
For must we think that it was seriousness
that made human  brains chilling  ?
Or rollling stones to wither more moss?
One of the replays in which happiness
is  paid to seem like an inclusive misrule
–she says,
In a  word to the bland,
is  our asserting that by  cooperation
the flings that shatter most  of us
must make us more  unhappy,
That is how we show  we got laid
Too many looks……
It’s as though one bird could  imagined to  be the owl of the moral perception.

Love shall be our song

 

 

English: Buttercup meadow The shorter creeping...

English: Buttercup meadow The shorter creeping buttercups (Ranunculus repens) are most popular in this field however patches of the much taller meadow buttercup (Ranunculus acris) are abundant. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Underneath the deep sky,Johnny ,
You  were  the right one.
You were with me in the dark
When all the rest were gone.

When the trees grew their green leaves,
I’d love you all night long.
When the flowers filled up the cornfields
Love  was   the   right song.

Poppies red.and linseed blue
Did decorate my dress.
You  held me in your arms  at night
While we our love confessed

Meadows filled with buttercups
Fill my inner eye.
I love the scent of minty leaves
When my mind is all awry.

I see the sun through closed eye lids
And rose scent’s in the air.
Wherever summer joy comes from….
We  did had our share

No man needs me now to sieve his beer.

Make a roux of melted butter,flour
Stir it   round the pan without a pause
Then  pour  in the milk  a  glorious shower
And stir and stir  to break up lumps and flaws

All at once the wheat cracks and up swells
The  grainy sauce  should looks like velvet smooth
This   my secret pleasure I now tell.
For feeding men, my cooking ‘s a  mere ruse.

For in exchange for macaroni cheese
They’ll gently pour me sherry and red wine
And so it suits us women to believe
That most men are unadept without crime

So now I’ve shared my secret knowledge here
No man needs me now  to sieve his beer.

A torrid love, a fatal unthought glance.

War  starts when  the   rulers each believe
By spying,watching ,calculating chance
They ‘ll gain  more wealth  or land than now received

Can we humans  give or get relief,
Or must we gain  our damned revenge  at once?
Will we gain  more gold  than now received?

The working men  obediently deceived
Or took excessive joy from polished lance
They too from promised payments were  bereaved

The  leaders think that honour  heals all grief
They see no more of trenches than a glance
They   often gain  more   wealth   than  humble thieves

The soldiers who  hang back are  felled  like leaves
The generals  have that overbearing stance
They   from   final payments aren’t  bereaved

An accident,a shot, unhappy chance;
A torrid love, a fatal unthought glance.
War  can start when  rulers   force belief
They ‘ll take another’s goodness  unbereaved

But now post-truth we wander far from Troy

War and cities grew up hand in hand
This is a fact that pacifists  all know.
Each city wanted others’ wealth and land

Excuses   cited ,open doors were slammed.
To steal another’s goods made cities grow
War and cities grew up hand in hand

Criminal in truth were their  commands
Strong and vicious acts were  never slow
Each city wanted others’ wealth and land

Too, beauty in a woman  made demands
The suitors gathered with her husband ‘s foes
War and cities grew up hand in hand

And science    gained  opponents’ libraries crammed.
This is how we stole what we now know
Each city wanted women,wealth and land

In modern  times we made some rules  for war
But now post-truth we wander  around  Troy
Warhorses  and weapons  new,  undammed
As cities  tried to steal  the other’s  wealth and land

Jam tarts

My husband likes jam tarts and pies
He appeals to me with his blue eyes.
So I give in to desire
I am no liar
But sometimes I have screamed a white sigh.

 

My husband likes me  to roast joints of beef
The gravy at first caused me  grief
But now I’m a pro
And sauce is no  more
An anxiety  than reading a leaf.

If you can’t cook for yourself what do you need to know?

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Margaret Drabble describes making macaroni cheese in one of her novels.Better to use Delia Smith’s cook books or a Jewish cookbook

Buy some pans and casserole dishes.

You can buy a cheese grater or use a mini  food processor

Also you  can buy an electric egg boiler… silly maybe but I have burned 7 pans in the last year!

 

0.Open a tin of soup.

1.Boil eggs

2.Boil/roast vegetables and baking /roasting potatoes

3.Make white or cheese sauce

4. Make a  simple stew

5 Cook pasta and rice…. you can buy a sauce.

6.Grill bacon and sausages.You can get non=pork ones

7 Roast a joint of beef or lamb

You can buy yoghurts and fresh fruit in a shop or market for puddings.

Don’t buy a cookbook:Basic recipes 1.cheese sauce

1.     http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/32223/foolproof-cornflour-cheese-sauce.aspx

2.http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/11950/sara-s-cheese-sauce.aspx?o_ln=SimRecipes_Photo_1&o_is=Similar2.

 

The red chair makes a holy space for dreams

A red chair decorates my sitting room
Coral red,as if  from  deep sea bed
My  sweet poinsettia  tolerates my gloom

I  turn on radio 3 for   Schubert’s  themes
While this remains, he never will be dead
The red chair speaks salvation from  our doom

To read  of  politicians and their schemes
Makes a noise like thunder in my head
My  poinsettia  aids me  with  post Brexit gloom

Yet is it right to shine a like a sunbeam
While  refugees   trudge silently ,unfed?
The red chair makes a   holy space  for dreams

The rich   plot  death and wealth by legal means
Jesus   hangs alone forever,  dead.
Do churches turn their  vision from this scene?

I observe  my loaves of seeded wholemeal bread.
While  children of this world  starve underfed
The   chair    I write from in my  dreaming room,
With a  red poinsettia, haunt my  dreams

 

 

 

 

The skill of creating poetry

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How to Improve Your Poetry Skills

 

  1. Read poetry: Too many young and new poets don’t read poetry. I get it. A lot of the poems you come across don’t grab your attention. The stuff you read in school was unwieldy. But if you look hard enough, you will discover good poetry that you will fall in love with. Go on a personal quest to find it. In order to grow as a writer, and especially as a poet, it’s imperative to familiarize yourself with the canon, which has already proven to resonate with readers. By seeking out established poets whose work you admire, you will build a roster of mentors. Try reading poems aloud. Keep a notebook or journal in which you can write your thoughts and responses to various works, and jot down your favorite excerpts. Bonus tip: you can also watch or listen to recorded or live poetry.

Writing poetry-some tips

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Mike Flemming

 

36 Poetry Writing Tips

 

  1. Support poets and poetry by buying books and magazines that feature poetry.
  2. Write with honesty. Don’t back away from your thoughts or feelings. Express them!
  3. Don’t be afraid to experiment. Mix art and music with your poetry. Perform it and publish it.
  4. Eliminate all unnecessary words, phrases, and lines. Make every word count.
  5. Write a poem every single day.
  6. Read a poem every single day.

I don’t want your sympathy

Please don’t be offended, but when I’m not feeling well I don’t want your sympathy. I know that I get depressed. But when someone is being sympathetic towards me it does feel rather like he o…

Source: I don’t want your sympathy

Surreal

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWord of the Year 2016

‘Surreal’ is our 2016 Word of the Year

Surreal is Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Year because it was looked up significantly more frequently by users in 2016 than it was in previous years, and because there were multiple occasions on which this word was the one clearly driving people to their dictionary.

word_of_the_year_2016

Our largest spike in lookups for ‘surreal’ followed the U.S. presidential election in November.

There are essentially two kinds of high-volume lookups that we track: perennial words that are looked up day-in and day-out, and words that spike because of news events, politics, pop culture, or sports. By analyzing these spikes, we can get a sense as to what significant events sent people to the dictionary, and sometimes, what people think about those events.

Surreal had three major spikes in interest that were higher in volume and were sustained for longer periods of time than in past years. In March, the word was used in coverage of the Brussels terror attacks. Then, in July, we saw the word spike again: it was used in descriptions of the coup attempt in Turkey and in coverage of the terrorist attack in Nice. Finally, we saw the largest spike in lookups for surreal following the U.S. election in November.

We define surreal as “marked by the intense irrational reality of a dream.” We also give as its synonyms unbelievable and fantastic. It’s a relatively new word in English, and derives from surrealism, the artistic movement of the early 1900s that attempted to depict the unconscious mind in dreamlike ways as “above” or “beyond” reality. Surreal itself dates to the 1930s, and was first defined in a Merriam-Webster dictionary in 1967.

Surreal is often looked up spontaneously in moments of both tragedy and surprise, whether or not it is used in speech or writing. This is not surprising: we often search for just the right word to help us bring order to abstract thoughts, emotions, or reactions. Surreal seems to be, for 2016, such a word.

 

He pinches me in bed

 

 

controversy11n-8-webMary  was walking  slowly down the street to catch the bus to town;it stopped  just round the corner  by a red maple tree ,She wore a teal 3/4 length coat with an orange pleated skirt just showing and some teal suede boots from Cooler.
Suddenly the bus went by as  the driver did not see her.
Oh,well it’s only 15 minutes to wait, she  lied to herself
At the bus stop she sat down by a pretty young woman dressed in   the latest green puffa jacket ,tiger print top and skinny jeans 
I love your teal coat,she told Mary thoughtlessly.
Thanks, so much, said Mary.I see you like lovely colour  too.Do you live near  here?
Yes,I am  called Susan, the  mature yet girlish woman replied.I  got married 6 months ago and we got a  dear little  flat in that new block.Are you married?
My husband decided to move to heaven,Mary told her softly.He was 118.
Maybe you can help me as you are more experienced, Susan said,biting her lips which were coated in orange lipstick by the House of Lairds and Lauders.
My husband was very kind when wooing me,but since we got married he has changed.
Oh,dear,Mary sighed.
I  wrote poems before we got married.He said he loved them but now he criticises anything I write quite viciously.It began right after our honeymoon.He tells me I am  probably below  average in intelligence.
Did he  get you to take a test? Mary asked curiously
No, he says he can tell just by looking at me, the dear woman responded tearfully
What a shame he has changed like this.It seems to me he must be insecure  and is trying to lord it over you.
And do you write for a living? asked Mary.
No,said Susan,I work at Mensa headquarters devising new IQ tests,Her green eyes were full of  unshed tears.
It’s a bit boring  really.I’d rather  study quantum theory or music.
There you are said Mary.Though I think IQ tests are not that good,if you write them you must be way above average
The thing is, you being so bright, he cannot bear the comparison.Or can one even know someone is more intelligent than yourself?
He also pinches me in bed and bites my ears before hitting me with a pillow and sucking my toes.
He sounds like an animal,Mary cried.Have you not  complained?
No,said Susan.I will keep imagining he’ll get better  in his manners after a few months.Shall I bite him back,do you think?
No, he may  get even  worse.I think you should consider that biting people  and pinching them are  criminal offences if the person is unwilling.Some people might enjoy it, but it seems as if he is cruel in his words too
I  am  puzzled.Susan said.He was so charming while we were engaged.And I still love him.He worshipped me and adored me before.Now he hides that side of himself.
If I were you I’d leave him and buy a cat.He is cruel,unkind and dominating and even  says rude things about your poetry instead of helping  you with positive criticism.But don’t take my word.Go to Relate.See if he will come with you.
If he has had bad times growing up he might be afraid of real intimacy.Or he feels he owns you.Do you want him to be the father of your childen
No,thank you,said Susan.That clarifies things
You can rent my spare room if need be,Mary replied.I am happy to share the kitchen  within reason.And I have two toilets.
Wow, that’so kind of you, Susan said.Here’s the bus.Her face looked less pale.
What a lot to tell me, Mary told Emile when she got home.Stan was never cruel but  some women found him too intelligent and preferred a dimmer,  more foolish kind of man,
Mioaw, cried Emile.I want a pilchard for my dinner.I want Susan here near me.I want to sleep by her in my basket.
And so say all of us.
Alas, the basket is too small for all my readers.We must fantasise!

 

Can we become virtuous by exercising our will?

I’m writing a column on morals in the Haily Mail
Is that Catholic?
It certainly caters for all.
So what do you know about morals?
There’s usually a moral in a story so maybe I’ll do it metaphorically.
Quicker to come straight out with it.
That’s once you know what it is
Well,by now you ought to.
There,see, you assume that being old means we have developed some morals or at least ideas about them.
So the old are more moral?
It depends if knowing is enough.
In fact it’s not,is it?
Can we be virtuous by exercising our will?
Or  our  won’t?
I don’t think so except in a negative way.By avoiding places or people who lead you into sin
That’s not as simple as it appears.
Why not?
Because in our human fashion we believe priests,vicars,rabbis or Popes are good people.So we mix with them freely.Yet is that not the disguise that Satan would adopt?
Yes, one might be better off mixing with prostitutes and thieves as at least you know what they might offer you.
Well sex workers are not immoral.
Because in our system some women can’t earn enough?
Some high class tarts might  enjoy it being taken to the best clubs,theatres and so on. I’m merely recalling an old Morse story.But the other  ones must be afraid and might be in pain.
Thieves might break the law but that may not be a sin.
That’s a relief,I just stole a breath!
Only God knows whether a bad tempered old codger who kicks the dog is sinful or merely being too wise to kick his wife.
And what is legal may be a sin.Like dodging tax when we are all suffering from the cuts to the NHS.
Everything is upside down.The low and the petty criminals may be quite holy and the priests and rabbis may be wicked,at least a good many may be
Yes, it’s wise to be on your guard with those who frequently mention their religion,God, the Bible, and so on.For the good do their works in secret.And no not boast of it.After all,what are their motives?
I’ve had a few knocks from the religious here on the Web but the lowly have  never harmed me.And I hope I’ve not harmed them.
Amen

Rabbi Lionel Blue just died

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/dec/19/rabbi-lionel-blue-gay-liberal-thought-for-day-star-dies-86

 

“He never pretended that life was easy, or that religion solved everything; instead, he shared his own failings and foibles, and showed how to get through the rest of the day.

“Through the popularity of his broadcasts and books, he made rabbis more human, Judaism more understandable, and faith in general more user-friendly.

“It was a tribute to the way he bridged religious differences that it was often quipped that Rabbi Blue would have been a wonderful choice as the next archbishop of Canterbury.

“Without doubt, Lionel Blue was God’s best PR man in Britain.”

This is so funny.A nightclub bouncer!

From the Guardian

One of Israel’s most outspokenly hawkish and divisive political figures, the ultranationalist politician Avigdor Lieberman, has been offered the post of defence minister.

Lieberman, a former nightclub bouncer from Moldova with little military experience, has advocated for policies including the bombing of Egypt’s Aswan dam.

Flying out:Transitions

I know now that's how death will come,
Suddenly flying into another orbit
when you are photographing flowers.
It's not a gentle transition.
No-one will know where you've gone.
One step wrong and you're.
off the high wire
And plunging into the no safety net.
Flying for a while;
Jumping into hyperspace,spinning electrons
Startle your grey eyes.
Transiting the new black sun
You're on a double gold helix,
Spider on your web,
Knitting furiously
Into the future heaven on gossamer wings.
Butterfly goodbye,I'm off to see the stars.
And the black holes.Noone will come with me.
I'm shaking off,evaporating into mist.
I'm a flying saucer on a circus mission.
I can't say no to a new invitation.
Make it fast and break with tradition.
Time is passing smoothly till that break
In the music,I've been transmuted into a different key
someone else will play me on their violin
I'm a tune,
I'm a thought,
I'm a whisper in your vision.
Goodbye,darling.I'm under orders
Ready to leave for my performance
On the electric carpet.
Death dancing to a tune on a violoncello,
Arpeggionne sonata
i'm playing your words upside down
In a new foreign translation,
Accompanied by solo artists,ice cracking
I'm going in.It's too sudden.
I'm flying.
Spinning faster to amuse the clowns,
too many ups and no downs.
I'm going right out of orbit
I've broken the pull of gravity,
And fly with pure equanimity
Into my future life,
I'm off at some moment,
An instant ,a crack,a loud smack.
That was me passing.

How/Why I wrote this.

I wrote this the week of the terrible riots in 2011 after I fell down some steps.

Get started with free verse

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Photo by Mike Flemming 2016.Copyright

 

 

http://www.webexhibits.org/poetry/explore_famous_free_make.html

 

Next

First things first.

At first glance, free verse is one of the easiest forms of poetry to write. It certainly is among the most enjoyable and free-flowing. You just sit down and throw your soul and observations onto a piece of paper, breaking lines at random…right?

Not so fast. Like the practice of freedom itself, free verse can be challenging. The key is to correlate the rhythm of your subject with the rhythm of your natural voice. A natural poetic voice is lyrical and metrical, with accents and pauses that are as prevalent as those written into the strictest of classic verse forms. While the cadence, line counts, stanzas, and syllables per line are not mandated by tradition, the actual presentation of the poem is deliberate.