Mary was sitting at her desk trying to decide whether to throw out a book called Schrodinger ‘s equation for Idiots.That title had more than one meaning, she thought to herself.
I think that is for the recycling bin, she told her cat, Emile.What a pity you can’t read.You could have read it.
I don’t want to read stuff like that.I only like Dad’s cartoon books.
Where are they, Mary asked him, her eyes shining like melting Danish butter on a hot croissant?
They are in that plastic box in the kitchen, Emile told her.I read them at night.
How can you read if there is no light?Please don’t start sinning as I don’t want you to have to become a Catholic and go to Confession
I can’t become a Catholic, said Emile.I am Jewish.
Well, St Paul was Jewish, Mary told him.Until he had an epileptic fit .
So having a fit can make you a Christian.That is very strange, the black cat told her with a twinkle in his eyes
Well, it’s not automatic, Mary replied.You have to pay.
What, pay to become a Christian, I don’t believe Jesus would like that.
Well, he may be quite indulgent, sometimes Mary giggled.However, the Vatican and its wealth might not be quite what he was thinking of when he gave the Sermon on the Mount.
What sort of mount was it, Emile enquired.Was it a horse?
No, it was  more likely to  have been a donkey  as he was quite poor, you know
But he had things money can’t buy, the cat said philosophically.
Like women who poured oil over his feet.What sort was it,?Was it like that stuff Stan put in the car engine sometimes?
Don’t be so ridiculous.It was olive oil, Mary told him sternly.
Can we prove that Emile murmured? His feet were no salad iin need of dressing
No, I am using inductive reasoningMary stated logically.Olive trees are grown in that part of the world even now.
What is inductive reasoning, Emile mewed
Why it’s the opposite of deductive reasoning, of course, Mary stated wildly
I am glad I can’t read, Emile said.It’s bad for you to have to learn all of that.It was ok for the ancient Greeks.They had no televisions.I’d rather watch Andrea Bocelli and Hayley Westenra singing Vivo per lei.Whatever that means.She is from New Zealand by the way.
What difference does that make Mary teased him?
No need to be rude, Emile cried.I was only passing a remark
That was what Stan’s mother used to say when he told her off for saying my maple mousse was like something out of a tin.
Where was it from?
The Joy of Cookery. a big American cookbook or maybe Jewish Cookery by Florence Greenberg or I bought it in Marks and Spencers
Did you get that book because I am Jewish, Emile purred?
No, I didn’t even know you were.How did it happen?
My mother was living with a Rabbi in Liverpool and he told her she could not miaow on the Sabbath so she kind of assumed she was Jewish.As for my father.. nobody knows.
Emile, don’t start saying you are the Messiah.I have enough trouble already.I don’t want you to be  walking on water and helping women taken in adultery
I was not me who took them, said Emile.I don’t even know where Adultery is.
I think I’ll ring 999.We need help before we go mad.
Sometimes going mad seems the better option, Mary said sadly.A few  voices telling me what to do might be helpful
As long as they are not Michael Gove and Boris Johnson, Emile replied courteously. As for Freezer May…… we’ve suffered enough from seeing her in miniskirts holding DT’s hand!
And so say all of us.For he’s a jolly good  yeller! Emile  loves every cat

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Take ibuprofen now and you won’t need damn tampax

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Glue them to the ceiling with pre-owned, large tampax.

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Empty your inbox, forward all your mail
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http://www.poetry.org/whatis.htm

“What is generally accepted as “great” poetry is debatable in many cases. “Great” poetry usually follows the characteristics listed above, but it is also set apart by its complexity and sophistication. “Great” poetry generally captures images vividly and in an original, refreshing way, while weaving together an intricate combination of elements like theme tension, complex emotion, and profound reflective thought. For examples of what is considered “great” poetry, visit the Pulitzer prize and Nobel prize sections for poetry.

The Greek verb ποιεω [poiéo (= I make or create)], gave rise to three words: ποιητης [poiet?s (= the one who creates)], ποιησις [poíesis (= the act of creation)] and ποιημα [poíema (= the thing created)]. From these we get three English words: poet (the creator), poesy (the creation) and poem (the created). A poet is therefore one who creates and poetry is what the poet creates. The underlying concept of the poet as creator is not uncommon. For example, in Anglo-Saxon a poet is a scop (shaper or maker) and in Scots makar.

Sound in poetry

Perhaps the most vital element of sound in poetry is rhythm. Often the rhythm of each line is arranged in a particular meter. Different types of meter played key roles in Classical, Early European, Eastern and Modern poetry. In the case of free verse, the rhythm of lines is often organized into looser units of cadence.”

I am caught. a wanderer in a maze
Interminable and long my lonesome path
Shall such malign confusion end my days?

Yet worse than this, is work that’s too  low paid
The people making clothes can show no wrath
They too are caught. like wanderers in a maze

Capital has made the East our slaves.
In the stores , grown women  grab and laugh
Shall such malign intrusion fill slaves’ days?

When we shop for clothes, they say we graze
When we buy the clothes who hires the staff?
We are caught. like wanderers in a maze

The only way to make things right is war
The Asians will be coming ,no use Mass.
Shall our malign intrusion end their way?

Wait, wait, they say, the bitterness will pass
But will our exploitation not harass?
I am a lonely wanderer in a maze
Shall my feeble fear not change my ways?

You have to be brave to write because all you have ever felt, experienced or studied can be drawn up into your consciousness whilst you write.A friend of mine who is a writer put it like this.
“It has taken me to places I’d rather not have gone to.”
However she said she manages to live through it.At the time I had only written mathematical works so I didn’t understand what she meant.But I have now had some experiences which give me a hint of what she was trying to say.If you’ve had many fearsome experiences then these feelings may come up when you loosen the grip  of consciousness.
However I have also found a spirit of laughter in me which is new.Step into the darkness without knowing.It’s only by going there that help may come.But the fear is that it won’t.You can’t get an insurance policy beforehand.
Are you stepping into a void or will there be something there?
Also in drawing or painting, it can take courage to draw what you perceive.I found that especially when drawing buildings and studying perspective.I’ll see if I can find a drawing to illustrate it.I have the feeling,
“No, No.It can’t be this steep a gradient.It’s too much”
And in being inside a building like Westminster Abbey or Durham Cathedral trying to assimilate the vision, the huge spaces and the power and size of the shapes can create awe or even terror.One can lose one’s sense of self entirely.But it can also be revivifying when one has returned.The fear is that one will not return.
Maybe it’s the same with relating to people as well?

http://www.potw.org/archive/potw351.html39)

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Should an older woman with a UTI
Buy a pair of trousers which she cannot wash and dry?
Wear three pairs of knickers and a culotte underslip
Don’t run to the lavatory in case you take a trip
Falling off the stairs is not my idea of death
I’d like to be in a bed when I take my final breath.
They say to hang your trousers outside on a tree
The air will cleanse them with a breeze while watched by startled bees
Or buy a handheld steamer as it will kill the germs
But never use it when your habitat is filled with garden worms
In the long run, it’s easier to throw the trousers out
As otherwise, I’ll wonder if I smell of doubt
I  could improve my posture or train assertively
In case the men harass me when I’m on TV.
Stare at those old demons with a sharp bright eye
Tell them they are off to hell as soon as they shall die.
Jesus mixed with sinners but not those powerful apes
He is kindness incarnate to people who’ve been duped.
The fiery angels   coming carry silver swords
Apocalyptic visions can hardly be real words
Women’s boundaries violated  as if we  have no worth
The Beast  is slouching nearer, waiting to give birth.