Paralysed by feelings strange and lonesome
Gazing blankly at the sun upon the trees.
Where is it that he can’t come home from
Paralysed by unnumbered feelings lonesome?
Has he entered into that  new Kingdom
Accelerated by a random bomb
Paralysed by feelings strange and lonesome
Gazing into that abyss beyond

http://www.newyorker.com/science/maria-konnikova/how-to-beat-writers-block

“For anyone familiar with Greene’s prolific output, it’s hard to believe that he could ever suffer from writer’s block. But, in his fifties, that’s precisely what happened—he faced a creative “blockage,” as he called it, that prevented him from seeing the development of a story or even, at times, its start. The dream journal proved to be his savior. Dream journaling was a very special type of writing, Greene believed. No one but you sees your dreams. No one can sue you for libel for writing them down. No one can fact-check you or object to a fanciful turn of events. In the foreword to “A World of My Own,” a selection of dream-journal entries that Greene selected, Yvonne Cloetta, Greene’s mistress of many years, quotes Greene telling a friend, “If one can remember an entire dream, the result is a sense of entertainment sufficiently marked to give one the illusion of being catapulted into a different world . . . . One finds oneself remote from one’s conscious preoccupations.” In that freedom from conscious anxiety, Greene found the freedom to do what he otherwise couldn’t: write.”

http://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/by-writing-goal/beat-writers-block/write-is-a-verb-excerpt

• What are you passionate about?
• What do you care about so deeply or get so excited about that you talk about it to anyone who will listen?
• Do you love the process of writing itself?
• Who has encouraged your writing?
• Who would be proved wrong if you wrote and succeeded with your writing?
• Who has criticized, cursed, or discouraged you to the extent that it makes you want to prove them wrong?
• What upsets you so much that you are compelled to write about it or include the theme in your book?
• When have you (or someone you cared about) been disrespected in a way that makes you want to write?
• Where have you been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time in regard to your writing?
• What could you do to increase the odds of being lucky in respect to finding inspiration?
• What are you afraid to write but know about

I want to be more narcissistic
I’ve fallen in love with myself
I know it can’t last
Because of my past
But I believe love is good for the health.

I love first of all my warm body
But God made that out of a rib
I can’t take the credit
Nor even the debit.
I was born and put into a crib.

I love my own mind very deeply
Not just the conscious part though
I love my dreams
The  images,the means
Even when I feel  life’s hard blows

When I was two years old I decided to follow my dad to church.I couldn’t see him but I went  up the street and crossed the road.At the church door the men recognised me and lifted me up then passed me down the row of men in which my dad sat.The 11 am Mass was mainly for men while the women went early as they had to cook the dinner.I can see all those  men now..I knew who they were.So different from our present life.

I got a bill from British gas.It said I owed them £76.Then it added that because of this my monthly direct debit was being reduced by 40%.
Me,neither.

As I locked the house the night before
I had no inkling destruction was so near
Society works if we abide by law

For every large community at core
Accepts these laws.  so that it can endure
Still, I locked the house the night before

There always  will be criminals with lore
A fraction too  illiterate and too poor
I told myself ,society works less more

But when we watched men bombing exit doors
They see themselves as someone’s soldiers
I  did  turn the key the night before

We are in a  undeclared ” great war”
For some men, this  must have  a vast allure
I told myself ,society works by law

If too many can’t accept or law endure
The whole is lost and we shall all be poor
As I locked the door the night before
I  thought, society is  by agreed laws

The natural world shows beauty in its way
The birds will feed their young and sing at dusk
As without guile, in their sweet world they trust
We hear  the  fledglings sing in poignant play

News of bombings brings birds no dismay
Though they like us,will reach, become mere dust
Makes us look within. not out for touch
Anguished, we ignore the  coloured day
The natural world goes cruelly on its way
The birds still love their young  yet angrily we lust

When the  rhymes comes, you will know if  we are right
As the subtle sun and murdered moon re-light
Agents of the devil eat the stars
Use them indeed to light cigars
The fish will shell your peas and even write
That they will help you make love in the night
You know you have a mental appetite
Avoid birds as they always see too far
When the rhyme comes.
When the mountains fall down into the great lakes
Leonard Cohen objects  that life is fake
As he drinks his fortieth brandy in the bar
He wonders what the President will dare
Will he take  the world down by a like?
When the rhyme comes.

When we’re hit, infected by  disease
Especially of the systems, like the blood.
The mind can drop, depressed and ill at ease

We over- ruminate, on subtle causes  grieve.
A pity that our brain is not  just wood
With  fortune then mistaken by  disease

If  drugs which kill bacteria,minds relieve
We understand why thinking was no good
The body was depressed and lacked true ease

Gentle music, touch and calm  relieve
The nervous system , make our hearts feel good
When the mind’s depressed by our disease

So if your friend has moods which may  displease
Remember they are made of flesh and blood
The brain can be pulled down and even freeze.,

Fever makes the barriers sink to  mud
Unconscious feelings  roll out like archaic floods
When you are affected by  disease
Ban all thinking, wait  for time’s release.

When we are made so lonely  by our grief
When we lose the loved one of our years
Remember life is sacred and too brief

Some may gain their comfort from a priest
Other by the emptying of their tears
Can we be  too careless in our grief?

Blown away like one dried autumn leaf
Disconnected with our hearts so seared
Remember life is sacred and too brief

Death is more forgiving to the least
We may share the anguish and the fear
When we are made  too lonely  by our grief

When we feel we’re falling piece by piece
We wonder how to dignify by prayer
Remembering life is sacred and too brief

Just as the sun will rise up in the East
Despite it  dying daily everywhere
We are all  made   lonely  by our grief

Life is hard and often it’s unfair
We may feel so much we cannot bear
When we are made   lonely  by our grief
We remember life is sacred and too brief

The pattern of your speech dwells in my ear
Although I do not hear you speak  out loud
Shall I say ear or is it heart that bears
The form that  made  your speech have rightful sound?

Wherever in myself I find your trace
I long to keep it even when I grieve.
As though, because I do not see your face,
I never wish by sound to be deceived.

And at the end you did not speak at all
Like the baby  while inside its  little nest.
Yet with your eyes you made a final call
As contented as a baby   joined to breast.

And so you went, but left your patterns here.
So while I  write like this, I feel you near

Menu

Witches  pee soup
Carrots mangled with beef  consummated in milk
Avocado mash and  tin foiled sausages
Dumplings with sour Queen.
Poisson of the day with chips , tea and dread well scuttered.
Aspirations on a bed of lice with gingerhead
Heart of oak with roast tomatoes and sour dreams

Puddings
Bath sponge with jam horse.
Bath bun with marmalade and buttons
Bath seat with foam and creme de la mer.
Bath cap filled with jellied paracetamol  and whines

Free hot baths only £50 deposit.Non returnable

I was giving a lecture to a group who, unusually. were mainly school leavers and had no mature students.In a moment of madness, I  had chosen to wear red trousers and a red jumper.If only I had worn red underwear too!
Yes, the zip broke on my trousers.At first, I thought taking a little walk behind the blackboard I could fasten it.. but it was no good So I carried on and in this group of 35 young people, nobody gave the slightest indication they could see anything wrong…..I was impressed by  their kindness
Maybe my lecture was so fascinating they didn’t see
Anyway, red trousers are not a very good idea for a public performance.Be warned!

The will to live recedes like  turning tide
That rushes back from sands it once flowed on
Hearing politicians hurts my mind

When we may not  judge what’s   true  or lied
When everything is just interpretation
The will to live recedes like  turning tide

The wish to see is not good for the blind
We must accept when vision is outgrown
Hearing politicians hurts the mind

Now there is unrest and love divides
People argue from assumptions most unknown
The will to live recedes like  turning tide

Were the seeds of enmity refined?
Our virtue needs a long gestation
Hearing politicians wounds the mind

We’re numbered,  Jews, for calculations
We don’t count;  manipulation
The will to live recedes like  moon dragged tides
Haring politicians hurts the  mind

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/articles/detail/89288

“When I ask my students to write formal poetry, I tell them that these may not be their best poems. These are practice, and they are difficult. Most things worth learning are difficult. The masters of art and writing make hard expressions look effortless. We aren’t privy to the years they’ve spent gaining that seemingly tossed-off quality. When we mistake hard-won skill for ineffable and rare genius, we excuse ourselves from attempting to match them, and we lower our sights to something comfortable and more easily attainable.”

It was September, and Dr Rosa Benchez wanted to buy some new clothes for the Autumn Term.Being ignorant of fashion, she did not know that Autumn clothes come into the shops in July.Up to now, she had bought all her clothes in Jumble Sales or Oxfam but she wanted to look more appropriate as she was going to be promoted.
As she entered the new dress shop, the manageress looked up and saw this tall, plump woman with gleaming green eyes coming towards her.Her hair was standing on
end but even so was a bit sparser than the ideal Such a pity she had no African blood.Maybe a perm would help.
And as her skin and hair were both beige, one could hardly tell where the hair was.
Hello, said Rosa.I am looking for a beige trenchcoat.
Oh, no, cried Martha, the manageress.Not beige!
But it is a classic and goes with everything, Rosa murmured knowingly
Sometimes a contrast is a better idea, said Martha, authoritatively
I have one here in deep teal blue.What size are you?
I have no idea, Rosa cried.
I should say an 18 because it’s better  to err on the larger side for tall ladies
Why, is it wrong to wear very tight clothing, Rosa asked her nervously?
I suppose if you want to pick up certain types of men it might be ok.
I never pick up men, Rosa admitted humbly They pick  me up
Don’t be so pedantic.You know what I mean.Why are you not married?You are very attractive

I was engaged but he ran away. I burned the ring as the jeweller said it was only cheap rubbish.It looked very nice.It fooled me
Well.you might be luckier next time even if only in  a better class of ring
I think I am too intelligent and also love Wittgenstein
Won’t he marry you?
He’s dead!
Well, have you not grieved enough?
I only seem to love dead men.I suppose it’s an evasion of real life.
I love Leonard Cohen,said Martha.Let me get some coffee and we can discuss your entire wardrobe.
And so say all of us.

Jennifer Warnes and Leonard Cohen

https://youtu.be/gtwUyDPXROQ

He was late and phoned her not
And so she sighed
His phone was hidden in a pot
And so she sighed
She sighed so much she built a bridge
The Bridge of Sighs for those bewitched
By lying men who bear a grudge
And then she died

Diagonal streams now  stripe the windowpane
And in them, tiny insects drown and die.
Unexpected,sudden rain  has come.
Those escape who have  the wings to fly.

No angels were seen peering  at my  room
No doubt they have their  Sunday wings to press.
No  camera ,even with psychotic zoom,
Can catch an angel while she is undressed.

Now the rain has dried and all is sweet
I tend to houseplants standing by the door.
By good luck these houseplants  will never bleep.
Only in the real world do they flower.

Bleeps and pings are not a natural sound.
But to the artificial   we  will bound.