The farthing

photo0066

 

My friend told me if I wanted to get married again I should not tell men I was a mathematician.So I’ll have to stop saying :I am 5/8 Irish and 1/3 Anglo-Saxon and  1/48 Viking.
That doesn’t add up to one.
I never said I was an integer!
If you   give too much detail it puts them off.
How about  :I am 38-28-40?
Is that your Zip code?
No, it’s my vital statistics.
I should wait till you know them better.
When will that be?
After you get the diamond ring.And stop using numbers so much use words. Hang on:Hello, this is 07576339417875640288r09777 .Hi.
That’s a funny phone number.
It  was the police.
How come they have your number?
I think it’s because  I told them you wanted to re-marry
Why tell the police, it’s not a crime.
I thought they might give you a job.
Why do I want a job?
To stop you getting married again.
But there are men in the police station.
You can’t marry them
Why not?
They are only coppers!
Well they are not farthings.
Remember the threpenny bit?
It  never bit me!
How about a half crown?
You sound like a barber.
And so say all of us.

 

Are Anglo-Saxon words better?

 

 

redsquirrelformby2016-2

English squirrel Formby

 

To go Anglo, or no?

 

The first people to arrive on the island we now call Britain were the Celts (also called the Britons). They were soon joined by Scots, Picts, and some Latin dudes who wandered over from the Roman Empire. Then, round about the fifth century, the Germanic Angles, Saxons, and Jutes arrived from the continent, through what are now known as Holland, Germany, and Denmark.

These barbarous tribes brought with them the seax (a terrifying blade from which the Saxons got their name) and a language that had been mixing it up with Latin for centuries. As linguist David Crystal points out in The Stories of English, the vocabulary of English “has never been purely Anglo-Saxon, even in its Anglo-Saxon period”!

Anglo-Saxon did eventually form the basic stock of Old English, enlivened with a smattering of Celtic and Latin words. St. Augustine brought new ingredients from Rome, Danes added some sustenance of their own, and then the Normans spiced things up with French and more Latin. By the time of Shakespeare, English was a rich verbal stew—then the Bard added all kinds of coinages to the pot.

Latin, Greek and Hebrew I love three

I’m a linguistic scholar
You should hear me holler
Latin, Greek and Hebrew I love three

I am mentally insane
I don’t know my own name
French and Anglo-Saxon, what ? It’s free!

I  am Danish by descent
Something I resent
The Vikings were my people? I’m at sea!

School and college days
Language will amaze
Double Dutch and Yiddish,please speak me.

The Normans were not French
Enough to make me blench
Scholarship and college are absent.

But Yiddish was wiped out
It’s gone without a doubt
Hitler,hate is always voluntary.

All our European Jews
I heard it on the News
We killed them and it was done  so quietly.

Whatever tongue we speak
Meaning from it leaks
Constantine was Christian, ain’t that sweet?

Barbaric as we are
We’ll not get very far
If we believe we’re better than we be

Enforced by  torture grim
We became Christian
It don’t go very deep,I can now see.

Forced conversion stinks
And don’t create no links
Ah, how evil, wicked  Europe be

Many English words come from Latin

rainbow_20170215

http://blog.dictionary.com/word-origins/

Over 60 percent of all English words have Greek or Latin roots. In the vocabulary of the sciences and technology, the figure rises to over 90 percent. About 10 percent of the Latin vocabulary has found its way directly into English without an intermediary (usually French).

For a time the whole Latin lexicon became potentially English and many words were coined on the basis of Latin precedent. Words of Greek origin have generally entered English in one of three ways: 1) indirectly by way of Latin, 2) borrowed directly from Greek writers, or 3) especially in the case of scientific terms, formed in modern times by combining Greek elements in new ways. The direct influence of the classical languages began with the Renaissance and has continued ever since. Even today, Latin and Greek roots are the chief source for English words in science and technology.

marcus_aurelius_-_piazza_del_campidoglio_3

 

This section of EnhanceMyVocabulary.com is all about learning vocabulary derived from Latin
Latin Word Definition English Derivatives
lingua language language, lingual, linguistics
nauta sailor nautical, nautilus
pirata pirate pirate, piratical
schola school scholar, school, scholastic
47 more rows

Then March will bring the new

0nly a damp darkness shows

winter’s here

only that darkness knows

the shadows of fear

only the pale low sun

lights cloudy sky

only the daylight comes

where dead leaves lie

only an invisible life

harbinger of spring

so much good hidden

yet time will bring

only the winter sky

only as clouds go by

dead leaves keep creatures warm

in the winter storm

then March will bring the new

buds, for me, for you

Will they need to learn the alphabet

Our minds can range  like leopards in the wild
Tracking down ideas  and soon beguiled
But when our body speaks its needs are plain
Oh,no,it’s that damned broccoli cheese again

Does the one who cooks deserve no praise?
It’s hard to be original every day
And cheese sauce needs both time and care and  skill
And broccoli’s  original as God’s will.

Without a body there will be no mind
Precisely where it lives is undefined.
But mindlessly we stuff ourselves till gross
And care not if our mind  becomes a ghost

The  thoughts of Kant and Wittgenstein can charm
Like lovely ladies on a man’s strong arm.
But even  men like this will need to eat
And wash their underarms  till they smell sweet

The animal we are has many needs
On good food and talk we each must feed
There is no contradiction  in  the mind
And if we have none ,it is hard to find!

To despise the body is an evil  thought
For through its cells the love of Good is sought.
The mind  is not removable we find
By its  proper use we ‘ll be less blind

But starving refugees and battered wives
Are most concerned to save their natural lives.
And only when their basic needs are  met
Will they  need to learn the alphabet.

 

 

Spiritual poetry

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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/articles/detail/68606

 

 

Spiritual Poetry

22 poems about spirituality and enlightenment.

The root of “spirit” is the Latin spirare, to breathe. Whatever lives on the breath, then, must have its spiritual dimension— including all poems, even the most unlikely. Philip Larkin, Sylvia Plath, William Carlos Williams: all poets of spiritual life. A useful exercise of soul would be to open any doorstop-sized anthology at random a dozen times and find in each of the resulting pages its spiritual dimension. If the poems are worth the cost of their ink, it can be done.

But, no, I’ve been asked to choose, to recommend. The poems I suggest here are this moment’s choices, not “the best spiritual poems” (a phrase weighing nothing in so intimate and personal a context). The “gates” are an equally personal selection of entrance points into spiritual life. Some of the poems are well known, others less so. Each stands representative of many others. Each also, for me, plunges into the heart of the matter at hand, bearing witness in some essential way.

 

GATE 1. PERMEABILITY
Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house.

Izumi Shikibu (Japan, 974?-1034?) [translated by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratani]
The moon in Japanese poetry is always the moon; often it is also the image of Buddhist awakening. This poem reminds that if a house is walled so tightly that it lets in no wind or rain, if a life is walled so tightly that it lets in no pain, grief, anger, or longing, it will also be closed to the entrance of what is most wanted.

The poem, by the greatest woman poet of classical-era Japan, is one I first encountered in 1986 while working with Mariko Aratani, my co-translator for The Ink Dark Moon. At first, I had the poem’s words, I had the poem’s grammar, but its meaning eluded. Once it clarified, this became for me a life-altering poem, transforming my relationship to safety, permeability, awakening, and the mouth of the lion.

How illness or strain can affect us

 

 

 

Lepanthes_adrianae.jpghttps://thetroublewithillness.wordpress.com/2011/11/05/illness-can-push-people-into-the-paranoid-schizoid-position/

This interests me as I can see it might have political relevance in cases /conflicts such as Israel-Palestine as well as in sick people.It makes one  be unable to apologise or see another person’s point of view

 

 

Illness can push people into the paranoid-schizoid position

There are two different ways of responding to anxiety; the paranoid-schizoid  (p-s) and depressive positions.

In the paranod-schizoid position, anxieties are about life and death.   There may be underlying panic and massive fears.

  • time stands still
  • we see things as ‘you OR me’ , ‘your life OR mine’, not ‘you AND me’.
  • selfishness may save our life
  • consideration for others is cut off and out
  • we split people and things into simple categories, depending on whether they will keep us alive or threaten us
  • the capacity for reasoned thought is lost
  • apology is impossible  – responsibility is so frightening it has to be disowned
  • huge, life-threatening self-blame is covered up by blaming someone else
  • people can be afraid they should pay for their sins with their lives – so in order to save their lives, they may deny their sins.
  • forgiveness is not an option
  • other people may be felt as dangerous, threatening, intrusive.
  • other people may be used or manipulated or threatened, as a way of getting rid of terrible anxieties into them and out of the self
  • other people may be seen as cartoon characters:  Perfect Angels or Monsters, Saviours or the Devil himself.”

Special classes at your church now

village-of-al-araqeeb-bulldozed

The “Holy Land “

Topics

1 What is a needle and why are they used?
2.What is thread.
3 Why do needles have eyes?
4.Can humans be compared to sewing thread ?
5.Are needles watching us?
6.Are you bloated with pride and high self esteem?
7 Are you “holier than thou”?
8.Who can you help? Widows and orphans,widowers,depressed  parishioners and  those with too many splits to make it here need home visits.
Come to our spiritual weight loss evenings here on Tuesdays at 8 pm
Free but money welcome for the new parish centre.

Truth and politics:Hannah Arendt

 

 

Woman bending over in geometrical formshttps://idanlandau.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/arendt-truth-and-politics.pdf

“TRUTH AND POLITICS by Hannah Arendt
Originally published in The New Yorker, February 25, 1967, and reprinted with minor changes in TOriginally published in The New Yorker, February 25, 1967, and reprinted with minor changes in Between Past and Future (1968) and The Portable Hannah Arendt edited by Peter Baier (2000) and Truth:Engagements Across Philosophical Traditions edited by Medina and Wood (2005)
The subject of these reflections is a commonplace.1 No one has ever doubted that truth and politics are on rather bad terms with each other, and no one, as far as I know, has ever counted truthfulness among the political virtues. Lies have always been regarded as necessary and justifiable tools not only of the politician’s or the demagogue’s but also of the statesman’s trade. Why is that so? And what does it mean for the nature and the dignity of the political realm, on one side, and for the nature and the dignity of truth and truthfulness, on the other? Is it of the very essence of truth to be impotent and of the very essence of power to be deceitful? And what kind of reality does truth possess if it is powerless in the public realm, which more than any other sphere of human life guarantees reality of existence to natal and mortal men – that is, to beings who know they have appeared out of non-being and will, after a short while, again disappear into it? Finally, is not impotent truth just as despicable as power that gives no heed to truth? These are uncomfortable questions, but they arise necessarily out of our current convictions in this matter. What lends this commonplace its high plausibility can still be summed up in the old Latin adage “Fiat iustitia, et pereat mundus” (“Let justice be done though the world may perish”) [. . .] and if we put truth in its place – “Fiat veritas, et pereat mundus” – the old saying sounds even more plausible. [. . .] it will therefore come as something of a surprise that the sacrifice of truth for the survival of the world would be more futile than the sacrifice of any other principle or virtue. For while we may refuse even to ask ourselves whether life would still be worth living in a world deprived of such notions as justice and freedom, the same, curiously, is not possible with respect to the seemingly so much less political idea of truth. What is at stake is survival, the perseverance in existence (in suo esse perseverare), and no human world destined to outlast the short life span of mortals within it will ever be able to survive without men willing to do what Herodotus was the first to undertake consciously – namely, λéγειν τα éoντα, to say what is. No permanence, no perseverance in existence, can even be conceived of without men willing to testify to what is and appears to them because it is”

He has no self at all, if all’s his wish.

No mirror for reflection in his mind
He says whatever suits  that moment’s wish
Thus he is to truth  disabled,  blind

Pride and power  make human beings  unkind.
But  reflecting   can  point to what’s amiss.
There’s no mirror for reflection in his mind

In phantasy, we obtain what we  design.
But  fancied love won’t give  a fleshly kiss
We are  to truth  and  justice surreal,blind

To  find  the  truth  we  cannot be malign
Must view  again the  images  dismissed
Who can use the mirrors  in   their minds?

Judging of our leaders is no crime;
For we judge our selves and that is less than bliss
When  leaders lie, the world is undermined

He has no self at all,  if  all’s his wish.
Inevitable  the fall to  the abyss
He has no space for mirrors in his mind
Thus he is to danger doubly blind.

I will taste divine

Make my heart into a cottage pie.
Already it is minced and lies estranged
My   enemies insult me with their lies
And my last will and testament is made.

An onion and a carrot chopped up fine,
Saute  with these my heart till  all are gold
With herbs and spices I will taste divine
A mashed potato will a rooftop mould.

Do not forget my blood to use as sauce
Though now it’s cold, with garlic  make it boil.
For what is gravy but the blood of  choice
With  sliced  onion  fried in olive oil?

O foes and devils eat me and you’ll be
Transformed into  myself, your enemy.

Arendt called out Trump like behaviour decades ago

5616http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2017/02/13/she-called-out-trump-s-lies-decades-ago.html

 

“It is organized lying, designed to sway how voters think, that Arendt believes is the great political threat to democracy. Combatting mass falsehoods is always an uphill battle, she warns. Here her argument echoes the line that Jack Nicholson popularized in A Few Good Men, the 1992 film in which as a Marine Corps colonel on trial, he shouts at the lawyer questioning his judgment, “You can’t handle the truth.”

Arendt believes that political liars take advantage of supporters who don’t want to deal with the truth in the form of unwelcome facts, and as a result, political liars have a decided, initial advantage over truth tellers. Political liars can tailor their facts to fit the hopes of their audience and, by doing so, have plausibility on their side. The false facts that are liars’ stock and trade are what those listening to them want to believe.

But as far as Arendt is concerned, when liars prevail, it is not merely that falsehood wins out over truth. The whole political system is turned on its head: fact and opinion become interchangeable.

The first loss caused by political lying, Arendt points out, is, ironically, in the value of opinion. Freedom of opinion is a “farce,” she contends, unless it comes with factual information. “Facts and opinions, though they must be kept apart, are not antagonistic to each other; they belong to the same realm,” she writes. “Facts inform opinions.”

But the second loss caused by political lying is the most dangerous of all in Arendt’s judgment. It is the loss of the desire to establish the truth. When lying becomes epidemic, what follows, she contends, is “a peculiar kind of cynicism—an absolute refusal to believe in the truth of anything, no matter how well this truth may be established.” The result is that the sense by which citizens take their political bearings in the world is destroyed.

The good news, Arendt points out, is that it is difficult to reach this level of cynicism. Liars can get away with single falsehoods, even multiple falsehoods for a while, but there is a point at which lies become counterproductive. When those who are lied to find that their lives are made worse by the lies, they come to disbelieve the lies.

For Arendt, it’s crucial to avoid reaching this extreme point. In the case of Vietnam, she believed at the time that the press played a crucial role in exposing the government’s lies about the success of the war, and at the end of “Lying in Politics,” she emphasizes the importance of what is crucial today—a “press that is free and not corrupt.”

That a half century after the Vietnam War, the press should again be under attack from another president and his administration makes this turn of events a welcome historical parallel. For Arendt, there is nothing banal about defending the truth when it is under siege. She is lyrical on that subject, observing in her conclusion to “Truth and Politics”: “Conceptually, we may call truth what we cannot change; metaphorically, it is the ground on which we stand and the sky that stretches above us.””

Church for sale

Large  pseudo -marble church  with fake pews and psalter.
Politically  incorrect   and impassible
Players  suffered daily,weekly and yearly.
Free police thrown in and out as required
Curates  for hire,on fire with zeal
Confessionals closed but well polished to appear to be in use
Slate floor and inner walls.
Large fence  with barbed wire entrances.
Large plastic  needle with artificial eyes on show.

How to learn English the long way

k123.png

Starters:

Jellied heels with frayed bunions
Muck hurtled suit.
Satirical  brains on boast.
Melania and grate solid
Fried brides on crumpets

 

Mains
Trumpled stake with French eyes and  invalid.
Lamb on the fence with sacred rice
Walls of macaroni cheese   free with cold ovaries
Conger reels on a bed of lies  and fried pirhanas.
Roast dicks and  grated parrots.
Toast reef and Yorks old Rifkind

Desserts

Korean I Scream with nuclear frissons
Custard warts and bedlam
Apple Trumplings with whites’ sauce.
Disputin’ cold farts.
Settlers nets on Yahoo with cream gaps.
Mexican planks  with caramel blusters.

Seems like the ice is inside me

Air,bitter they call it,whispers to the sweet planes of my face,
Shrieks shrill to my cavities,ears,mouth and nose;penetrates all that’s open;
Probing like a surgeon’s knife,to see what healing damage it might do.
A frozen finger touches my heart;
Seems like the ice is inside me sending urgent warnings.

On that high inner mountain,you’ll feel nothing at all…
You’ll be the snowman, a bloody icicle;
An Old Testament of Endurance;
A legend like the pale polar bears, snuffling uneasily around the summit
Touching a woman’s heart is the quickest way to gain her attention
I’m looking at you;you’re in pieces.You’re a puzzle,a jigsaw with two double dynamos;
A broken racing bicycle crossed with two ice skates.
Ten motorboats crashed into a yacht and abandoned on a Swiss lake in winter.
Can I leave you scattered like this?
You’re a man in a penguin suit;
Diplomatic, attached with the coldest reserves.
You’re a spy from the court of the Vatican City
A screaming Pope;
An unbaptized demon.
A lost angel with no hands;
A half hung side of meat;
An unbroken rampant horse deluded by winds east.
We were split,one from another;
Split in ourselves too–thoughts and emotions
Are raw like meat,weeping as they are pulled apart into islands.
I see there’s a cold window between us.
I rub it with my damp coat sleeve,like children do,licking on it;
And see your eyes gleam in hope like greenish diamonds.
Yet I can’t touch you, until we learn how to melt glass.
Are you trying too as you smile weakly,
desperately holding onto this impossible slippery glass?
We’ll try  to reach you at the bottom of whatever frozen ocean you sigh in. to
Here you are,a flat and two-dimensional Prospero.
You rise like a non-U-boat already firing at the upper orders.
Here you are walking through what seemed like ruins
And you are not just alive, but burning.

 Our life is like a shell upon the shore

tossed up by squally,salty,shivering sea
.To shrink inside is safe,yet we want more,
To make,to love,to see,at last to be.
A shell, though tough, is made to open out;
To give the living core its chance to grow
.Towards the new we each must shed our doubt.
Every myth and story say it’s so..
Impregnable,that home had seemed to be
To the tiny creature growing in its heart#.
Yet thrown by winds across the rolling sea
The slender cage must open and let part.
Protection can be prison to the soul.
So we  crack our    out grown shells, desiring all

Day shall come again

When red sun  drops and  cooling night  rolls in
Darkness masks both danger and  vision
Ancient minds fear    day won’t come again
Courage for the  delicate   seems thin
We  wrestle  with  our indecision
When  sun  drops and the night  rolls in
But now , new stricken by   a sense of sin
Who shall aid  the soul’s   derision?
Our  ancient minds fear   day won’t come again
When  we sleep, we’re entertained within
Deft dreams squander all   illusion
When  sun  drops and  black night  rolls in.
In reverie we’re loved  and  so  open
Then  fancy turns to full communion
While ancient minds fear  day won’t come again
And so  it was that our own life began
When sperm leaped up in  proud confusion.
When  deep sun  dropped , creative night rolled in
When  ancient  hearts cried  “Day  shall come again”

Eternal Pest

I thought our love was real , no more, I trust
Your persona was  of cleverness and  of lust
My judgment was  disabled by  my guts
I did not perceive as clearly as  I must
I thought  this love was real ,I gave my trust
You were biting and evasive  when I asked
You took your   blade and cut   us  both apart
I thought our love was real ,why did  I trust?
You acted  out fake wisdom and  fake heart
I  never  would have known that at the start
The meaning was of power stoked up with lust
In your heart you never took a guest.
I wish you peace,  be off Eternal pest

Donald Winnicott and Harold Pinter

 5616

“In a remembrance of the writer Harold Pinter that appeared in the Los Angeles Times (and posted on Slow Painting), Charles McNulty included a memorable quote by D. W. Winnicott:

But for all his vehemence and posturing, Pinter was too gifted with words
and too astute a critic to be dismissed as an ideological crank.
He was also too deft a psychologist,
understanding what the British psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott meant
when he wrote that
“being weak is as aggressive as the attack of the strong on the weak”
and that the repressive denial
of personal aggressiveness is perhaps even more dangerous
than ranting and raving.
(All that stiff-upper-lip business can be murderous.)”

I just came across that quote by accident
and thought it was worth posting here

Our language and our reality

http://www.mortylefkoe.com/how-our-language-determines-our-reality/whiteisland3

“As Edward Sapir, a noted anthropologist, has said:

Human beings do not live in the objective world alone, nor alone in the world of social activity as ordinarily understood, but are very much at the mercy of a particular language which has become the medium of expression for their society. The fact of the matter is that their “real world” is to a large extent unconsciously built up in the language habits of the group. . . . We see and hear and otherwise experience very largely as we do because the language habits of our community predispose certain choices of interpretation.

Language is far more than a tool for communication. The word “language” comes from logos, which means category or concept. With language we categorize, distinguish, and create the universe. Ultimately, we perceive the world according to our language. For example, when we think in English, we perceive a world made up primarily of objects: people, trees, and houses. These objects do things or have things done to them using verbs. We literally see everything in the world in this fashion. We don’t perceive “things out there” because there really are things out there. That just happens to be our worldview, because in our language there is a subject, which acts upon an object, which exists independently of the subject. In the English language, independent entities (subjects and objects) are primary, rather than processes or relationships. That’s not true in every language.

As Ralph Strauch points out in his book The Reality Illusion:

Some languages are structured around quite different basic word- categories and relationships. They project very different pictures of the basic nature of reality as a result. The language of the Nootka Indians in the Pacific Northwest, for example, has only one principle word-category; it denotes happenings or events. A verbal form like “eventing” might better describe this word-category, except that such a form doesn’t sound right in English, with its emphasis on noun forms. We might think of Nootka as composed entirely of verbs, except that they take no subjects or objects as English verbs do. The Nootka, then, perceive the world as a stream of transient events, rather than as the collection of more or less permanent objects which we see. Even something which we see clearly as a physical object, like a house, the Nootka perceive of as a long-lived temporal event. The literal English translation of the Nootka concept might be something like “housing occurs;” or “it houses.

In a discussion of this point, Nobel Prize winning physicist Werner Heisenberg said:

What we are observing is not nature itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning. And how do we question? All of our methods of interrogating nature depend on language—and it is the very nature of language to refer to things. We therefore think in terms of things. How can we possibly think of nonthings, nothings, nothing? In our very forms of thought we instinctively divide the world into subjects and objects, thinkers and things, mind and matter. This division seems so natural that it has been presumed a basic maxim of objective science.

A dramatic (and sobering!) example of how language determines the distinctions we make can be found in the specific technical language that is used to describe nuclear weapons and arms control. Carol Cohn, a senior research fellow at the Center for Psychological Studies in the Nuclear Age, Cambridge, Massachusetts, spent a year as a visiting scholar at a defense studies center. She published some of her experiences in the Summer 1987 issue of SIGNS: The Journal of Women in Culture and Society, ©1987 by The University of Chicago Press, in an article titled “Nuclear Language and How We Learned to Pat the Bomb.”  She wrote:

The better I became at this discourse [of arms control], the more difficult it became to express my own ideas and values. While the language included things I had never been able to speak about before, it radically excluded others. To pick a bald example, the word “peace” is not a part of this discourse. As close as one can come to it is “strategic stability’ a term that refers to a balance of numbers and types of weapons systems—not the political, social, economic, and psychological conditions that “peace” implies.

If I was unable to speak my concerns in this language, more disturbing still was that I also began to find it harder to keep them in my own head. No matter how firm my own commitment to staying aware of the bloody reality behind the words, over and over I found that I could not keep human lives as my reference point….

I was so involved in the military justifications for not using nuclear weapons—as though the moral ones were not enough. What I was actually talking about—the mass incineration of a nuclear attack—was no longer in my head.”

Language wrote both Dante and Mein Kampf

Winter sunshine shows the branches bare

Reveals each shape both elegant and spare

The  little birds fly in and out at will

The low sun’s bright, the wind is light as well

 

  What kind of world has human language made?

   Evolution does not always pay

For language can  tell love but also hate

And brings  to some misfortune and black fate

 

Words can hurt much deeper than a knife

 We may be  traumatised  by our  own life

 the bitch the witch , the charlatan, the  Jew

These categories old, are ever new

 

Language wrote  both Dante and Mein Kampf,

Ecstasy or  Concentration Camp

 

 

Dresses no more

Safety lies in my grey cowl neck dress
It has no openings except for the head.
Grey is not a colour to impress
I shan’t wear grey  qowns when I go to bed.

The cowl neck covers me in decent form
A pure old maiden I shall now become
But now i see the fabric’s thin ,not warm
It clings to me,my peace of mind’s undone.

I see I must return to trousers black
And tunics that are thick and long  and warm
My venture into dress had pushed me back
And made me shyer than a lamb just shorn.

Oh,women waste no time in dresses  fine
Cover up and   you will look divine

More about poetry and mathematics

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https://poetrywithmathematics.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/fractals-poems-and-photos.html

 

 

”     Marc Frantz and Annalisa Crannell have written about mathematics and art (Viewpoints:  Mathematical Perspectives and Fractal Geometry in Art: Princeton University Press, 2011) and now Frantz (who is both a mathematician and an artist, a painter) has collaborated with a poet — Robin Walthery Allen —  to develop a collection entitled Dance of Eye and Mind (not yet published).  I am honored to present a poem-photo pair from this exquisite collection.

What is in us that must reach the top,
that longs to look down upon the world as if a god?
Don’t we know that in this infinite space
the same rocks at the seashore know the secret of each peak?

Underneath the surface are caverns, caves
soaring cathedrals the earth has made.
What arias does she sing to dripping water, bats
and other seekers of wisdom?
What prayers echo
while the ceilings reach slowly to the floor?

The open window houses everything:
a cat lounging in the sunlight, the call of neighbors,
the breath of possibility.

 

(poetry by Robin Walthery Allen)”

 

Fractals and poetry

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A Fractal Poem

    A fractal is an object that displays self-similarity — roughly, this means that the parts have the same shape as the whole — as in the following diagram which shows successive stages in the development of the “box fractal” (from Wolfram MathWorld).

Michigan poet Jack Ridl and I share an alma mater (Pennsylvania’s Westminster College) and we recently connected when I found mathematical ideas in the poems in his collection Broken Symmetry  (Wayne State University Press, 2006); from that collection, here is “Fractals” — offering us a poetic version of self-similar structure:

       Fractals    by Jack Ridl

On this autumn afternoon, the light
falls across the last sentence in a letter,
just before the last movement of Brahms’
Fourth Symphony, a recording made more
than 20 years ago, the time when we were
looking for a house to rehabilitate, maybe
       take out a wall and let the kitchen open
up into the living room, put in a window
so the morning light could fall across
the bed my wife’s grandmother made
the canopy for, the bed she slept in for
forty years. She was a doctor looking
for a town close enough that we can
drive past where she practiced, imagine
her picking up her violin when there
was time between patients, settle
it under her chin and play, looking
out the window into the same street we
drive down on our way to visit our
daughter in her studio. She creates
dresses, stitches turning into lines,
fabric turning into sculpture hanging
under her skylight, the dresses’ threads
knotted, their edges frayed. When
we knock on her door, she welcomes
us with cups of steaming tea, turns
down the jazz and kisses us. She
is happy in this light and later she
will ask us how we like our new place,
laugh when we begin to tell her all
our plans for tearing out the kitchen,
knocking out a wall so we can see
deep into the wood, along the creek
that twists itself around a pile of rocks
and through the trees. She makes us
dinner as we listen to Miles Davis,
“Birth of the Cool”—I always wonder
why he ended with a vocal, one
that sounds recorded twenty years
before. Its notes are sleepy,
the voices like smoke. At home
the dog and cats are sleeping. We
forgot to leave a light on for them,
but the radio is playing, and when we
get there, they will want to go outside.
The dog will pause for a scratch behind
his ears, his tail wagging as the cats
jump off the couch, hurry out the door,
disappear into the dark.
We’ll tune the radio to a symphony,
watch the moon harvesting
its light through the back window.

I  discovered Ridl’s collection while doing some background digging for other recent postings on fractals  —  16 December 2014 and 18 November 2014.  Fractals also are found in these earlier posts: 10 April 2014, 17 October 2010, and 14 May 2010.

https://poetrywithmathematics.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/a-fractal-poem.html

 

For if you touch me, you will meet your end.

This dress called “wrap” has failed to enwrap me.
It  has  a mere two ties to hold its place.
The fashion page advice has  entrapped me
I might as well go bare or wear pure lace.

As I walk the skirt reveals my thighs
Magnificent in size and  perfect shape
Yet I did not wish to show my body  and its size
I need to buy a silken over-cape

For assuming that some buttons  or spare cloth
Would hold the fabric in to cover all
I failed to try it on and now feel wrath
I’m freezing and the men will not play ball.

Beware of these wrap dresses ,my dear friends.
For if you touch me, you will meet your end.

Her best and worst are both revealed at once.

Her wrap dress did not cover her large knees
Swollen with arthritis and   long prayers.
And yet she wears this dress the  men to please.
As it reveals her  bosom  beauteous , fair.

The  camel colour suited ill her face.
But the dress was in the sale for half its price
She would not buy a top sky blue with lace,
As with   the  gods of fortune she  would  dice.

A longer length would be a better choice
But she has no tall mirror in  her home
And she does not believe her clothes have voice
As round the parties hunting men she roams

Her best and worst are both revealed at once.
Let  none who hunt  look at  this dame askance

 

 

And by these images our hearts are stirred

The street seems lonely,empty, bleak.
Deep silence,  like a cloud, envelops us.
And if I met a person, would they speak?
Or merely through their posture let thoughts leak?

We give ourselves away by how we talk
And by our facial muscles ,loose or tight.
Some folk like a  stealthy cane  may stalk.
Some folk emit a gentle,glowing light.

Most communication is not made in words
But clothing,speech and  movement each can talk
And by these images  our hearts are  stirred
Supreme importance hangs on how we walk!

So if I answer you in hastiness,
Be sure deep in my heart I wish to  bless

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After the funeral was over

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Rebus?

cat-glasses-face-squint-hd-free-animals-wallpaperˈriːbəs/
noun
noun: rebus; plural noun: rebuses
  1. a puzzle in which words are represented by combinations of pictures and individual letters; for instance, apex might be represented by a picture of an ape followed by a letter X.
    • historical
      an ornamental device associated with a person to whose name it punningly alludes.
Origin
early 17th century: from French rébus, from Latin rebus, ablative plural of res ‘thing’.

Anger or rage

Anger is a dangerous emotion
Yet we need it for our protection
If it turns into rage
then disengage
For exploding will cause great commotion

Words when someone injured my cat
Created a scene of mishap
It was during a heatwave
Which often causes outrage
So beware ,in the  tropics, of  that

 
In any case Rage is distinct
For babies it’s a vital instinct
They feel they will die
Without mothers I
But for adults it’s a mistake, so we think

 

When I say it’s a mistake ,that is wrong
For that assumes control quite prolonged
And in this terrible state
Some folk kill their mate
They’ll never  get back where they belong