Mary was going out for a meal with some former colleagues who had taught under functioning analysis and triquacking theory.She stood in her bedroom, surrounded by piles of clothes, wondering how hot the restaurant might be and how cold and frosty the air in the road by the bus stop.
I think I’ll phone Pete she told herself.
Pete answered on the first ring.After so many years, she still recognised his semi- South African accent and pleasing voice
Hello,it’s Mary Dirac-Brown hers, she said shyly.
Hello Mary Dirac-Brown, he responded instantly
Why, he sounds like the Amazon website, she thought to herself.That figures!
Hello Pete, I was wondering if you could give me a lift to the restaurant tonight
You don’t need a lift, it’s on the ground floor, he informed her quietly and sensitively
I mean in your car.I can’t drive now.
Why not?
Actually, I never took the Test because I always drove very fast
Why didn’t you use the brakes? he teased her.I reckon you might have passed.
I stopped the car and vowed never to drive again but now it is a problem with Stan dead etc
Well, what time do you suggest? Shall I come earlier?
Why does he say that ,she pondered
No, it will take ages to put all my clothes away.I can’t make up my mind what to wear.
Why not just copy Hilary Clinton?
I must not buy any more clothes.Shall I dress smartly? Or smart casual or unsmart?
I know, said Pete.Shut your eyes and pick up 3 things off the bed and then wear those.
Mary closed her eyes.When she opened them she had a pair of Arran legwarmers, a green silk shirt and a black pleated silk skirt.
I suppose if I wear my new long camel coat, the leg warmers will be hidden, she whispered.She took a bottle of dandruff shampoo and washed her light gold locks and then waxed her bikini line by mistake.
My goodness, why and how did I ever think of doing that, she pondered ruefully?And in the winter who wears a bikini?
Dressed in her pure silk outfit, the legwarmers hidden under thigh high red leather boots, she created a buzz in the restaurant as she climbed in through the window followed by Pete in his yellow wool suit and green tie.
Why did you come in via the window, asked Tom McDonne, the former head of her maths department.
We didn’t see any doors, she cried gaily.And Mossad wants more women agents so I thought MI5 might like to see me.
Who is this Mossad, Tom asked?
It’s the Israeli intelligence service.You must have heard of them.
But they don’t want old people! Tom told her ignorantly
That’s why we came through the window, so if any spies are here they will see how agile I am still.And I still know what uncountable infinity is.Aleph, aleph.
Tom led them to a long table.
Wow, it’s a log table Mary screamed.I’ve not seen one for years.
Well, with computers and such like we don’t really need them anymore, Tom revealed.
Are they real logs, she queried.
No, they are vinyl, the waiter admitted furtively.Easier to wash
Mother never washed my log tables, Mary told the men impudently.
Let’s order some food, Tom said, as they all sat down
I fancy the Polish Hussar Roast, he admitted.
What has a Polish Hussar ever done to you, Mary asked?
Nothing yet but I live in hope
And so do all of us.
To be continued
I was captivated by this idea that there wasn’t just one correct language or style out there, as I’d learned in school, but that different authorities had their own subtle variations, and I could make a personal choice between them. I started exercising conscious nationalism in preferring the Canadian spellings of neighbour, centre, syrup, zed. When I learned that British practice was to put non-quoted periods and commas outside the quotation marks, just like you’d do with parentheses, I decided that I preferred its strict nesting logic and borrowed it too, despite the fact that I couldn’t justify it nationalistically. And of course, I introduced a rapid-drop policy for hyphens and superfluous capitals.
But the bigger change was in my attitude. It became clear to me that, as far as language evolution was concerned, my choice was between missing the boat and sticking around on a shore with an ever-dwindling band of curmudgeons, or riding the waves and getting to help steer.
Hence my use of singular they. Now, there does happen to be a plethora of historical evidence for it, but that’s not why I use it. I use it because I just like it. I like having a non-gendered option, because he or she and rewriting to avoid pronouns gets clunky, because I believe in respecting people’s gender identities. I use it to refer to a nonspecific or unknown person because it rolls trippingly off the tongue, and I use it to refer to a specific, known person because it doesn’t yet come completely naturally, but I like what it stands for so much that it’s worth pushing through and setting an example. Using singular they is a political decision, and I’ll fight you on it.
The sun sinks but it burns like a great fire; All the sky’s aflame with fierce intent; Who thinks of death as weakness, is a liar Before the end our glory must be spent. The graphics of the branches look Chinese As blackened brush is drawn across red silk Infinite yet countable my days Running like a river without silt Thus I am not transcendent in myself But joined to all that lives I feel I am. So in conjunction we will find our health Ambivalence contains both lion and lamb. The fire of orange leaves me with a glow As into night I with all creatures go
A tin of plum tomatoes in my hand
I stand bemused and wonder what to blend.
An onion, bay leaf, pepper, salt and stock
Will make this beef upon our taste buds knock.
I once grew lavish bush tomatoes here.
I had forty-seven plants, the snails drank beer.
But now my garden’s filled with shrubs and trees
And rarely do I see a moth or bee.
The packaged plum tomatoes statement’s here:
Don’t waste your time on growing insincere.
But with a catalogue of fruit and flowers
I sit and meditate for these quiet hours.
I feel the same about your photograph
I will weep when any man shall pass.
Oh, lidded kettle boil me water fast.
I cannot live without your heated blast
Your spout is small but perfect for its use.
And, as your lid is hinged, it can’t get lost
An electric kettle made by Russell Hobbs
A teapot with a spout and lid with knob
Are what the English need in times of storm
If crisis comes, we need tea hot, not warm
I don’t object to diverse kettle brands.
We had a coal fire once with kettle stand.
Its metal black from soot and burned by coke
We made our neighbours tea which seemed to smoke.
Ah, kettle , instrument of civil life,
We cannot boil our water on a knife.
I am a kettle made of stainless steel;
I am a saint, for tea is brewed to heal
And, unlike kettles on an old coal fire,
I am not dirty nor do I perspire.
My mirrored sides reflect you as you cook;
Look at me and read me like a book.
I’m full of love and hotter than a man —
Oh, dear lady, love me while you can.
I am an honest kettle, I can’t lie,
Though, not infrequently, I wonder why.
I shall never punish you, my dear,
For perfect love like mine can hold no fear.
All I ask is that you polish me,
For, in between your hands, I yearn to be.
http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/what-is-the-value-of-poetry
I lost my own voice sixty years ago
My knees are aching like the devil’s heart
Now the pain has come up from below
My hands are red and swollen, so it goes,
Around my body, hops from part to part
I lost my own voice sixty years ago
Oh, dear heart, it only goes to show
The existential piss of Jean-Paul Sartre
The ache, the pain, have risen from below.
The teacher said my social class was low
More, my Dobble accent was not smart
I lost my own voice then, yet it died slow.
Today I’m in the upper class, you know!
I taught pure maths in Oxford, a paid tart.
They kindly stole my voice, but it don’t show.
I’d like to hear my mam and daddy talk
I’d like to go with grandad for a walk
I’ve lost my own voice sixty years heart-sore
Now the rage is rising like bread dough.
My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across the page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,
And words come in a rush.
Enchanting through the hand which writes,
Bewitched with art, beauty alights.
The script is like a music score
Through which we pass as through a door.
Imagination’s home.
As , mysteriously.to you, to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed,
By rhythms of pen, of brush, of mind.
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round
Fire joined heart and hand.
The pen slows down, the hand goes still
And just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink, they disappear, they’re gone.
I almost caught that one.
We were alone together In this long thin sitting room. I would draw on my laptop, While he stared out at the moon. We were alone together Now I’m alone, alone. I am studying poetry His number's not on my new phone. We were alone together As I sat by his hospital bed. He still didn’t speak but then he winked As I laid my cool hand on his head. I wish I could be there now beside you Together and never alone I wish I could there be with you quietly And you were not cold as this stone.
You revealed the face within your face Human,lowly, humbler than an ant The pathos in your eyes made sad my gaze The other face, defended, has no grace With it,you appear quite confident. Yet you revealed to me your hidden face I know now of the suffering of your days A fear of tragic pasts feared imminent The pathos in your eyes made sad my gaze The Lord says you’re his lamb and sends you grace. Yet you must hide from men intolerant You revealed the face within your face Like Jesus, you were scourged and in disgrace You wandered feebly,lost, itinerant The pathos in your eyes makes sad my days If God exists then would he not embrace The lost, the lonely mad,the poor vagrant? You revealed the face within your face The pathos in your eyes is our disgrace.
Mary had made a Christmas cake with marzipan but no white icing.Stan was diabetic so she had opted for a middle way.Like some Zen Buddhists.You don’t either cut it completely nor have a 6-inch layer of icing.No, you find a middle way.Like 5 inches of icing!
Mary like almonds so she went for marzipan with her home ground almonds and some sugar.The raw egg part was worrying but so far nobody had died after eating her cakeStil,l if you are dying , enjoy the cake while you can!
Annie arrived for a cup of coffee.
Wow, that cake is large.You will get fat if you eat it
I am not planning to eat it all myself, Mary said merrily.
In fact, if I could find a way of cutting an infinitesimally small piece I could have on every day forever.
Would the cake not shrink ?asked Annie with a puzzled smile
No, because a real number times an infinitesimal is itself infinitesimal Mary answered.
So it must be zero, Annie decided.
No , said Mary.All of the calculus is based on the idea that they are not zero.Then, at the end, we pretend they are zero and cross them out.It’s like magic or sleight of hand
I thought maths was logic, Annie said in an angry voice, tossing her purple hair over her shoulder.Alas it was a wig so it fell off and Emile bit it!
Gosh, Annie why are you wearing a wig? Mary asked.
I am involved with a Jewish man so he won’t make love unless I wear a wig.
Surely if he is Orthodox he should not sleep with you unless you get married.
We can’t get married, Annie said boldly.
Why not?
He is already married….Annie muttered
Well, that seems wrong.
What, being married?
No having an affair.I know Stan is old.Can’t you find a single man?
Women can’t go running after men.Men enjoy the chase.They despise women who run after them.
Well, can’t you ask them if they are married?
No, it seems too cheeky, Annie smiledAnyway in fuzzy logic you are not either married or single.You are married to the extent of some decimal number in between 0 and 1
Some folk are 0.999 married and some are 0.34 married.
But who measures it? God? It’s not much use.
You have to guess , said Annie.I like Jewish men
How many do you know, Mary asked.
Three said Annie triumphantly.
You can’t generalize from three, Mary said.
If I test a larger sample I shall never get to find one till I am 99, Annie wept.
Think of the fun, though, Mary said teasingly.And you’d have to travel a lot as many live in the USA, France and other places including Israel.How do you fancy Bibi Netanyahu?
Annie was silent, then burst out: life is not science nor technology.It’s an art like watercolor painting.Why do you call him Bibi? Do you know him?
Not biblically, Mary said humorously.I’ve never even met him.He’s just been in the News because of Trumpelstiltschein
Does Bibi know Donald is half German?
No, but the Queen is too.More than half,maybe.
Where does that take us logically?
Off to Boots to buy some expensive makeup and then to have a manicure and tea in a cafe
If only politicians did this life would be much easier and kinder/
And so say all of us!
I’m in deep now,never been this deep before The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door. In so deep,the ocean has its own startled floor. I’m down,down.down,never been so dark,so more I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am I think I had an accident,fell over,then I swam. Sometimes it’s a loss, betimes it’s a man. I guess I only do it 'cos I want to know if I can. I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain. Would I choose to relive it,if I was born again? The deep joy is the amazing gain. But the sorrow is damn sad,let’s admit it plain. I’m in deep and it’s over my head. What was I thinking of,when I fell out of that bed? I look up and the sea’s so turquoise like that mist is red When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead. At first, it was all just black,black pain But from the bottom of the well,I looked up with awed love again. That’s when I recalled,feelings are wise and sane. Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep,deep zone. I dunno if I’m ever comin’ out. We can’t control it,ain’t that what life’s all about? I’ll never love with innocence again,nor not feel doubt. But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout. I’m swimming and the ocean’s so mysteriously bright Down here we don’t have no day nor no night Fish nudge me with big grins and teeth white; Sea flowers fondle me and whisper,turn off that light!
The novelist Richard Ford differed from the poets in his take: “The question ‘Why poetry?’ isn’t asking what makes poetry unique among art forms; poetry may indeed share its origins with other forms of privileged utterance. A somewhat more interesting question would be: “What is the nature of experience, and especially the experience of using language, that calls poetic utterance into existence? What is there about experience that’s unutterable?” You can’t generalize very usefully about poetry; you can’t reduce its nature down to a kernel that underlies all its various incarnations. I guess my internal conversation suggests that if you can’t successfully answer the question of “Why poetry?,” can’t reduce it in the way I think you can’t, then maybe that’s the strongest evidence that poetry’s doing its job; it’s creating an essential need and then satisfying it.”
A man is at his tallest when he stoops to help a child
A Man of Words and Not of Deeds is Like a Garden Full of Weeds
A man that breaks his word bids other be false to him
A new broom sweeps clean, but the old brush knows all the corners
A nod is as good as a wink to a blind man
A person who can smile when things go wrong has found someone to blame it on
Coats on the hall stand
Smelling of you;
Coats on the hall stand
Some are mine too.
Hats on the top hooks
Caps that you wore.
Now where you’ve gone
You will need them no more.
My hats will be puzzled,
Hanging there all alone
Now when I see yours
My heart feels like astone.
I found some of your shoes
All covered with green
Now they’re in the bin bag
No more to be seen.
I found half your pyjamas
The rest are all gone.
I wonder where these hid,
Where’ve they come from?
Last night in my dreams
You were right by my side
We were cleaning the oven
With brillo and Tide.
But when I awakened
No glimpse did I see.
Except looking slantwise
Towards the red maple tree,
Why did you leave me?
Why did you go?
I held your left hand
And fondled it so.
Come back to your loved one
Don’t leave me alone.
I don’t want to live
Just to hear myself groan.
Touch me with your fingers
Melt my poor, sad, lone heart
I let go of your hand~
Then the agony starts.
Up north in old Richmond
And on blue Cleveland Hills
I’ll remember your dear face
As my eyes with tears fill.
I will lift up mine eyes
To the hills where my strength
Comes down from the Heavens
Endless in length.
Stronger than granite,
Stronger than steel,
Stronger than silver
Is the love that I feel.
Stronger than iron;
Stronger than gold;
Stronger is my love,
For the one I once held.
I found your diary for 2015
In my heart, I wish you were at home
When sinners thrive, why are you not alive?
I saved your photographs on Google Drive
I may print one,; your smile should long survive,
Though in the clouds, you valiantly will roam.
You never answer when I call your phone.
Come back, my lover, criticize my poems
A lender nor borrower be
A leopard cannot change its spots
A little of what you fancy does you good
A long way to go
A man comes from the dust and in the dust he will end – and in the meantime it is good to drink a sip of vodka
A man in love is a fool, and an old man in love is the greatest fool of all
A man is at his tallest when he stoops to help a child
A man is judged by his deeds, not by his words
A man is known by the company he keeps
A Man of Words and Not of Deeds is Like a Garden Full of Weeds
A man that breaks his word bids other be false to him
A man walks, God places the feet
A miss is as good as a mile
A miss is as good as a mr
A new broom sweeps clean
A new broom sweeps clean, but the old brush knows all the corners
A nod is as good as a wink to a blind man
A penny always turns up
A person who can smile when things go wrong has found someone to blame it on
A picture paints a thousand words
A place for everything and everything in its place
A positive pessimist is better than a negative optimist
A problem is a chance for you to do your best
A problem shared is a problem halved
A proverb is a true word
A proverb never lies, it is only its meaning which deceives
A quarrelsome wife is like a constant dripping on a rainy day
A reed before the wind lives on, while might oaks do fall
A rolling stone gathe
http://www.openculture.com/2014/01/read-ezra-pounds-list-of-23-donts-for-writing-poetry-1913.html
I will try to write some good poetry this year and will not be deterred by political happenings.We must live as well as we can whatever the situation.We have homes ad computers so we are the richest people of this
world
And a special thank you to Mike Flemming for letting me use his fine photographs for several years including the ones of New Zealand wild creatures here.
Imitation meals are lined up here
Chicken pie, half roast potatoes, peas.
Beside the bottles of dark, Irish beer.
In the long lit cabinets, it’s clear;
The top layers know that eating’s a disease.
Divination,seers, are laid back here
Once men hunted flowers and chased false tears
While women washed, reaped wool and smiled to tease,
Frowning people maimed black bitter here.
Grinning apes hang from our unshed tears
As asthmatics lust to have their wheeze
Imitation meals are lined up, are they fare?
Spiders, tadpoles, newts are christened here
They will ignore the nobles who must seize
And drown inside the bottles of black beer.
Women labor and downplay their creed;
Even as their uteruses bleed
Irritating meals are labeled weird
Trumpelstiltskin, who shall us now lead?
Who will halt the damage and secede?
Imitation, real, is lined up near.
We hear the chortles of dark, Irish beer.
I am going shopping today, Mary informed Stan.I have decided to buy a corset.I am too fat.
I hope it’s not a whalebone corset, Stan teased her. gently
Are they still allowed to use the bones of whales? she asked.One whale must have massive bones.Why not use dog’s bones?
Well, Stan said, you may be plump but don’t torture yourself for beauty.I love you as you are, sweetheart.
Mary got onto her bicycle and rode into town , passing some lovely magnolias and forsythia.She locked her bike to the church gate as sinners cannot be trusted especially just after Confession.
Hello, I’m looking for a whalebone corset, she informed the lady in the lingerie department.
What!We don’t have them anymore.They ran out of baleen which is horny material in a whale’s mouth.
Was it their teeth , asked Mary tremulously.
Eeh, I don’t know said the assistant.Anyway, now we have shapewear.It looks like underwear but it’s elasticated.So it keeps your curves in like those minimiser bras
Mary burst out laughing as she imagined wearing an elasticated vest which would push all her fat up round her neck or down onto her bum .Or an elasticated pair of knickers which push the fat upwards. onto her abdomen.And furthermore, how easy would it be to get them down in the bathroom? Worse still, if Stan took her to a restaurant and she could not pull them down for a wee…should she take some scissors?
Mary stopped laughing when she saw all the staff staring at her,
Are you alright, madam? one asked rather ferociously.
Yes, it’s my dwindling hormones.They make me laugh hysterically from time to time.It’s better than getting those hot flushes ,in my view.
Why not have HRT? the lady replied.
Excuse me, said Mary, but I do not wish to discuss my health matters in public but thank you for your concern.She was rather pleased with that having just read
“A woman’s guide to compassionate self assertion.”
Although she did wonder why it was addressed only to women.Emile agreed when she discussed over milk and cat niblets which Mary had to eat when she ran out of food.
As Mary stood in the Shapewear department she remembered the time she tried on some denim jeggings as they seemed to be in fashion.They looked very nice but she had such a hard time getting them off she thought she would have to buy them and cut them off at home.
So all of a sudden she picked up her Mondrian PVC shopping bag and her green handbag and ran out of the door into the button and wool department.
My, you look hot, her friend Gail said.I am buying some merino wool for neckwarmers.Do you ever knit nowadays, Mary?
Only with whales bones, she murmured.And it’s so hard to find them now.
Well, whales must still have bones, dear, otherwise they would collapse.
Surely you don’t expect me to catch my own whale.Mary cried in fear having seen a film on this topic.
And how about Jonah?Suppose I find a prophet inside the whale?
That could be just who we need, Gail said.Someone who can tell us what God wants us to do.
Would people listen, Mary asked Gail tremulously
Only if he went on Twitter I suppose.
Could Donald Crump be a prophet? Mary muttered
No, he’s too big for a whale to swallow even if the common people swallow his nonsense.He sounds as if he’d like to treat women the way they do in some countries like Saudi Arabia.40 lashes for taking the morning after pill.
It could be hard to have,”the night before” in a place like that.
The two women gazed blankly in front of them trying to remember their youth and their mad love affairs.
Let’s go into the Cricketer’s Arms and have a drink Gail said.
I’d rather have coffee,Mary replied.So off they went arm in arm humming
“I believe in angels “very loudly to frighten off any evil spirits from the lingerie department.We know the Devil loves bras and suspender belts with lace trimmings as he is, in fact, the god Pan who was a goatherd with a horn on which he played his music to tempt the weak; some even say he was half goat half human but we never did that in the maths department.
We only studied shapes and forms and symmetry.Well, I know it sounds suggestive but we only dealt with it in an abstracted manner.That’s why you see mathematicians with all sorts of undies hanging off them as it’s the geometry they need to learn and how better than on a field trip to a department store. Anthropologists go to Samoa and mathematicians go to Sex and Undie shops.They have no choice.They need to see those conical bras.Conic sections!Ellipses.You get my drift?
She said she was writing free verse
Trying to be pointed but terse.
But the rhymes kept on appearing
So she gave then a hearing
And she copied them all, which is worse!
As for meter, she thought it was gas
Which sooner or later would pass
So I said to her, Rita
Why not look up meter?
She said, I would rather sound crass
It’s all in the music of mind
To sing too is extremely unkind
So we sat on the sofa
And I admitted I loved her.
So we went to lie down , to unwind.
I heard her call, would you like tea?
I wanted her to sit on my knee.
We both kissed and made eyes
Then ate apple pies.
It seems like a daydream,we’ll see.
I don’t know how to write about irony
It’s not simply sarcasm, you know.
It’s not meant to cut
But simply to put
A comment with a questioning glow.
When referring to political tyranny
Wit may serve better than steel.
Contempt is not good
For if not understood
The bleeding wounds may never heal.
But talking of Hitler and Stalin
And all who encouraged great sin
Irony ‘s out
Clear speech leaves no doubt,
The inmates had possessed the Great Bim
Spoken words are part of a complex,
Of gesture, touch, expression, and desire.
They are not cut off separate, nor perplexed.
The sensuous world contains both word and fire.
To concentrate communion to mere tongue,
To ignore all expression but our words
Seems to be a folly and a wrong
For all happens cannot but be heard
Our hands, our eyes, our movement create shapes
With speech, we learn to give shape proper form;
And as a love in his bed may grope,
His heart seeks for the words which work as charms
There is no split between our worlds and minds
Their conjunction gifts appropriate signs
Oh gas fire, keep me warmer and relaxed
For frost has bitten and my lips are chapped
I must wear more lip salve but perplexed-
I wonder if wild apes protect their lips?
We were not made to sit by a gas fire
From Africa, our ancestors roamed far,
But did not note the chill of Lancashire.
Nor plan to use a train or drive a car.
Instead of adaptation to the cold
We made use of beeswax and sheep’s oil
While men hunted for pigs,both wild and bold
We women used rich substance to beguile.
Charles Darwin’s theories may be as far as this-
Yet why would lips be tender but to kiss?
Oh.bedside lamp, how much you have deceived?
You glow with light unnatural late at night.
You see with jolting start what I received
And never show your torment, or mis-sight
On my Nook , here’s Sylvia Plath again.
I feel a sorrow deep and wild and strange.
Without your light, she’d never know a man
But in the day time, Plath is out of range.
You saw me thin and supple as stem,
With painted lips , and eyes, and dew of skin.
Then later when I stumbled , rose again-
You lit me up , when man could not begin.
O, bedside lamp I wonder what you know.
Do you take notes in Hebrew as you glow?
How my heart sings 