Month: April 2017

Or what if it were a Holey Spirit… the tea would drip out

  • IMG_0112

     

    Oh,hello Mira.Do  tune  in .How were you?

    Wicked, thank you.I’d love some of your best tea… and some cake.

    Hear you are.I hotted it up in the microwave.

    How old is this tea?

    Only a few hours.

    The recession is truly cruel when you can’t afford a fresh cup of tea.

    Yeah,I  may disagree as it begins to taste like alcohol after brewing for hours.

    You should open a brewery…bottled alcoholic tea for a low price

    T.Brood.Hear,
    .
    My daughter is engaged to a Tebrew,

    Are they that lost tribe of Israel we used to hear about in the past?

    No, they are just normal Jewish British folk who love tea even more than other Brits do.

    All my Jewish friends at Uni liked tea.

    There you are,you’re already a Tebrew lover.

    Well, that’s slight exaggeration…

    Oh please tell me everything right down to the last detail
    like what you were wearing when you met,
    where were his hands good at caressing.

    Yes, he was keen on caressing , yeah,
    but we never went all the way…
    and now forty years later I’m still a virgin.What is all the way:
    I went all the way in my heart
    Anyway, he was very sweet like honey.
    His lips were divine… well,you know what I mean,
    God has no lips but, it’s just an expression..
    if God did have lips, how would we know?

    What a shame he left you.. what happened to him, not God…?

    He decided to brew his tea with another..

    Another what, teapot?

    Another woman.

    Did you know her at all?

    Not in the biblical sense.I saw her walking down my street looking pleased

    Well, I know you’re not a lesbian… or am I making a category error?

    No and I’m not heterosexual either.

    Why is that, do you think? Are you otherly sexed?

    Or are you non-sexed?

    I always felt I had something missing,like perhaps a body.

    Are you a virtual spirit?

    Well, would a spirit drink tea?

    Not if it was Wholly Spirit.

    Or what if it were a Holey Spirit… the tea would drip out.Aha.

    O layee,.O layeeooo. O layee..Oh, oh oh oh!

    Are you yodelling or was it just wind emerging?

    I think you need to be Swiss to yodel.

    Is it genetically transmitted?

    No ,generically .They give you a licence… the freedom.

    What we need is more licentiousness.

    Bring back sin.

    Bring back the love of the body.

    Bring back the language of flowers.

    Bring it all back ,now!

    And that brings to an end this addition of Many Fancies for tonight.

    I fancy a meringue now…how about you?

    Visit our website

    Http://www.t.hee.hee.com

    Or email me at

    Tea4.2@ bteainthepot.orgy

    or Wait4me@theteashop.mail

do you think war ends at one moment

Fritillaria-tortifolia2017-2

so much music to listen to
there’s this and there’s that
a path to the forest with snakes in the grass
Hansel and Gretl don’t linger don’t laugh
there’s a man digging a grave near the birches
he lies down in it sometimes
but they’ve not shot him yet
so much  music waiting
and songs we used to hear as children
and nobody could know then
who taught us to be obedient
who hit us with a cane
who made us sing when force was not needed
that they  made no distinctions
that they  understood how god appeared
that they wanted to destroy everything of his
and the war goes on
do you think it ends at one moment?
how can the broken make a jigsaw  so fast
how can the memories be bypassed?
so much music played by the orchestra
doing their best
did anyone confess
did they follow the dead  dissolved into the earth
where your potatoes grow; what , a curse?
and we should forget of course
that they ate the house
and gnawed on bones
an insult to god
hear his death groans
they rubbed him out
but we can see the shape there
and his hands floating in water
despair
despair
despair
arise, for the children are waking
and it’s a good day to hear a snake hiss
to feel a mother’s kiss
we must do it again better
the play’s the thing
i will sing
i will lift up mine eyes to the hills
i will wait  till the last bell rings

Floating like seaweed on the tide

  • photo1337

    Floating like seaweed on the tide,
    The final leaves of summer die.
    The birds ride on the wind’s broad back,
    They know no fear and know no lack.
    The air is filled  with  such great treasure,
    My female heart its wonder measures.
    The clouds are deep and dark and grey
    What rainstorms may they fetch our way?
    The sun appears and gives a glow
    Of yellow to bare branches low.
    Red berries  bright, like summer flowers,
    Decorate the holly’s pointed tower.
    Sharp thorns protect the smaller birds,
    And from inside , their cheeps are heard.
    As dusk arrives the blackbird sings,
    So much sweetness nature brings.
    As I turn my mind from in to out,
    I feel salvation for my doubts.
    I know that I’m part of the whole,
    And with all life, I share my soul.
    In this peaceful place, I rest,
    As with love’s eloquence I’m blessed.
    There’s singing in my inner heart.
    Like bees to flowers, my fears depart

I got Joseph nice coats so he’s now gay

I bought Adam some drugs, just one a day!
A dozen pans for Eve’s deduction hob.
Until I had a fantasy  to lay

Once I got  psychotic on E bay,
For tennis racquets and new balls to lob
I bought Esau a Hi Fi yesterday

I had my garden wall struck,  by the way.
To have it fixed Cain planned to charm and rob
Unless it was a fantasy at play

The bricks were once bright red but mourned till  grey.
Like the ones in Lyme upon the Cob
I   got Joseph  nice  coats   so he’s now gay

I have a free range cooker  full of hay
The hob is grand and glistens, glob by glob.
By it is a tin for  prophets  play

Why aye, man, I am Hi and Wi today
What’s that sticking outa yon man’s gob?
I bought  an old man  ale  on Justice day

I  feel  an old cigar  should not be snubbed
I  have  a magic lamp that can’t be rubbed
I bought Moses a   Hi-Fi  with his pay
He had a fit and now he looks like J.

Death Fugue by Paul Celan

 

 

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/death-fugue

 

 

poem

About this poet

Paul Antschel, who wrote under the pseudonym Paul Celan, was born in Czernovitz, in Romania, on November 23, 1920. The son of German-speaking Jews, Celan grew up speaking several languages, including Romanian, Russian, and French. He also understood Yiddish. He studied medicine in Paris in 1938, but returned to Romania shortly before the outbreak of World War II. His parents were deported and eventually died in Nazi labor camps; Celan himself was interned for eighteen months before escaping to the Red Army.

In 1945, he moved to Bucharest and became friends with many of the leading Romanian writers of the time. He worked as a reader in a publishing house and as a translator. He also began to publish his own poems and translations under a series of pseudonyms. In 1947 he settled on the pseudonym Celan—an anagram of Ancel, the Romanian form of his surname. He lived briefly in Vienna before settling in Paris in 1948 to study German philology and literature. He took his Licence des Lettres in 1950, and in 1952 he married the graphic artist Gisele de Lestrange. They had a son, Eric, in 1955.

Celan’s first book was published in 1947; it received very little critical attention. His second book, Mohn und Gedaechtnis (Poppy and Memory), however, garnered tremendous acclaim and helped to establish his reputation. Among his most well-known and often-anthologized poems from this time is “Fugue of Death.” The poem opens with the words “Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening / we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night” and it goes on to offer a stark evocation of life in the Nazi death camps.

In 1959, Celan took a job as a reader in German Language and Literature at L’École Normal Superieure of the University of Paris, a position he would hold until his death in 1970. His poems from this period grew shorter, more fragmented and broken in their syntax and perceptions. In 1960 he received a Georg Buchner Prize. During the 1960s he published more than six books of poetry and gained international fame. In addition to his own poems, he remained active as a translator, bringing out works from writers such as Henri Michaux, Osip Mandelstam, Rene Char, Paul Valéry, and Fernando Pessoa. In 1970, Celan committed suicide. He is regarded as one of the most important poets to emerge from post-World War II Europe.

 

Poetry

Glottal Stop: 101 poems (2000)
Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan (2000)

Death Fugue

Paul Celan, 1920 – 1970

Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta 
he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing he whistles his
     dogs to draw near
whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand
he commands us to play for the dance

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at dawntime and noontime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
He calls jab it deep in the soil you lot there you other men sing and play
he tugs at the sword in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
jab your spades deeper you men you other men you others play up again for the dance

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite he cultivates snakes

He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air
then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it’s roomy to lie

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
we drink you at dusktime and dawntime we drink and drink
Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland his eye is blue
he shoots you with leaden bullets his aim is true
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
he sets his dogs on our trail he gives us a grave in the sky
he cultivates snakes and he dreams Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland 

your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite

Heidegger was supportive of the Nazis

 

He acted badly towards his former Teacher Edmund Husserl who was sacked from his post as he was partly Jewish.

Heidegger_4_(1960)_cropped

In 1967 Heidegger met with the Jewish poet Paul Celan, a concentration camp survivor. Celan visited Heidegger at his country retreat and wrote an enigmatic poem about the meeting, which some interpret as Celan’s wish for Heidegger to apologize for his behavior during the Nazi era.[112]

A forgotten quote

“A world view quite similar to Nazism, Fascism was a pagan religion with worship of the state….main arguments…..
Like post modernism, fascism promoted the view that reality is a social construct and that all cultures determine their own values.Vieth wrote: most people do not realise

 the tenets of postmodernism have been tried before in a political system, cultural determinism… The rejection of the transcendent, the rejection of Reason and the revolutionary critique of the existing order are tenets not only of postmodernism but also of fascism.

How to write meaningful poems

img_0042.jpg

6 Ways to Evoke Emotion in Poetry and Prose

 

 

Write concrete thoughts and images, not abstract ones. We want to see, hear, smell, taste and feel what you write.

  • Use the active voice, not the passive voice. We want the subject to do the action, which draws us into the emotions. For the differences between the two, here.
  • Utilize action verbs, not linking verbs. We want to feel the pop of the action, the sizzle to the bacon.
  • Avoid gerunds (the -ing words). Gerunds can hinder the meter and flow of a poem. One ends up with ideas of ‘running noses’ across a finish line or ‘stocking cans’ magically doing all the work for the grocery clerk.
  • Avoid adverbs (those pesky -ly words). Adverbs can hinder and impede the flow of a poem. They also do not give accurate depictions to the emotions we try to evoke.
  • Use metaphors over similes. The simile with the use of ‘like’ or ‘as’ can also slow up and impede the evocation of the emotions. Metaphors however can give a better picture of the two objects you compare.

Finally, break the rules, whatever rules you come across, even the ones I shared. I write a lot about ‘abstract’ ideas, Sometimes I will replace those words with images to represent them, but mostly, I go with those abstract words and let the rest of the poem speak to the images.

The best advice I ever got in life, whether for writing poetry or life in general, was to not let ‘rules’ and ‘set parameters’ define how you write. In the words of Elizabeth Swann from Pirates of the Caribbean (with a little improv), “You’re writers. Hang the code, hang the rules. They’re more like guidelines anyway.”

Do you try to evoke emotions in your writing? How do you accomplish it?

 

Trust strangers

thumbnail_Phalaenopsis lobbii_17-4 1024x768

 

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/apr/23/how-to-be-happy-follow-these-five-easy-steps

 

Trust strangers

The more we perceive we can trust people we don’t know, the happier we’ll be. The happiest countries and communities are those that feel they can trust the citizens around them. It’s easy to see why. If you can’t trust your taxi driver to give you the right change, or the postman to drop off your mail, you’ll lose sleep and you won’t be happy. It’s one thing to trust friends and family, but having faith in strangers is an indication of how much you’ll trust life in general.

First steps Start by being more open; talk to one stranger each day – in a shop, at work. Focus on the positive aspect of talking to people you don’t know; not the fear that you can’t trust them.

You need to read, then haunt a burning bush

If you’d like to write a villanelle
Try simple rhyming verse to start you off
You need two lines that rhyme and scan as well.

I like Dylan Thomas Celtic’  soul
Do not go gentle, go out very rough
If you’d like to write a villanelle

What’s the topic, whose the need to tell?
Penetrating words like bullets rush
You need good lines that rhyme and scan as well.

In your writing, do the words compel?
You need to read, then haunt a  burning  bush
If you’d like to write a villanelle

Reading feeds you words that shape and mould
While songs  fine music  time will never crush
You need good lines that rhyme and scan as well.

Who can see the fire in god’s  real love?
Who decode the angels’ wings, now crushed.
If you’d like to write a villanelle
You need two lines that rhyme and scan as well.

Et tu, brute

You envy me my sentences astute.
You hate me for my mastery of the sign
So why  throw Ludwig’s ladder with  your doubt?

You wish dismisses me as wild lambs bleat.
You hate the way I draw a  circle  round a  line
You  corrupt me making sentences astute

What use is  it to me to Dirac quote,
To exist on a grant and study Quine,
When phallic symbols are forbidden fruit?

Do children spring from minds of my repute?
Must I as female offer to decline?
You envy me my symbolic repute

What is signified by my own doubts?
Is the unnamed nameless or divine?
Must signifiers suffer signs’ defeat?

If  Kings who lost their heads had but resigned
And infants happy climbed their  wooden frames
You’d envy not my sentences astute.
Post-modernity caused damage  et tu brute

You’re number 870 nine trillion noughts.

I tried to put my card in the right slot
Then  why it asked my number, I forgot
The people waiting all began to moan
So I took their picture with my mobile phone.

I’m posting it on Twitter for  the fame
It’s about time I  found  some other folks to blame
I never sign a cheque nor write with pens
As my spectacles have lost their plastic lens.

I sat down on an armchair in the Bank
And  as I did I felt my spirits sink
How will I get money or pay bills?
By the way, I just made 9 new wills.

After I had  used a credit card
I went outside; I felt my morning marred.
Then  suddenly  my PIN came to my mind
My face smoothed out and lost those extra lines.

I might have it tattooed on my arm
An action that the  Nazis would   acclaim
They numbered  Jews of Europe, stamped on them;
That was when the countdown was begun.

How they tried to take their dignity.
The Jews recited Kaddish quietly
They praised Lord G-d and thanked him,  giving praise
For G-d is most mysterious in her ways.

The Nazis were the first to number man.
And decorate our arms with numbers, what elan.
But now the government seems over-kind.
Or else I’m stupid, mad and  going blind

Numbers have their place but we need names
We’re human, we live in a larger  frame
Once we were baptised   and  named to G-dW
We’re  digits now, machines can hold the Rod.

For numbers need no spelling  like words do
My name is Thornthwaite, morning, how d’ye do?
It’s so difficult to spell, it makes folk shout.
You’re number 870 nine trillion noughts.

One day  soon they’ll have us microchipped
They’ll herd us into lines with their strong whips.
And as we  read the Fifty Shades we  know
The forest glades are better than Soho.

What these signify, no-one can say.

The blind may dream in colours, wild and gay.
They see snow red as blood and sun at prayer.
What these signify, no-one should say.

The sighted may have dreams so drab and grey
Which we uncover listlessly by layer
The blind may dream in colours, wild and fey.

For our sustenance, the soul makes pay
With hope and charity, we sooth the sayer.
What life signifies, no-one must say.

The adverts tell us  women like Milk Tray
Impertinent to  analyse, to dare,
The kind may see  flames colour  in the fray

You cannot buy the best life on Ebay
Some  find the narrow path  of goodness is bizarre
What life signifies, no-one must say.

We find vocation living where we are.
The soil  ,though rough, can grow its flowery stars
The blind may dream in colours, soft and fair
The love of truth is found  through wordless prayer

 

 

The world of trust, of relaxation, tact

Each body cell can  widen or contract
Like individual beings,  each minute,
Each shows  a different world than we expect

In our secrecy, new visions may impact
Our  hidden mind with metaphor’s  astute
As body cells  each open or contract

From  our pain, experience may  distract
The mind and heart and soul can  each  re-route
We see a world more changed than we expect

 

The world of trust, of relaxation, tact,
Tensions   in the mind    will soon cdilute
The choir of cells may sing or  lose affect

Faith in the unknown, what shows our lack?
Can we reach such faith in minute steps?
We see our world  too much under attack

As glows the  candle,  at sweet Fire it hints
Let each respond in   their  own dialect
Each body cell can  widen or contract
We see new worlds, not mirrors  ,blind, reflect

 

How we lose out when we try to steal from others in money or in love

thumbnail_Trichoglottis pusilla_17-3 1024x768

I know poverty exists but that is not the only reason for crime.I was thinking about these men today and I suddenly understood they could not receive the good available to them through honest work and being looked after by me or other people while they did it; they lose their self-respect and being Irish , they deprive their own people of dignity.And their families of a wage earned by work [ alas too much unemployment]
I know from my own family about how the Irish have suffered.I am not unaware.
When we take instead of receiving we are living without learning  or  knowing the goodness of others.I am sure in non-material ways we may steal what we feel we will bever be given but can we enjoy it?
Like people on the internet who pretend to be friends steal affection and then suddenly for no reason turn their anger on you when they could have been given affection by developing a friendship slowly.
.I know in one case it was a woman who wished to convert me to Christianity….. or make me go to her church.Another person has some kind of personality disorder and  we can only feel sad for that kind of behaviour as they do suffer much mental pain
So in a way, there is a spiritual message :

Fritillaria-tortifolia2017-1

Ask for , and hope for, goodness from others or God.
Do not steal or demand what you think you need because it will not satisfy you.It may not be what you need anyway.
And ironically my untidiness was a  protection

Ask and it shall be given…?

Steal and you will not know that you might have had :
Love , affection, genuine work, the money you deserved and could enjoy, peace of mind.

However, I do believe this  society is  very bad in the way the poor are blamed so much for getting benefits etc and so I cannot  without knowing what makes these people act the way they do.

 
I know many of these people are illiterate but some people go to classes and learn though the government closed a lot of those in the 80’s when Thatcher rules.
Even the wealthy steal by  tax evasion and  I read that many need psychotherapy as they are very unhappy

The evening ascends on a great strange blue string like a kite going to heaven all alone

Your skin glows like a green mussel shell in the Negev desert  in winter, blossoms white as the Burberry Mac in the purest rites of spring in Tel Aviv where I got my pen on eBay or Haifa
My yearning parts rise to your flute;s voice and leap like a  hot cat at the whisper of your name, Mary
The evening ascends  on a great strange blue string like a kite  going to heaven all alone
I am calmed by your  pink chiffon scarf that I carry into the house and hold next to my  sharp knife  to kill burglars
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of hot water with my hanky from Jenin refugee camp where I spent my spring holiday aiding the children
As my  heart  attacks  failed  to kill me it reminded me of  those walnuts  wasting in my trouser pocket
Don’t worry, they are no trouble to me st all, they are like  the marbles we used to play with
In the bush, I listen for the last  screams of the   cyclamen and the anemone
My heated yarn leaps  from my lips like nylon thread off a spool in a thunderstorm
I wait in the mystical moonlight for your secret codes so that we may  decode as one,  brain to brain
in search of the  vulgar and common country of love known to  the  illiterate and the wilder animals
Do not fear.I am a virgin at heart and I will not touch you unless you desire my love to be shown that way and I respect your  virtue otherwise I’d not bother writing all this stuff so poetic and newly revisee
We can go to the chip shop and then listen to THE FUTURE sung by the little Jew who wrote the Bible
Then we will cry all night because he seems to be right.
Well ,it was  nice while it lasted
Next time we might cross  the Jordan and ascend into heaven, God willing.Amen
That is the end of  prayers on  BBC Religion for Today

I feel like a dead duck

I feel like a dead duck.
Don’t worry ,I always kill them before I roast them.
Can I have some wit?
You mean sauce?
Oh, Sole Mio.
Sorry , I have had no fish in today.
I feel like a burned out shell.
That will be cheap.I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts.
Two will do me.
But how about him?
Et tu, Brute?
Sorry,we don’t serve barbarians.
Well,it’s the biggest day of my wife.
She is about to give birth…..
Only if it can be in a stable.
Why so?
It will look good on the Xmas cards.
But they’ve not been invented yet.
Oh,my God!

And here’s me thinking it was just my burning thrush.

Saved by untidiness

EveningSkySome conmen walked into my home
And around it, they enjoyed a fine roam
Owing to my books on the bed
My clothes elsewhere spread
They stole just two mugs and a comb.

Actually, I have no jewellery or even a large TV set…. so unless they were intellectuals they would not have been impressed with the contents of the house.
Would they steal the Encarta English dictionary? Highly unlikely.The shorter Oxford?   The Cambridge  Companion to Sylvia Plath.Ted Hughes letters.[ not to me]
The best of Leonard Cohen? That might depress anyone even a thief!
My laptop is very old and I have only a relatively cheap radio.
Not what they hoped for.

That garden we shared

thumbnail_Bulbophyllum jacobsonii_17-3 1024x768

It reminds me of an East Anglian landscape
This garden’s flat planes of grass give the illusion
Of greater distance, the eye travels down them
To the trees rising at the end.
On this scene my mind superimposes
Other ideas of summer days in hot places
In flat fields stretching on either
Side down to the sea.
My eye enjoys the shape, the flatness
The form, a symbol for so many other gardens
And summer journeys on unknown lanes
Across new landscapes, delighting in them,
In the space extending, and the trees
A gentle contradiction to the horizontal meadows.
In summer in recent years,what I remember
Is the sun across these long, flat shapes.
Looking at this small garden, I remember
So many things;my eye sees through
What is here,to far beyond
What has passed and what is to come
All  are contained here.

Generate a poem!

My love for him was so great, like a steak  waiting  for a plate.
My heart  opened while the dusk enveloped us.
The dark  night writes my dreams now he’s away
I recall now  he’s what Alexander McCall Smith calls,”late”

His mind of humour and wit
Were a wonder and sign of affection to me,
Now  his writing is all I see,
I guess that’s about it for now.See you later, pet.
Maybe

Read more about Poetry Generator: Create Your Own Poem by www2.poemofquotes.com

I think someone has been inside my computer.

2012-05-12-10-31-13-1

Pray Father, forgive me my blushing.I’ve got Wikileaks and a new obsession.
Tell me more, my child.
I think someone has been inside my computer.
They can’t be human beings
Why not , Father?
Well, we are not thin enough to get into the computer.
Ah, they turn themselves into particles and come in with the current
when it’s high tide.
Do you mean tied?
No, Father. I’ve not been reading that book.
Neither have I but in the confessional, I’ve heard it all.
And how does that make you feel?
Why pay to read a fantasy when you can dream up your own?
Some are born dim… others become dim…….
Well, any sins tonight.
I’m so sorry.I was planning to tell a lie but I forgot.
There’s a list of sins in the Missal…
Yes, I’ve not tried most of them yet… just got a pang of anger
when aa brick fell on my head.
That’s natural, my child.
Has a brick ever fallen on your head, Father.
Not yet but I’m only 97.
Wow, you look much older.Are you longing to diet?
Why, is there no food in heaven?
I wonder who cooks.
Maybe they live on manna.
Does God eat food?
That was one topic we never did in the cemetery.
Do you mean the seminary.
At my age , it’s all one.
You have reached Nirvana….congratulations.
Well.I’d prefer a cup of tea.
You English!
What are you?
I’m a great Dane.
Did you say a grey Dane.
That too.
Well perk up; the show’s not quite over till the gnat really sings.
Do gnats eat string?
String… it’s my passion.Love it or mate it…get involved.
Live a little.
And for your penance… you must have a bath…
Why?
I don’t like the way you smell.
Well, I am a dog.. we like a sniff.Can I borrow your hanky?
Definitely.
I’ll wash it for you.
Well, it’s not over till that gnat gets a swing!

Whose the sin and why this sacrifice?

,

The hunted caught  and shocked in  narrow trap
Like grave, new dug,  for victim  fearing  death
Who shrinks  and wildly looks for  any gap

Too anxious, quick, to rest or find a map
Aware of every sign of any wrath
The hunted caught  and shocked in  narrow trap

At least the chase is over, no escape.
Yet uncertain why she is the sacrifice
She shrinks and wildly looks for any gap.

In terror now her eyes roam all distraught
When dead she will  then need no one’s advice
The hunted caught  and frozen in this trap

Who’s the monster,  for whom she’s been caught?
Whose the sin and why this sacrifice?
She blindly, wildly looks for some safe space.

What the city, what the land unwise
Whose the God  who  needs such cruel demise
The hunted caught  and laid in  narrow  grave
Shivers  with closed eyes in  her last cage

 

 

 

The ink

The equation of the phallus and the pen
As if men put black ink inside their pants
Shows lack of insight , lack of real wisdom

When we write the words like insects come
Created by the heart and by the hand
Algebraic phallus  crawls by pen.

Is a women’s world a passive one
Expelling full grown foetus onto land…..
Showing vision, and the body’s own wisdom?

From creative seas,    the fluid senses come
Neither fighting nor enchanting on the strand
Unconfusing phallus and the pen.

Do men  really dip their organs as they run
To start a poem or fetishize an end;
What ,insight,? It’s confusing  mind and pun

Do we not have metaphors  to hand
We create  from the sensual all  unplanned
The equation of the phallus and the pen
Implies men do no work just let it come

Thank you for your wit and grace

Image

Thanks for   your calls  so gentle
Thanks for caring that I’m here.
In my darkest, lonesome moments
These replies will keep you near.

Thanks for answering my long letters
Thanks for all the time you give.
Thanks for sharing heartfelt thoughts
And being so generous with your love.

Thank you for your wit and grace,
Thank for your funny face.
Thank you for your deep blue gaze and
Thank you for your warm embrace.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank.
Love you, love you, love you.Love.
Thank you ,thank you, thanks to you,
Because,because,because.Because

Jesus swept and Martha dusted

I am a  Christian woman because sometimes Jesus swept.Though why no man imitated him is beyond me.
Mary Magdalen was the first chiropodist on record.She cried when she saw nails and annointed feet.
Mary Magdalen was not a tart.She was thinking about Quantum Mechanics and was not in touch with her body.Any money was invisible to her naked eye.
Peter portrayed Jesus and he’d never been to any art lessons.
Do you believe men stalked on water?I do.They have been like that since God created woman.Why can’t they do it once a  year like stags?
The apostles couldn’t catch fish as they didn’t darn their nets.Jesus sewed them and how.
The acts of the apostles would benefit  from  adding the reveries  and dreams the Apostles
Do you confuse Epistles and Apostles? Me, too.
St Paul was a great poet.He made it all up himself and he was  the first romantic poet according to A N Wilson
If I saw a burning bush I’d call the Fire Brigade.Does that explain the Death of God?
I’ve heard that still small voice.It’s my husband whispering in my ear.I hope!
I wonder if Jesus ever ate a sandwich.There are a few deserts  near the Holy Land
But they didn’t have sliced bread, of course.
Is it true they had no icecream at that time?Did they have Milk Tray.
I know the  Jews discovered God.That’s what Hitler didn’t like: The Ten Commandments.He wanted enforced Evolution  of a Master Race.Which turned out different from Natural Selection.Would you select him?God neither.
I just wonder why Hitler  lasted so long.Look at the Old Testament and see G-d there.Has he/she evolved too?
I  wish I could have been a code breaker.I was born too late despite being premature.
I’ve always been a bit rapider than thou.Hell or heaven? Let’s go slower.

We will ever surrender

The people of the Europe  changed by years
Of War and devastation blind, bizarre
Had  crops now fertilised by human corpse

The  soldiers buried but the Jews were charred
Their finer particles of ash sent far
To the people of the Europe  of the wars

What was imagined  with  minds so  dark, so warped
A human sacrifice no more deferred
The  crops well fertilised by human corpse

 

As they ate potatoes,  blind horror
The  atoms of  the Jews were there interred
The peoples of this Europe  after war

So we who  remain here are built  and scarred
By Jewishness unchosen , undeferred
The crops were fertilised by those abhorred.

On a scale so large it was then rare
We fertilised our food with humans pared
The people of the Europe after War
Ate their  food enriched by humans burned.,

 

 

Sea-flowers fondle me and whisper, turn off that light

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, be times it’s a man.
I guess I only do it 'cos I know some folk can.

I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain
Would I choose to relive, 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 deep 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

Fuzzy love is generous, by the way

A fluid gender, I heard someone  remark
Fuzzy logic has degrees of grey.
A fluid gender waiting in the dark?

A change of clothing, perfume, what a lark.
Fuzzy love is generous, by the way
A fluid gender’s nothing to remark

The currents of our energy can spark
Responses from the straight and from the gay
Who can deploy their sexual appetites?

The gap between the genders’s not  so stark
With  identity , we all might play
A fluid gender, who can craft remakes?

Who can say they’re certain they are right?
So many models look un peu distrait
Who has destroyed their total appetite?

 

The sins of murder, war and bomb parades
Are always with us, cold, sick and, depraved
Changing,fluid,  unworthy of remark
A fluid gender,  enjoyed in the dark.