You can’t have your iCake and eat it too.
Nokia,with tea, bread and butter
Nokia was a maiden fair who roamed with daisies in her hair
She looked through the Windows phone at me.
I had nothing on at all except a tampon.Well, it’s not exactly on, you know what I mean? It’s in there… you know.Why did we not learn the names?
I want a you-Phone.Or a superego-Phone
Sam will sung,Sam shall sing.Sam had singed.Sam had sang.Sam had sung.That sounds wrung.English, ain’t it splung?
Remember blind people can’t see you when you are glued to your phone…. so they will beat you.I have a white stick already… but I ain’t blind! Just blind drunk…. on air.
Hair on a G string… that means they still have their hair down below?
Preludes and fugues.I though fugues were when you forget who you are.Like married love.Or maybe adultery but I can’t commit that now.I’ll have to get married again
Dead and never committed effrontery!
He shall feed his flock?Did they have mattresses 2,000 years ago? Is flock alive? No wonder some folk can’t sleep.
It’s funny, you can lie on the sofa and drowse all day but go to bed and worry.Am I asleep? Will I go to sleep? When? Shall I get up and watch TV? No,we haven’t got one yet!How unfair is that? Will I stop thinking?Why not? OMG I wish it was tomorrow.It is tomorrow OMG I’ve ben awake all night.I should be a cab driver and do late shifts.Except I can’t drive.
Now a Conservative MP has been suspended for using the phrase “The nigger in the woodpile”.
As a child I heard people say when going shopping, Don’t let them dew you.I didn’t realise they meant “Jew.” I don’t know if adults did but I am ashamed to say it was used very frequently.As a woman, I know all who are not white men are considered defective is some way and even men don’t have it easy if they are poor, shy or nervous.
As a teenager my brothers refused to let me read the Sunday paper as ” women shouldn’t need to read about politics”, they refuse to let me put a record on the hi fi as” I would probably damage it”.I had to iron their clothes while I was doing exams at school.Of course an adult could have intervened but they didn’t and it does have a bad effect.I was 25 before I could afford a gramophone and play my own 2 records!
While we did homework in the front room one of my brothers played Wagner all the time very loud.I’ve hated it ever since.I was glad to be able to go to college where I was treated well by everybody.It was wonderful.
And it’s not as bad as what some go through but we don’t reflect enough.
The tent of shelter refers to the tents used by the Jewish people wandering for 40 years in the desert after leaving Egypt.This is now remembered at Sukkot,The Feast of Tabernacles.It is in the autumn so also links to the ingathering of crops
Defiant and life-affirming in the face of death
Watching Plato shining torches into blackness,
Wandering through the galleries,
Sepia paintings of pines,
Pain came to the emptiness once my heart,
I sat picturing screaming Popes and babies.
Eastward, looking for fresh instruction,
My mind unpleated, like a pair of curtains
~Hung out to dry in equinoxal gales.
The bells of Satan’s cell phone
Rang again, startling in this silence.
“You had your smear done yet?”
“It’s me, hinny”
“I’m having coffee here in “Costa’s.”
Then I awoke, a man appeared.
How apposite,I need you, Ludwig!
I can’t fly my kite.
In the Science Museum, the mirror cracked
And from it stars flew out,
Adorning cars and bicycles and buses.
The building gently fell into its own reflection.
People flew out like gasping rockets,
Illuminating the blankness,
Calling “Is today the day?.”
After the 50th anniversary of Sylvia Plath’s death by suicide people are still puzzling about her.Was she schizophrenic? Was her husband an hypnotically attractive demon who betrayed her.And her mother… was she too close and burdensome or too neurotic or too far away?
Well, I have an idea.. that it may be some of us work too hard, push ourselves too hard; value ourselves only if we achieve perfection in all spheres of our lives.And this can make us profoundly exhausted…. and then we get into a downward spiral.Sylvia Plath had 3 pregnancies in 3 years.~Her mother was far away in the USA and she had no family here.
She and her husband worked very hard at their writing and she produced many poems even during those childbearing years.And they also moved home several times.
We sometimes live as if we have no body; we get ideas of what we would like to achieve and e.g. get up at 4 am to write for 3 hours before the children waken up.And such women are unlikely to serve ready meals for dinner.It will be a fancy dish from Fanny Farmer or The Joy of Cookery.Then they decorate their own homes and entertain many visitors at the weekend.
To be blunt, in my view, the fatigue is the main problem and forgetting we need time for ourselves.You cannot usually have it all unless you can afford to employ servants of some kind.And they need supervising
We need to care for our physical well-being and defer that work that will make our name or the money we need to build a big extension on our house.
It’s quite ironical here that most people have fantastic large kitchens but buy ready meals and even MASHED POTATO in the supermarket.Better to have a small kitchen and less debt so less worry on your mind.And cooking, if not too ambitious can be a form of meditation if we do it slowly
You are probably not going mad… you need more rest and to learn to relax.I am not a doctor so these are just my personal views.If Sylvia Plath had not pushed herself too hard mentally she might be here today.And if you don’t have some time for relating to Nature and other people what’s the point of life?
For me the point of being alive is to live and be aware that we live; to savour the days ,the friends.the flowers ,the food.To perceive and to dream as well as to work in our jobs or in our homes.Otherwise we are like automatons
When love is offered loudly like a threat
When tact is missing from the offered words
It fills my heart with terror and with dread
We all need boundaries on our estate
But to a stranger, they look bare and blurred
Then love is offered loudly like a threat
Can we imagine, share a stranger’s bed
When all our fears of overwhelm are stirred?
That fills my heart with terror and with dread
Slow and caring is the way to meet
When humour and true dignity are shared
Then love is offered kindly to our sweet
Elusive is the path to the unsaid
A trip into the briars may leave us scared
The journey makes us stronger, eases dread
An unknown force within my soul has stirred
And to that mystery I am allured
When love is offered slowly, it’s no threat
It takes away my terror and my dread
Say, Father, give me your blessing.It is 40 years since my last confession
Well, it wasn’t your last, was it?
What do you want?
I’d like obsoletion for all my sins
No, I want all my sins to become obsolete.
What are they?
Raising my voice
Sleeping with onion tarts
Telling the truth in Parliament
Well, the last is obsolete.But I can’t make acts obsolete.It happens when people lose interest in them
Well they are obsolete for me
Do you repent?
No, I feel deprived.
Repent or I can’t carry on
I didn’t know you did carry on!
Well,you do now!
Definition of obsoletion
: the act of becoming or condition of being obsolete
“Garber: Do you think, given all that, we’ll see a continued rise in the public’s general interest in poetry—as people keep trying to make sense of the world’s turbulence?
Share: I do, except that I think all times are turbulent—it’s just that they’re turbulent in different ways, and for different people. Poets are always swirling around in the maelstrom, whenever there is one, and in a way we know there always is one. Take everything going on, for just one example, in Syria. Poets have been writing about that forever. And our problems in this country, long before they entered the debate between Trump and Hillary Clinton—the poets were writing about what goes on in Flint, and in Detroit. A poem we published a couple of years ago, Jamaal May’s “There Are Birds Here,” was saying that what the media show us is often the bad side of something, but poets are here to say, “There’s beauty here, there’s life here, there’s brightness, redemption, love for the landscape here—there’s potential here.”
Garber: Are there any other particular poems that seem especially relevant to you right now?
Share: The work of Danez Smith has been shared a lot in the past couple of days. And the work of Ocean Vuong. And of Javier Zamora: He’s writing about how his family, basically, traveled through a desert to get to this country, to get work, and to become citizens, and to become documented. But are there so many more poets. And they are all coming from many kinds of backgrounds, and in a way, they are the fabric of the country. And they’re being heard from. And that’s in part because they’re speaking to what’s going on right now—and they’re good at it.
Share: I think we should. It’s interesting that you have that feeling, as so many people do, because it actually applies to poetry. Because if we think about politics as its own realm, and assume that it doesn’t affect us—we’ll soon find out that we are mistaken. And poetry is like that, too. Obviously, for people who don’t spend a lot of time reading poetry, they might think of it as something that exists in a kind of corner of experience—and that’s okay; it’s natural. But the reality is that poetry isn’t “somewhere else.” That’s kind of why it exists. And poetry and politics are inevitable, yet strange, bedfellows. Because they’re both trying to address this basic human question: Why are things the way they are? Why aren’t they different? Why aren’t they better?
People who are poets are often very political; they’re often activists. We talk about political poetry as if it’s a kind of effusion about something going on, but the truth is, the heritage of poetry includes politicians. I mean, Yeats was a politician. Our greatest poets, really, have been active in what goes on in the world. And great or unknown, poets are participating in what makes a difference in the world. If you perceive that politics is a way of making a difference, and you engage in it, then you can get something done. And the same can be said of poetry.
Garber: I’ve been thinking a lot, in the past months, about the basic idea of empathy, and the way it factors into (and also, sometimes, has explicitly failed to factor into) the American political system. I figure I know the broad answer to this, but: What role do you think poetry can play when it comes to encouraging empathy?
Share: What poetry does is it puts us in touch with people who are different from ourselves—and it does so in a way that isn’t violent. It’s a way of listening. When you’re reading a poem, you’re listening to what someone else is thinking and feeling and saying. It’s not a debate, where somebody punches back at it. You have to think before you speak. You have to think before you write. You have to think while you’re reading. And poetry keeps the intensity and the passion of a point of view, but in a forum where people aren’t hurting each other. It says, “Here’s what it’s like from my point of view.” All you have to do is listen to the poet.
And, in that, you don’t have to be anything other than what you are. The poem is a catalyst where you’re bringing two different kinds of people together. And at its best, when it works, there’s a kind of spark, and everyone comes away illuminated by what the spark has ignited.