Month: August 2017

What is mimesis?

penhttps://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/mimesis

 

mimesis

  • 1technical, formal Imitative representation of the real world in art and literature.

    ‘Barth has always detached his use of plot from mimesis’
    More example sentences

The difference between prose and poetry

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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2012/04/the-difference-between-poetry-and-prose

“Prose is all about accumulation (a morality of work), while poetry as it is practiced today is about the isolation of feelings (an aesthetics of omission). Among other things, prose is principally an ethical project, while poetry is amoral, a tampering with truths which the world of prose (and its naturalistic approach to mimesis) takes for granted. Poetry creates its own truth, which at times is the same truth as the world’s, and sometimes not. Whatever the case, its mimesis is always a rearrangement, at a molecular level, of that axis between the “seen” and the “felt” (that coal chute which connects the childish eye to the Socratic heart), which, were it not for poetry, with its misguided elenchus, would remain obscured. In both classical and modern languages it is poetry that evolves first and is only much later followed by prose “4655668_f260

 

” Poetry’s last major flourishing during the first half of the 19th century was a kind of Silver Age to what came before; it gave us a way to model our increasingly important private lives, as opposed to our public ones. This is its gift. Another Swedish writer, Tomas Tranströmer, last year’s Nobel, laureate, and the first poet to win the prize in sixteen years, when asked about his writing method, said that he doesn’t have one; he hinted at how close to evanescence our contemporary practice actually is: “…it’s hard to know what we really mean by writing for there’s a kind of inner writing that goes on all the time and it doesn’t need to finish up on paper…” *”

 

Even from out hell

My neighbour hears me singing Joan of Arc
The walls are thin ,the windows are right dark
He says I sound sincere
And sets my heart on  fire
When he asks me for walk in the old Park

Leonard Cohen has got something I don’t have
I do not mean what is most obvious
I mean he sings so well
Even from out hell
I love him  though  he’s dead, it’s curious,

So my neighbour is a Jew from Montreal
Yet he never met L Cohen  in the Mall
He said  that L was sad
Really, really bad
So being dead is better, all in all

Well, I differ on my views of this old life
Leonard  loved his children and his voice
He was a  subtle man
Who has told us what he can
And even God won’t tell us more than twice

Its noise  is like ten demons

In my flat, I live unsociably
I  vacuum Kitty  say, one night in three
I know she has got fleas
From climbing willow trees
And 2 am seems quite alright to me

In my flat, I love the wooden floors
I run around in clogs till I am bored
The neighbour underneath
Has asked that I should cease.
So now I do it  more and more and more

On  my flat, I have a heavy door
To keep out burglars, mewing cats  and more
My neighbour down the stairs
Says I slam it  and he hears
I am wondering what I’ll do if I get bored.

I have got this new machine to wash
My denim jeans, my blouses, nighties posh
Its noise  is like  ten demons
I hear my neighbour’s screams
The police just came and beat about the bush.

Into my flat, they came with a machine
To see if I am  neurotically clean
They say to love the neighbour
Wash my clothes and caper
Before 11pm and  not be mean

And in the morning not to start
Till 7 am  in case my neighbour’s  heart
Rate wobbles and  he dies
My fault ,  so they sigh
For I have  quite upset all apple carts

So they howl all night

Dear Aggie

When I got married, I was ecstatic.Well, happy.But my husband has 3 dogs and when he gets into bed they are jealous of me as they want to join him
So they howl all night on the landing unless a ghost is haunting the house
And it has put him off sex with me, so he says.But he’s not bothered
I am not happy, what shall I do
Jody

Dear Jody

This seems like a time when sex before marriage would have taught you a lot.Where were these dogs while he courted you? I think now you are projecting your fear of sex into the dogs.I suggest psycho analysis 4 times a week for ten years.That will help or it will pass the time.I have a vacancy.Email me:
aggie.aunt 1265@ripoff.com for a start date.I charge £3,000 per session.
My web page : richlazyclevertherapist.blogsock.com, Any gender welcome,
Any agenda welcome.

I think I see his shadow where coats lean

The days of loss seem sharper than a knife
A razor blade, a chopping up  machine
They cut my heart and show me I’m no wife.

Yet I am happy with my writer’s life
A freedom to explore what is unseen
The days of loss seem sharper than a knife

I lose my pen, my phone, I do not lie.
I talk  out loud to silence my own screams
Loss cuts my heart and shows me I’m no wife.

I fail again and sometimes  let words fly
I bake the scones but I forget the cream
The days of loss seem sharper than a knife,

On other days I find the lost and cry,
I ask my fountain pen where it  has been
Loss cut my heart and showed me I’m no wife.

I think I see his shadow where coats lean
Or sunlight on  his spectacles will beam
The days of loss seem kinder than a knife
They warm my heart and tell me I’m his wife.

 

My atoms wing like butterflies

 

A map’s a guide to find a world

Knitted by angels, plain or pearled,

And though you need a map as guide,

Keep your own eyes open wide.

I spent a year caught in a map

Until I found a big enough gap

I crawled out through this exit slit,

So here I am , like some half wit

Words can act like heroin,

You live so high, where I have been.

But onto earth, I gladly fall.

The air the sun the rain is all.

My senses are my lovers long-

My ears, my eyes, my skin my tongue.

The winds caress my naked flesh,

To dwell on earth is all I wish.

I’ll live with mice and birds and plants,

I’ll share my food with miscreants

I’ll keep my words inside a tin,

And only, now and then, go in

I’ll live with cats and spiders three.

And like a wild flower grow quite free.

I’ ll give my words to those who hear,

And eventually, I’ll disappear

Earth to earth, then ash to ash

When soaked with rain I shall disperse.

My atoms wing like butterflies,

And to the Flower I’ll fly, disguised

The rulers idle at a Golfers Court

My mind seems overwhelmed by many thoughts
And feelings too about new  Nuclear threats.
What do I do, do I do what I ought?

Like fishermen whose nets swell with fish caught
How to filter out the ones which are mere fret.
My mind seems overwhelmed by many thoughts

They are all  here and none are sold or bought
All made up from just one alphabet
What do I do, do I do what I ought?

 

Where can we find the peace we have long sought
The politicians’ words in   graveyards set
All minds  are  overwhelmed by devious thoughts

The rulers idle at a golfers  Court
The country   churns and grips in moral threat
What do we do, do we do what we ought?

Dead children faces gaze  as  cold men bet
That Christ won’t come,won’t damn their cruelty yet
My mind seems overwhelmed by many thoughts
What do I do, do I do what I ought?

 

 

 

Customer reviews

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Photo by me with Nokia 301
Dear Customer

Thank you for buying the haemorrhoid cream from us.We’d love to know what you thought of it.Please do a review on Amazon.
Errhh… No.I am studying Lacan in the bathroom

Dear Customer

Thanks for buying the gold wedding ring.If you like it we’d love to sell you another one with 5% off.

I’ve only just got married.

Dear Customer

Thank you for buying the incontinence pants.We hope you are enjoying your purchase and look forward to a good review.We’d really appreciate it

They were for my auntie ,not me.But Social Services pay for them now.Only 2 per week though.Tell Theresa May I hope she gets incontinent too.I object to paying tax and then subsidising old relatives who do not like to bother me.So they get dehydrated.Do you think people only pee on two days a week?Auntie has stopped going out

Dear Customer

Thank for buying the hiking boots.If you would n’t mind we’d love a good review

I’m up Great Gable.So far so good.I’ll  contact you when I get down

Sent from my  Nokia C 101.

I’d  appreciate some cash for PAYG

 

Why do you call me a fecking lunatic?

 

Because you are Irish? Tell me another

You’re an Orange Man? I’ll do the review now.Otherwise, the government might collapse.I don’t like them but we’ve had  trouble enough.Thank you somuch and please don’t shoot my neighbour or me.Crash!

And that is the end of my life for today

Enchanting poetry

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http://www.theenchantingverses.org/issue-xxi-february-2015.html

Poetry is not dead or dying, as some would have you believe. It is alive and gnashing, and comes fully loaded.

The poets plying their craft in the folds of this issue of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review are testament to that—on, O so many levels and layers. Each from diverse backgrounds and cultures (and despite them—despite too their varied forms and approaches) as an unlikely collective, these poets have one thing in common: they are all writing in a distinctly modern idiom. And, whether the poet works with a clarity of vision or within seemingly feverish abstractions, there are many depths to be plumbed here.

I would rather not pluck an individual poem or poet from this oddly shaped hat. I would rather let these verses speak for themselves—not for any other reason than to let each word nudge its neighbor, each line unfold upon the next in a sweep of cross-cultural synesthesia.  Yes, the cross-section (if viewed with a more empirical eye) is bold and richly diverse. There are poets here who write as survivors of twentieth-century tyranny and oppression; there are those who write from a calm of democratic continents and domestic bliss (although we will be quick to note that more often than not, appearances can be deceiving). There are others taking the scholarly approach who wish to observe their world more anonymously, reinterpreting space in a reinvention of past classics, and others still, who wish to navigate us through the headwaters of post-modernist abstraction. Each approach, of course, is as valid as the next.

Imagine, if you will, that you are far from the madding crowd, alone in a forest or perhaps traversing a mountain chain, deep in an underground cave among stalagmites and their polar opposites—and then, let these poems written by poets from the Everywhere, populate you with their vast protuberances, allow them to seep under your skin and carry you further on your journeys; allow them to become your most singular acquaintances or your oldest friends. And, thank them, honor them (as I have) multiple times, for giving us their versions of the world—and how the words have become their songs, their imaginings, their modern poems.

What a rich, profound, moving armory this is. These poets are very much alive.

Marc Vincenz, Guest Editor (Issue XXI)

The rose by nature of design

Sacred the  love the rose dwells in;
Thorns protect what lies within.
Precious flower designed for bliss
Consummated with a kiss.

Eternity is one moment
When chattering minds are each silent.
The warp and weft of life  itself
Has value more than human wealth.
So passive be, with patience blessed
Focus wide and all relaxed
We wait like this  with music ‘joyed
So quietly played, all hurt’s destroyed.

The rose by nature of design
Gives peace to both the heart and mind.
And so it is with this  green world
Of  blossom,  bush,  and petals curled.

In a storm  small  butterflies
Dance in spaces small yet blithe.
Between the hailstones., they will  live
And of themselves entirely give.

We too  find our sacred space
When with nature we embrace.
We like flowers must grow and die.
We fall to dust and thus shall fly.

In the sunlight dust motes dance
As if by brightness full entranced.
We, like them, do not compete
For  that love which us completes

For as we’re nothing, we are free
For God made you and God made me.
As we have no pride or will
We trust in One who will fulfil.

 

Note : self-abandonment, which is a practice of the mystics .is abandonment to God.This desire for self-abandonment can be used by totalitarian regimes to make the crowd do their will.Like other of our desires, it has to be directed rightly.So we move between this passivity and active thought and will which guides us rightly.We must not abandon ourselves to governments or politicians and leaders,  especially Popes or other religious leaders.

Pardon me  for  giggling with the band

Do I have time to write a villanelle
To think of worthwhile topics is a pain
I’m feeling lonely, so I think I will

This room is dark but feels as hot as hell
I’m sipping boiling  China tea  again
Do I have time to write a villanelle

My  friend is on the motorway, she’s ill
She never learned that cities  have no end
I’m feeling lonely, so I think I’ll yell.

She’ll probably take  some higher kind of pill
If she comes she’ll drive me round the bend
Do I have time to write a villanelle?

Once on Langdale Pikes I slipped and fell
My mother never knew how I descend
I’m feeling mad now so I think I’ll yell

 

I have a small piano, ain’t life grand?
Pardon me  for  giggling with the band
Do I  envy now the villain’s Belle?
I’m immoral, now life’s temporal.

The face within your face

 

You revealed the face within your face
Human,lowly, humbler than an ant
The pathos in your eyes made sad my gaze
The other face, defended, has no grace
With it ,you appear quite confident.
Yet you revealed to me your hidden face
I know now of the suffering of your days
A fear of tragic pasts feared imminent
The pathos in your eyes made sad my gaze
The Lord says you’re his lamb and sends you grace.
Yet you must hide from men intolerant
You revealed the face within your face
Like Jesus, you were scourged and in disgrace
You wandered feebly,lost, itinerant
The pathos in your eyes makes sad my days
If God exists then would he not embrace
The lost, the lonely, even the vagrant?
You revealed the face within your face
The pathos in your eyes shows humans base

Europe broke the world in its collisions

The end of music, Mahler’s sorrowed vision
The suffering  he both prophesied and felt
What music might replace the great tradition?

Atonal works of Schoenbergh met derision
Would Stravinsky’s Firebird our hearts melt?
The death of music, Mahler’s sorrowed vision

To the masses came a huge concession
With rock and pop and blues we are  now filled
What kind of music might replace the great tradition?

Europe broke the world in its collisions
Destruction that they claim was never willed
The death of music, Mahler’s sorrowed vision

God has left us  to our fantasies, our visions
Not on the Cross but here in Europe  he was killed
What music can connect to great   tradition?

Change perceptions, change our human will
Or we will die in paying off the bill
The end of music, Mahler’s sorrowed vision
What music could replace the great tradition?

Mary goes to a hospital

pinkcatandsun

Mary was going to the hospital wearing her new magenta padded coat and an orange felt hat just like the one her mother used to wear when she went to church, although her mother had never had an orange hat. It would have been considered very bad taste.
In her hand was a long green handbag ; inside this sat her cat, Emile.He was very naughty because he wanted to come to the hospital with her. Emile being a cat will probably not be admitted into the waiting room if she mentioned it to anyone; however ,she was hoping he would keep still.
She did not want to let the cat out of the bag at the wrong moment especially when she was seeing a lady doctor.
But the staff are so busy they might not notice that he is a cat and  before he knows what is happening he may be admitted to the hospital and left lying on a trolley in a corridor for 25 hours. Unlike a human being, Emile is not very patient and he will certainly not lie prone on a trolley all night waiting for the kindness of strangers. As a matter of factm he speaks good English and could easily hold his own in a male ward. Nowadays many of the wards are mixed and would you want to wake up in the morning next to a Tom Cat. That would certainly hit the headlines .
Woman kept for 20 hours on a trolley in a mixed corridor next to a tom cat!At least he is neither a lion nor a lamb.
BTW Theresa May asked corridors to be relabelled as wards also  toilets and bathrooms
Where will all the other patients be able to relieve themselves….commodes or earth closets?
Mary is on her way

News from the UK:Hospitals expand

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Chapel for funerals on site of hospital

Theresa May has ordered that all corridors in hospitals be relabelled as wards. and given names:
“Long thin dirty blue ward”
“Long yellow windowless ward”
Dull Entrance Lobby Ward for people with claustrophobia.Make sure the wheels on the trolley are locked otherwise you may be ejected when someone opens the door.
Outdoor car park ward for people with TB or asthma plus privy or earth closet free to use.
Multi storey ward for the laid back[summer only]
Also toilets and cloakrooms.
A toilet is “An ensuite ward for one”
Seven toilets are 7 ensuites.Wow.It sounds great
A bathroom is “a ward for people who like sleeping in or near water.”
Since a Ward is now anywhere with a trolley or bed in it, no logician can complain.And if it’s you there, you’ll be too ill.You may even be dead but as there is no nurse in the bathroom, they don’t know, Neither do I