Art by Katherine
I have made a ceaseless effort not to ridicule, not to bewail, not to scorn human actions, but to understand them. Baruch Spinoza
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/scorn

Should we be happy and in pleasure thrive
Without a shadow, without grief and pain?
We suffer much because we are alive

Even birth itself, some don’t survive
Loss of love hits like the icy rain
Should we be happy and in comfort thrive?

Into the monstrous ocean, we must dive
And learn to swim without time for complaint
We suffer so because we are alive

If one flower is open to the eye
That is  quite sufficient for the saint
Must we be happy always, when death thrives?

A printed book does not ache  with its pride
And if it’s  lost its ghost will seldom haunt
We suffer so because we are alive

Our life  to that  of all is close allied
The leaves upon the tree are  our last guide
Should we be happy and in constant pleasure thrive?
We suffer much because we are alive

 

https://www.theguardian.com/fashion/2017/nov/23/beyond-black-friday-12-ways-to-care-for-your-clothes/

 

“It’s not just the fashion industry that has a massive waste problem. We all do. Our wardrobes are bulging with clothes, many of which we don’t wear. The number of garments produced globally has doubled since 2000 to more than 100bn items. If you are anything like me, you will feel as if you own a good proportion of them already.

As we approach Black Friday, which has now spread from a single day of splurge buying to an entire week, we are about to be bombarded with discounts and offers to buy everything from a new fridge to a cashmere jumper ( just you wait, there will be mountains of cheap cashmere).”

Choose a heap of words and make a form
The words may not be right but such is charm
Once you’ve made a heap of stones, of brick
You can shape it with your poetics

Treat it like a sculptress does her clay
Hit it, mould it, make it go your way
But, oh, beneath its hidden shape and  show
The poem knows such life you’ll never know.

Get it in your arms and so you twist
A pile of soft cement with woman’s wrist
Kick it, scratch it, bite it, sip its dew
The poem is having its own way with you.

As we wrestle in our clay stained cloth
We feel the rising of our hidden wrath.
So at the end, we  mould it with our souls
The poem itself has shaped the dual goal.

Thus master, mistress none can take the name.
For inner demons,  gods have swayed the game