Day: October 23, 2017

Dear Mary

genderless
Nuts Cottage
87 Rubbish Walks
Stampedia
North Norfolk
NWe  0MG pi
Dear Mary

How are you getting on with your  new book? Mine is going well as  having grown up doing my homework while my brother played ” The Ride of the Valkyries” full blast, demanded I do his maths homework and Latin I find with the TV on some rubbish programme I can really concentrate well
.On the  other hand I might be writing rubbish.
The main things seems to be to avoid writer’s block.  whereas in the past it was to avoid writing  rubbish,Funny how popular the word rubbish is nowadays.
When we believed in God we had Cathedrals,plainsong and Byrd.Now we have Malls.Coffee Shops and Muzak.And  rubbish.We are rubbish too
Surely to get writer’s block would be an advantage as it would lead to reverie and dreams or maybe going on Tinder and seeing how many people in the town are looking for….Rubbish connections.
My optician said not to go looking for men.With my eyesight I’d no doubt be  chatting up a  traffic cone.I never did know how to flirt or chat up anyone. don’t think that’s  what he meant.Real men don’t like women running after them which is lucky.I can’t run nowadays,. I could limp after one!
He said his mother did get married again but she wasn’t seeking it actively.So she said.Would she have told her son?
Definitely not.Well, that’s my view.Take it or leave it.Agree or argue.Talk or walk.Who can falsify his theory? Popper died.So they say.

I think I must be drunk with happiness.I’ll write again to tell you the plot of my novel.Basically,i t’s total rubbish dressed up with a few sexual innuendos.These days innuendo seems quite out of date.Old fashioned.Like courting and engagement.Now we start in bed and end up in Court.
Well, try phoning me or you’ll keep getting more rubbish letters

Byeee

Annette

Hurting others?

A hurtful act is the transference to others of the degradation which we bear in ourselves.

Simone Weil

 

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A hurtful act is the transference to others of the degradation which we bear in ourselves.

All sins are attempts to fill voids.Simone Weil

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Some are givers, some can only take

My heart  is cracked like almonds are in cakes
Often  they are bought already  ground
I hope that no-one here intends to bake.

I used to see small cakes with almond flakes
In the days of pence, shillings, and pounds
My heart  is cracked like almonds are in cakes

But every heart  has got its  many cracks
Every person suffers from life’s wounds
I hope that noone here intends to bake.

And many hearts have been by fake love  broke
Yet vulnerable and human we resound
We cover up our hearts with a thick cloak

Some are givers, some can only take
Both are needed when we make a friend
I hope that someone here intends to bake.

Some are rigid and can never bend
Some are agile and will always blend
My heart  is cracked like almonds are in cakes
I hope that you won’t  use me if you bake.

Do we laugh at human sacrifice?

Do we laugh at human sacrifice,
Think we are superior,more advanced?
Abraham to offer Isaac was advised
We kill millions, into war entranced

Once it was the king’s beloved son
Who was burned up at the Harvest feast
To placate the gods, and make the crops grow on
Later humans offered a mere beast

We may put one coin into a box
This is not an offering till it hurts
We see no more the sheep and goats in flocks
Abstract living. abstracts less from  purse

Are these Wars a hidden offering?
The best  die as   our demons wildly sing

We turn to lowness   till we are replete

I’ve climbed out of that hole  that gobbled me
But here I stand still looking out for you
I feel myself and so I want to see
The face of my beloved  in my view.

My head turns round as if I am unsure
Who  or what I need to come to me
I    crawled  in mud ,and feared I’d not endure
The climbing and the hopeless victory

I see an empty world except for God
It’s   humans who  are dead,mislaid our souls
God told me I was loved, that I was good
He says he  created humour for the proles

The power of loss is  savage and complete
We turn to lowness   till we are replete

The sins are repetitious,boring foul.

Original sin is making sense to me
As I watch the  News on my TV.
Of course,it’s not original at all
The sins are repetitious,boring foul.

I decided  that this sin’s society’s
Am I  born so evil,is this me?
No,I grew up seeing evil done
By  those with power to own the biggest bomb

Love and power are  intimately  confused
By those who wish to  take you in, to bruise
Those who love, each hope to  let you  be.
They will not impinge on our security

Is the original sin that we exist?
Or that when we’re born,we’re seldom kissed?

 

Every night you’re trying to come home

I wake up warm from dreams ,yet all alone
Every night you’re trying to come home
The shattering loss made splinters  of my bones

Bandaged like a mummy, am I born?
In the dream you hold my hand and run
I wake up from  these anxious  themes alone

I’ve still  got your ashes and the urn,
Where are you and what have  you become?
Your shattering loss  has scattered all my bones

Now I sleep and rest with turned off phones
I  can’t bear impingements,I ache sore.
I wake up from  the anxious dreams   alone

Inside my soul, from Other love I’m torn
Afflicted,disconnected, from my core
The shattering  of my world makes me forlorn

I think I hear your foot step by the door
My heart by a sharp dagger once more gored
I wake up slow from dreams I am alone
The  fearful loss fragmented  my heart’s home.

 

Poetry banned

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https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/aug/26/rupi-kaur-poetry-canada-instagram-banned-photo

 

“The book was re-released in October 2015. The book climbed bestseller lists, earning Kaur an audience far beyond those she had captured through social media. “Which is so weird,” she says. “How does a 50-year-old white woman relate to this?”

The reach of her writing hit her at a reading in San Francisco last year. As she neared the bookstore she saw a long line that snaked down four blocks and realised the crowd was there to see her. “That was the moment that I was like wow, this is crazy. It’s going to be crazy. It’s been that way since, which is really cool.”

No longer did it feel like she was casting her poetry into the vast online world and waiting to see if anyone would notice. Now it felt like the world was watching as Kaur, the child of Indian immigrants to Canada, sought to find her place using an unconventional recipe of poetry and social media.”