Despite the pain of anger unprovoked
Suffering, losing , for a while, myself
Your love has fed my heart and joy evoked
Gifted me a source of inner wealth
I feared there was no clear way from the end
I might have dropped deep with the devils dark
But love stored up gave me or maybe lent
The vital will, the lift, divine the spark
As we wake up and feel the pain’s descent
Into our breast his chosen altar stone
The heart so pierced shrieks , makes its own lament
And wishes it were not raw flesh but bone.
Hard to love again with knowledge learned
When all our pity in the fire is burned
Flung into the heights by a fast car
I had a feeling time had gone too slow
I fluttered like an unsmoked black cigar
No fear nor anguish gave me any blow
As I flew I looked down at the earth
I saw a screen where Einstein turned the wheel
The world’s a film and this is a new birth
There are dimensions peril makes us feel
Them I turned geometric in my flight
I reached the apex, fell to earth like stone
A flash of golden stars entered my sight
I lay upon St Giles; it thrashed my bones.
What we see is not all that is here.
Where’s the Lamb who runs the pub revered?
Without him.Did I do enough?
I walked into the little ward that he was in.The place was a rehabilitation centre for old people recovering from hip replacements.My husband was dying from severe heart failure. and severe leaking from a valve.I knew 3 or 4 days before that he was dying but the doctors somehow blocked it off and told me 6 months
Unfortunately, there was no doctor on the site at all.The first full day he was there he became ill with what turned out to be pneumonia.They had to wait till 6.30 pm to ring the out of hours doctor service.They phoned me at 11 pm.
The doctor had just been, given him antibiotics.He had waited 12 hours for them
On Saturday he seemed very weak in the evening.He was trying to speak so I leaned right over him.
How will you manage, he whispered.That was about the last thing he said to me.
The next day he was sitting in a chair.His face was black.I went over and he fell onto me.I said
,Are you very depressed
.He nodded.He was dying with no trousers on in an open ward.
He ended up in A and E where he died .As he was not given a bed he does not count in their admissions data.I don’t mean to say that was the real reason but after 19 hours on a trolley, one might have expected a bed to be available.Otherwise, all was excellent.To be honest I was not aware of it being A and E.
Be aware if someone wants to put your relative into a place with no doctor.
Were they not kind letting him use the gym free of charge to make sure he dies rapidly?
On England bitter, wild winds blow and grow
The blossom’s thrashed, knocked off the living stem
As if for a new catastrophe we’re due.
This week, this world, imagine what we know
As Terror and Election come again
On England frail with fighting what to do?
The little nesting birds sway in their tree
Summer is suspended, voters groan
As if for fresh catastrophe we’re due.
The common people quarrel violently
An abscess bursts and then hot poison rains
On England now the wild wind snarls anew.
The cold contempt divides us into two
The only good is that we can’t buy guns
When for a new catastrophe we’re due.
Saturday, the News struck Britain dumb
The blood and guts of sacrificial victims ran
The death of God calls forth barbaric brews
Can we change, embrace a better view?
Though full of direct knowledge of her fellows
Whose eyes and faces are a script humane;
Though voices sing to him like Lobos’ cellos
In lack and loss and woe this man remains.
In times gone by, the voice and face sufficed.
Poets’ music seemed to us almost divine;
But now a subtle torture’s been devised
To write with pen and letters intertwined.
This man, though wise like cat or bear or owl,
Has failed in his acquaintance with the pen.
Nor does he have the words which politicians howl.
Nor can he re ad his list of sin.
For now, the map is where the mind must dwell
And of reality, no-one can tell.
After the terror attack [BBC]
A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music… and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: “Sing for us soon again;” that is as much as to say, “May new sufferings torment your soul.” ~Søren Kierkegaard
“I like to think of poets as moving through the world with their minds poised like nets, intent on capturing scraps of language, resonant images. Thinking as a poet means viewing the world as a poem; thus, the poet is prone to existing in real space and time in a most vulnerable manner. This means being super-observant wherever your physical self takes your mind, as it requires being terribly receptive to light, images, movement, conversations between others, oddities many might be inclined to overlook in newspaper headlines, heatedly intimate conflicts overheard in public places, disingenuous directions offered by advertisements and street signs, etc.”