I was once an outspoken agnostic
My harsh words could sound frightfully caustic
But I saw the light
Turn green in my sight.
So I repaired my own soul with some bostick [glue sold in UK]
The body’s own soul is the face
Which often is lit up with grace.
So I am gentle when gazing
On you, when embracing.
And take care in your sweet sacred space.
The Wisconsin poet Nick Lantz’s collection, We Don’t Know We Don’t Know, brings together the natural history of Pliny the Elder and the wittering of Donald Rumsfeld to extraordinary effect, forcing us to ask questions about how our vision of the world and our political attitudes are manipulated by the powers that be. Apparently personal, apolitical lyrics by Lucie Brock-Broido, say, or Alan Shapiro make us think again about the dynamics of our day-to-day relationships with other creatures, from spouses and children to the wild things that we keep forgetting are out there, where the suburban garden or the porch light ends.
All of these poets insinuate their way into our lives with their music and wit, but they stay on to make us think again about how we live and what we are capable of – just as poets have always done. Poets today are as challenging, both of public life and private accommodations, as Andrew Marvell was when he gently confronted Oliver Cromwell’s foreign policy in his “An Horatian Ode Upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland”; or, in more intimately reflective mode, TS Eliot was, when he drew together and made immediate essential philosophical ideas about the basic facts of life – time, place, endurance, the difficult disciplines of love – in the Four Quartets. As much as it has ever done, poetry renews and deepens the gift that most surely makes us human: the imagination. And that is as essential to public as it is to private life, because the more imaginative we are, the more compassionate we become – and that, surely, is the highest virtue of all.
I flindered lobely as a blouse
That sleats on high o’er biles and phrills,
When at a seance I saw a fowl
The ghost, of hilden waffotills;
Depide the blike, Coneath the blees,
Pluttering and strancing in the frieze
Conpentred as the hores did pont
And swondleon the mokiway,
They briched in never-blinding stine
Along the gargins wovt a rey:
Ten thousand jaw, I ater a flounce,
Wessing their shids in glightly spance.
The Daves deside them panced but loy
Out-did the sparkling waves in schlee
A waite could not clutt ie glay
In juch a ferund timpanee:
I glazed- and jazed- but little ploat
What gealthy wasps shrew thlee had cloght:
For poft, when on my louch i pi
In racane or in trensive slood,
They flush upon that innard plie
Rich is the blass of molitude;
And then my tart with leisured gills:
Fish dancing with the daffodils
The fear of judgement makes life harsh with pain.
The eyes that spy, the words we spoke in vain.
When we age we have a wider view
We’re not so strange nor so very new.
The dream of being back at school once more.
Where teachers power extends most to that door
We’re imprisoned to make a safe society;
Creation from the young makes jeopardy.
We protect ourselves from children’s open minds
It’s we who’re frightened and we make the bind.
It is the eyes, the thoughts, the innocence we fear.
Their assessment of our hearts endures.
And they are frightened by the Judge we haul
To destroy or mould the newness of their calls.
Till in a mirrored palace we display
The heads of those who wished to change our ways.
Children need protection from the strong
But we , too, need protection from their songs
I have wandered down a long and ill made track.
Down footpaths that seemed intriguing, yet were stark
I have wandered, wondering at my lack.
I wandered, crossed the dry earth and its cracks
I passed through corn fields hidden in the dark
I have wandered off the preplanned track
I am like a gypsy with no pack
In the sky ,I hear the little lark
I have wandered, blaming my ill luck
I am lost and never shall get back
Despite the sun, I feel the thump of dark
I have wandered off the sacred track
My heavy thoughts have often turned near black;
Lured the dog which torments with its bark.
I have trembled as the bullets snack.
Were we flooded, I could take the Ark
Were I braver, I’d with generals talk.
I have wandered off the map and track
I have walked unknowing what we lack
Jonathan Haidt’s research (2003) has revealed that when we witness to acts of kindness, altruism, and moral courage, we respond with elevation—a warm, expansive feeling in our chests and sense of inspiration that makes us want to be less selfish, more altruistic ourselves. Studies by Michelangelo Vianello and his colleagues (2010) have shown that when leaders demonstrate an altruistic commitment to their ideals and act with fairness, they cause a ripple effect on the people around them, transforming their cultural atmosphere. Experiencing elevation, their followers respond with greater altruism, courtesy, cooperation, and citizenship. One altruistic person can make a powerful positive difference.
Finally educated woman with own mature ears is looking for a man with bad taste .First class with guitar and likes to imitate Leonard Cohen money welcome but not essential ;good appetite welcome, bad manners unwelcome. I have got a void inside me but I’m sure that if you put some compost in despite the fact that I am now 59 and 3/4 we could always try it in a plant pot instead of my room; that’s interesting , about love in a plant pot now there’s an idea have you ever thought about it yourse.
lf if you are ring me on the following number 44 that’s the United Kingdom dialling code and then the number is 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 9 please ring me between 4 and 4 p.m. in the afternoon on a Sunday unless you are of a religion that makes it impossible in that case make it Monday 5 to 5pm
If you would prefer to email me then use the following email address@ idolisedwoman @zmale.com. I not know where to meet you if you live in the same City as me; if not we could use Skype or Facebook messaging send me your selfie buy attachment only no further attachments will be accepted as I am very interested in introversion and believe that any new man in my life but also be an introvert like Trump there’s an introvert if ever I saw one See how Carl Jung was quite wrong when he put his mind to it but never really in the world ,no one could ruin the word except a man extrovert .That’s what I believe; I’ve been doing research now for 45 years into this topic and it’s all been ruined by Donald Trump because I would never have dreamed that millions of people will be willing to accept him as their Saviour ;it is like a religion sickness.That word isn’t right but it’s like the devil worship which used to be quite common here in England. The god Pan once half man half goat and therefore was a god over time before civilisation , when people take notes and put them down in milk and ink years ago. I would like to find a man who would be able to pay the power , will make me a cup of tea in the morning and smile at me twice yearly that will do me so I’m not really demanding an idiosyncratic man.
Examiner, please press 9 on your keypad now.
Waiting for the long haul
Woman, 78, evil with good eyesight.Seeking man, similar rage eand good crookery an advantage.Knowledge of sin cards welcome.
Smartphone owner but scene to learn and adore more than snappy.Must eat cheese in bed.Will be charged weekly by Amazon power cord.Non-diver acceptable if nobody better applies.Lovability is the pain idea.Please send selfies to 449011117666090909 or email me at ira-eviloutlook@gwail.com with no current attachments from kegel photos/
The home I once thought beautiful has gone
And strangers bid to pass their views as gifts
The eyes I look through now are almost done
The world shall fall apart;it shall be swift.
For sorrow casts a shadow grey and bleak.
A cataract of the spirit makes life grim
We do not understand nor do we speak
Our generosity seems to be thin
On the lens of eye the surgeon works
Replacing it to give us truer sight
But on the eye of soul we seem to shirk
Not knowing we are isolate from light.
In these spaces, few there are who talk
And long grey shadows seemingly do stalk
http://home.btconnect.com/mike.flemming/
We dwelled inside a sphere of holy love
Which we and angels shared for just a while
Where our below is linked to heaven above
To cradle us inside God’s sacred smile.
This state of grace in which I sang for you
Made all the Ward turn holy for an hour
As to my love I ever would be true
Even now he was become a withered flower.
Earth to earth and ash to ash we go
With dear hearts holding us in case we fall
And being flesh we all must undergo
An end or new beginning of our call.
Once he died, the sphere of grace was gone.
Yet in my mind, that smile will linger on
Bibliochasm…………. am empty space in the bookshelves.
Bibliofathom…………… to understand a book after a long period of study.
Bibliospasm…. a shudder in the bookcase.
Bibliogasm.. great pleasure from reading a book
From time and place and season I am lost, Disorientated ,missing tracks well worn. Do not suppose I’m unaware of cost, Nor label me with epithets of scorn. For usual paths lead to the usual place. The safest way to live and perhaps to die. But wandering through the woods I find new space and in wild grasses with the fox I lie. Through distant trees, i see a way to go as narrow as a slit in pallid stone This is my destined way, I seem to know And courage rises even as I moan. Remember when we’re lost ,we may then find Another way,a place,another mind.
One thing that in the past I might’ve been ashamed to tell anybody was that one week before my husband died, although we didn’t know then when he was going to die, he woke up in the morning and he said to me
I’m feeling very angry with you. I was angry when I went to sleep and I’m still angry now I woke up.
I felt very sad. I would have felt that it was my fault normally, but after looking after him for more than 8 months just when I had had a lengthy operation on my own face by the time this morning arrived you can imagine the feeling of a state of terrible anguish while at the same time feeling calm and love; when you are no longer in that state you can’t remember what it was like [ maybe that’s a good thing.]
So then he said, I am very angry that you are more intelligent than I am. So I said to him, love, you knew what I was doing when you met me that is doing higher studies in mathematics and also even doing some teaching in the university and I said ,to try the tricks with humour, they didn’t teach domestic science at Oxford
And anyway I didn’t agree. I said I don’t agree with you, we just have different sorts of intelligence so then he went, When we got married I taught you how to play chess[ that is true he did] and then he said and the very first game you beat me and that’s why I have never played with you again.
I don’t know why you never played with me again but I was glad as I didn’t like it I don’t like competitive games like chess I like to do things which are totally different from mathematics
And then he said a few other things that managed to get through the gaps in his mind about him hating me and some horrible as well
I can’t actually remember what it what they were but then I was touched deeply in My Heart by Compassion for him and I said to him :
I think I was a little bit irritable with you sometime yesterday and I’m very , very sorry darling I am tired now looking after you all day and some times reading you stories about Emile and Stan and Mary in the night when you feel bad, but I’m very, very sorry I got irritable;he looked at me didn’t say anything he was still in bed and then after about half an hour he became his normal self and for the next week he was as kind and good has anybody could be given the situation.
He was in a place not a hospital and two days before he died I was there in the evening. I’d been there all afternoon I was there in the evening.He is lying flat more or less and he was trying to say something and I leaned over to try to understand and he said , How are you going to manage?
I don’t know whether he meant how was I going to manage without him or whether he was just wondering how I’d to manage to get home that evening. I assumed the second and assuring him that I heard him I could get a cab to bring me home and I have some frozen food which I could make a meal from so I said,
Good night. When I went in the next day he was very ill and they sent for an ambulance and took him to the hospital and he was there in A and E for 19 hours; it was really beautiful. I fed him some soft food on a teaspoon then I sang psalms and lullabies and then he died just like going to sleep except he had leaned over towards me and give me a big smile he looked very happy. For a moment, I thought ,so he is getting better but then he went just like that.He left me.My task was a success.
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How like a prison is my cubicle How wary is my body on this chair. How still my heart and yet how truly fickle. How fast it flies to you who are not here. How elegant your letters and your thoughts How gentle was your touch upon my throat. And yet you killed my words and all I brought... You were no lover but a randy goat. As in this mental jail I'm neatly trapped, I'll use this time to write and also pray. Perhaps my mind can extricate a map.. From which I'll plot the route to get away. The prisons which seem external are inside Yet in such captive grief, we humans die.
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There is a very strange concept now in psychoanalysis called
” the unthought known”, I think it refers to something in the patient which they experienced and so know but they had not then learned words ,so if it was too painful it constantly bothers them yet they can’t explain it or tell anyone.This is why psychoanalysis takes so long and even then I am unsure if a therapist can supply what the mother couldn’t Perhaps if we know that we will never understand some of our feelings and worries but can accept them even if we don’t want to. then we can live with them. |
BBC weather,Brough in snow.
Mary was going to the hospital wearing her new magenta padded coat and an orange felt hat just like the one her mother used to wear when she went to church, although her mother had never had an orange hat. It would have been considered very bad taste.
In her hand was a long green handbag ; inside this sat her cat Emile.He was very naughty because he wanted to come to the hospital with her. Emile being a cat will probably not be admitted into the waiting room if she mentioned it to anyone; however ,she was hoping he would keep still.
She did not want to let the cat out of the bag at the wrong moment ,especially when she was seeing a lady doctor.
But the staff are so busy they might not notice that he is a cat and before he knows what is happening he may be admitted to the hospital and left lying on a trolley in a corridor for 25 hours. Unlike a human being, Emile is not very patient and he will certainly not lie prone on a trolley all night waiting for the kindness of strangers. As a matter of fact he speaks good English and could easily hold his own in a male ward. Nowadays many of the wards are mixed and would you want to wake up in the morning next to a Tom Cat. That would certainly hit the headlines .
Woman kept for 20 hours on a trolley in a mixed corridor next to a tom cat!At least he is neither a lion nor a lamb.
BTW Theresa May asked corridors to be relabelled as wards and bathrooms to be labelled as,
Wards for one with ensuite.
Where will all the other patients be able to relieve themselves….commodes?
Oh evil chance, one day this week I fell
They sent me to thehospital , such fun!
I saw the lovely nurses in the hall
And hoped they would not send me to the bin
The x-ray of my hand caused horrid pain
The curled up finger straightened with a push
And this impacted me, my body and my brain
And on my face , it caused a curious flush
There is no obvious fracture to be seen
They reckon it’s a tendon that is stuck
It’s rather difficult pulling up my jeans
What goddess has given me such luck
The snow down fell , the wind was fierce and cold
The weather matched the Misery of my moods
But when I had some coffee I felt bold.
I asked the nurse to give to me her food
I truly enjoyed going out today
And now I’ll sell my memoirs on E -bray
When I did this using the microphone it came up with some very rude words.Of course, the computer does not know that they are rude,I suppose!
Oh,yes,I do lovely handwriting
Just like my dad.
It runs in the family
And I like chip sandwiches with butter
It runs in the family.
No, I can’t do cryptic crosswords.
Or enigmatic looks.
It runs not in the family.
I read too many clever books
Instead of earning money.
It just runs in the family.
Yes, we are all music freaks.
We listen to Schubert and Schoenberg all night.
It runs in the family.
We are all impolite.
But we can’t help it cos
It runs in the family.
Yes, we all use four letter words,
It’s a free country, besides,
It runs in the family!
And no we can’t write poetry, you see
Writing doesn’t run in my family.
But, we all practice monogamy,
So far, though, unsuccessfully,because
Adultery runs in the family.
Which puts a slightly different complexion on the phrase
“It runs in the family”
But, alas, all of my ancestors are dead.
It runs in the family!
Most successful writers do their work in the morning. For a practice that some have dubbed the midnight disease, it’s surprising to note that most famous authors aren’t the slaves of spontaneous inspiration, but instead, all write in the early hours of the morning.
How my heart sings 