Blood is always red

What is truth, the ruthless Pilate said
Postmodern thought already on  display
Our eyes are blind  yet blood is always red

On the stairs at night, I heard the tread
Was it Satan marching on his way?
What is truth, the  tiresome Pilate said

I lay in anguish in my chilly bed
In the darkness deeper than the clay
Our eyes are blind  yet sometimes we see red

The images of terror in my head
What to do and more, what must I say
What is truth, the  tortured Pilate said

Why are spirits broken and love shed
Children tortured where they used to play
Our eyes are blind  and good is almost dead

Deconstructed, demonized, displaced
In the shadows who can see the way?
What is truth, the  stupid Pilate’s dead
Our eyes are blind, what is the good, we said

Pavements

The  roots of trees don’t know what  pavements are
They heave them up as if by spite inspired
So older people to fall  down  by the cars

Underneath the   cobbles and the tar
Burns the earth with its creative fire
The  roots of trees don’t know what  cobbles are

To the boiling centre falls a star
And there it floats, a tadpole in a mire
Where older people  run  from falling cars

Above the water stands the Judge desired
See reflected, crooked Christian spires
The roots of trees don’t know what worships for.

With creative heat, I now perspire
My language shatters, breaks the  nerves of liars
When older people catch  a falling car.

I see a blade of grass with sun conspire;
Then comes again the soft yet poisoned tyre.
The  roots of trees have cracked the  pavement here
The older  people  pitied Hamlet and King Lear

 

Cracks in the pavement

What is conation?

 

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By my sister

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/conation

 

 

“conation

noun  co·na·tion  \ kō-ˈnā-shən \

Definition of conation

:an inclination (such as an instinct, a drive, a wish, or a craving) to act purposefully impulse 3

conative

play \ˈkō-nə-tiv, ˈkä-, ˈkō-ˌnā-\ adjective

First Known Use: circa 1837

Origin and Etymology of conation

Latin conation-, conatio act of attempting, from conari to attempt — more at deaco

Medical Dictionary

conation

noun  co·na·tion  \ kō-ˈnā-shən \

Medical Definition of conation

:an inclination (as an instinct, a drive, a wish, or a craving) to act purposefully :impulse 2

conative

play \ˈkō-nət-iv, -ˌnāt-; ˈkän-ət-\ adjective

 

National book awards

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https://www.pw.org/content/jesmyn_ward_frank_bidart_win_national_book_awards

 

““Writing the poems was how I survived,” said Bidart upon winning the poetry prize. “I hope that the journeys these poems go on will help others survive as well.” In her acceptance speech, Ward addressed the crowd and said, “You looked at me and the people I love and the people I write about…. and you saw your grief, your love, your losses, your regret, your joy, your hope. I am deeply grateful, and I hope to continue this conversation with all of you for all of our days.””

 

The Tragic Sense of Frank Bidart

“Twenty years ago, Frank Bidart called his sixth book Desire. It is desire that drives his poetry, just as making desire believable on the page drives his imagination. Besides its erotic reach, “desire” signifies for Bidart a yearning toward the absolute in any domain. To desire to create a perfect work of art; to find provable truth; to speak with a candor “that gives a candid kind to everything” (Stevens) is—as any adult knows—to fail. And yet. It is that “and yet” that gives passion to Bidart’s voice, as he both succumbs to and resists desire. Hoping in love for a perfect entwining of body and mind, the young are violently disappointed by each broken relationship; longing for the sustenance of family affection, the young are astonished and hurt by its deficiencies; the artist-in-the-making aspires after an unattainable aesthetic cohesion of heart, eye, mind, and medium; and the devotee attempts a mystical knowledge of the divine, only to have the radiance wane.

Bidart’s fiercely original poetry, now collected into one volume with several interviews, has found again and again an entry into the heartbreak, pathos, plangency, rage, and depression into which the longing for perfection will lead anyone who finds compromise intolerable. This is an old theme: Coleridge treated it in “Constancy to an Ideal Object”; Hopkins saw himself “with this tormented mind tormenting yet”; and Yeats, in “Among School Children,” bitterly addressed those unattainable ideal perfections of love, worship, or maternal aspiration, those

               Presences
That passion, piety, or affection knows,
And that all heavenly glory symbolize,
[Those] self-born mockers of man’s enterprise.

Bidart’s poems establish themselves on the paradox of the compulsion to return to the scene of desire, loathing its fundamental insufficiency as well as the self that returns to it. His intricate twists of syntax, coiling like a python about the tortured sensibility, act out the dilemmas and melodramas of the desiring self. Because above all he wants to register the sound of the human voice, he is driven to unusual representations of that voice on the page.”

Deep blue glass

Deep blue glass affects me  in the mind
Makes me happy with its glints and gleams
The colour pleases more than just my eyes

Colour  is the secret place I hide
While my inner self  sorts  out  its  dreams
Deep blue glass affects me here inside

I hear the colour, fleet  as butterfly
Traveling on some ornamental scheme
The colour pleases more than just my eye

To love the red and yellow I have  tried
But in my heart ,I  felt by them demeaned
Deep blue glass affects me there inside

I  looked at my old paintings and I sighed
For I gave up before I caught the scene
I like to share the treasures of my eye,

I shall take my spouse to Durham, York or Leeds
I’ll  inter his ashes in  the  far North  of his dreams
Deep blue glass affects me  in the mind
I have seen  the Light and it was kind.

 

Truth and love conspire

Using our perception, not our will
Imagination ,truth and love conspire
Effort is  not needed when we’re still

For pushing blindly, we are unfulfilled
And very soon our mind will be too tired
Unless we use perception, not just will

The soul and heart are set to send the bill
Yet imagination creates  its endless fire
Effort is unneeded when we’re still

Mostly we will swallow doctor’s pills
Smoke and drink, annoy with midnight choirs
Unless we add perception to our will

With Sisyphus, we push the stone uphill.
Wonder whether Jesus was a liar
Effort is  less needed when we’re still

As we renounce the sharp wish to achieve
We like  flowers delicate believe.
Perceive, imagine, give no thought to will
Effort is  not needed, be you still

 

 

I’ve had a really busy day, today
I planned my funeral, not the date,  I say!
If I’m cremated I’ll have Joan of Arc
If I’m  buried, let them play The Lark
I emptied all the drawers in my desk
I’ve not made a will, eternal pest!
I found five  stick deodorants unused
There was  the intention to be rude
To smell like a real woman does when nude.
A lot of artist’s rubbers and a fuse
There was soap and there were ear plugs in a case
Half a biscuit which I’m pleased to say I ate.
No envelopes  and only a few pens
No spectacles but I found one  single lens
Some ibuprofen and  a box of tapes
The drawer was overflowing till it ached
I put all these things into a box
I’ll have to scrub the drawers  out with Lux
Naturally, I  left stuff on my  only bed
I wish I’d put it all into the shed
I go upstairs and see the Lord  has fled
Just what the writer ordered for the dead.
Stay in tune and he will contact you
The infernal  broadband radio is new

I

Leonard Cohen sang it years ago

They say the flood is coming once again
Leonard Cohen sang it years ago
Who builds the ark, what is the pathogen?

Do we defer to women or to men?
Do we take it fast or fake it slow?
They say the flood is coming once again

We took away the  pillars built upon
Our ethics now destroyed by constant blows
Where is our ark, what was our pathogen?

We have PC not sin , confess, Amen!
And mini Stalins put on many shows.
They say the flood is rushing here again

Meanwhile, hidden Satans lure us on;
And goodness is  by bloodshed overthrown
Is there an ark, what was our pathogen?

Embarking soon, I wonder where we’ll go.
Is there dignity for those who cannot know?
They say the flood is coming once again
Who built our Ark, what was the pathogen?

 

 

 

A psychoanalyst …Winnicott and Harold Pinter

“In a remembrance of the writer Harold Pinter that appeared in the Los Angeles Times (and posted on Slow Painting), Charles McNulty included a memorable quote by D. W. Winnicott:

But for all his vehemence and posturing, Pinter was too gifted with words and too astute a critic to be dismissed as an ideological crank. He was also too deft a psychologist, understanding what the British psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott meant when he wrote that “being weak is as aggressive as the attack of the strong on the weak” and that the repressive denial of personal aggressiveness is perhaps even more dangerous than ranting and raving. (All that stiff-upper-lip business can be murderous.)”

I just came across that quote by accident and thought it was worth posting here

Wounded by reviews?

I very much like the writer Kenneth Gergen and especially his book,” The saturated society”

http://identitythoughts.wordpress.com/2009/02/11/the-saturated-self-dilemmas-of-identity-in-contemporary-life-kenneth-j-gergen-pt-2/

http://www.qualitative-research.net/index.php/fqs/article/view/553/1198e”

I think it’s  beautifully written and explains the bad side of post modernism but also how differently it could be used.He got a very good review on the Washington Post but later got a terrible one in the NYT.
In an interview he told how this affected him badly until the man who wrote the review died ten years later.I’ll put a link in here later.http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=SweMLEe6TpgC&pg=PA294&lpg=PA294&dq=kenneth+gergen+the+saturated+self++washington+post+review&source=bl&ots=_lKF4I_lVi&sig=VEbgQl1ZpIwcLgfw3S5M5sI9__U&hl=en&sa=X&ei=JJ_VUtfLEeaP7AaviYHwCA&ved=0CGwQ6AEwCA#v=onepage&q=kenneth%20gergen%20the%20saturated%20self%20%20washington%20post%20review&f=false.

!He used to wake up at night with thoughts of what cruel things he’d  like to do to this person.This shows how even someone of high quality can be wounded easily.

Most people who read English novels have heard of Virginia Woolf. She was highly acclaimed yet had breakdowns whilst awaiting reviews.
Eventually she committed suicide during WW2.Her husband was Jewish and she was afraid of what would happen if the Germans invaded Britain.

But her mental health was fragile after losing her mother and favourite older sister in her teens and also possibly being sexually assaulted by her half brother.Despite al this she had much happiness and is one  of the most highly acclaimed women writers of the 20th century…not much good  to her of course

Sylvia Plath a great poet  a generation after Woolf also committed suicide and later became known as one of the best poets of our time

http://www.neatorama.com/2008/03/18/writers-who-suffered-from-the-sylvia-plath-effect/#!scilW

Would you like to be a tormented genius and enter the literary canon or just be an ordinary ,moderately happy person? Most of us are not so gifted in any case.

Some of us believe that others with more gifts, more money, more winning personalities are much happier ,but it’s not true.Many geniuses are troubled.

On the other hand being troubled by itself will not make you a genius,alas.Everybody is troubled at times.Sometimes a poet may use it

Is thinking a conversation? And dreaming…?It takes two.

Dwelling on my thoughts about thinking, and knowing much thinking is blind and cut off from the people outside us, is it valid to compare  it to different kinds of talk’ conversation?

 

Free thinker?

With a trusted friend or teacher we may open our hearts and ears.We may talk and listen .We may learn and give our friend new ideas…but also this conversation may be risky.So more frequently we gossip, talk about the weather or argue over trivialities.We may chat with a friend simply to show we are with them or as they say.To touch base…in other words to comfort and give security.

When we are alone, we might worry for hours.Some people used to worry a lot about their sins.Or whether they had enough money.Or some daydream and fantasise about Fifty Shades of Grey.
Maybe actual thinking or thought is rare.

I am not proposing we should be thinking all day.We would go mad!But were we to think ,would it be like a conversation with the Other within?So we’d be listening as well as talking silently?A kind of internal conversation may be taking place.We all know that our unconscious mind may be thinking while we are woolgathering or taking a a bath.Eureka..Archimedes famous cry.And dreams are also a kind of thought in images.They are a communication.Some people have had dreams which they felt were a message from God.
In a real conversation something new might be born…Why is thinking associated with tension and effort?

A heart without words

Photo0099.jpg
I’m not sure what prayer is but I like this quote

Quotes tagged as “prayer”
Mahatma Gandhi

“Prayer is not asking. It is a longing of the soul. It is daily admission of one’s weakness. It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

Shall I turn it on?

Photo0609_001_001Hello, are you the householder? No ,I’m that spider on the wall that people keep talking about.Who are you?
Your printer is broken.Wow, it’s still in the box.Thanks, I’ll take it back tomorrow.
Your mobile phone has got a virus! Oh, don’t worry.I have one as well.
Your internet radio is  listening to you. Thanks, I’ve been singing all day.I hope the radio is not jealous.I’ll switch it on or do I need to if it’s already listening?
The TV is watching you. I don’t care.I’ve seen all its sordid secrets.Well, not all but enough.
We can protect you.It’s ok.Catholics have guardian angels.
We will give you a free month.Of what?
We can pray instead of you.Somehow I  don’t think that is quite the same.
It conveys a subtle yet fundamental misunderstanding of what prayer is for.
Good bye,

What is the mystery of the world we know?

Whatever evil  humankind may do,
The sun will rise and shine on one and all.
Mercy, grace, and love are spread  anew
As apples ripen and the sweet birds call.

What is the mystery of the world we know;
That God looks with dispassion on us all?
And what his  wondrous virtues are to show
When wolves attack and murder does appall.

Will heaven compensate the refugees
Who starve in camps when money is withheld.
From those who gave us prophets and great seers
We see confusion, fear then ethics felled.

So often we are blind to wider views
And  get mere  entertainment from  the News

The poet

Moments when the original ‘poet’ in each of us created the outside world for us, by finding the familiar in the unfamiliar, are perhaps forgotten by most people; or else they are guarded in some secret place of memory because they were too much like visitations by the gods to be mixed with everyday thinking.

Tidying the drawers

My drawers are filled with little odds and ends
Letters from my brother and my friends
Some tablets  stop me vomiting at sea
And others cure the vertigo of me.

Alas each thing though small takes up a space
If each were infinitesimal what a grace!
For then I could keep millions in  one drawer
And stop myself from wondering where they are

Some inserts for my shoes I thought were lost
A photo of my husband in his past
A letter and a photo of a child
My diary of  last year  is nothing wild

Such clusters  never take on any life
I threw them in the bin and took a wife

Soothing rhythms help each mind to create;

Evensong evokes another state
A world of beauty, peace and mental calm
There all is still and thoughts do not gyrate

The breath slows down and evil does not mate
Indeed it flees  before the holy psalms
Evensong evokes another state

In the quiet, we  each can happy wait
Assured by song of good, of healing balm
Where all is still and thoughts do not gyrate

Soothing rhythms help each mind to create;
To bear the emptiness unfilled and do no harm.
Evensong evokes  this cultured state

Frantic notes  of music irritate
And minimise all  goodness and all warmth
Let all  be still and let thought emigrate

Let us lowly creatures slowly learn
To love each other as we take our turn
Evensong evokes another state
There all is  calm and thoughts are sweet as fate

Poetry and Emotion

11998867_613825758757306_6080048193100925661_n.jpg
https://www.independent.ie/life/celebrating-our-lives-in-poetry-and-emotion-35624315.html

Peter Sirr

And as fellow poet – and partner to Enda Wyley – Peter Sirr points out, for many poets: ”Real life can be the work. Wallace Stevens, one of the greatest poets of the 20th century, used to write most of his poems on his walk through Hartford, Connecticut to his job as Vice-President of the Insurance Company where he worked. Everything he wrote was in his walk to his job.” Nevertheless, ”You have to cultivate the life from which poetry can come.” For Sirr, this life also started in teaching, before his talent as a linguist pushed him towards translation, although it is only in recent years that he has been able to devote himself to his work more fully.

This doesn’t mean that he is suddenly cranking out a poem a day: ”Holding back and not writing and the silence between poems is as important as the writing. You have to be a daily communicant in some way with the art of poetry and other poems and that quality of attention that you give to the world.”

 

 

Unwelcome calls

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I find with BT Call Guardian I can eliminate all international calls and I have got lots recently.The real friends I have abroad can use my mobile number.I managed to learn a few good responses like

I was in an accident Yes ,I was killed last week and I’m not any better
How are you: I have got diarrhea/ cancer/delusions   that I am the Queen or a relative so please speak appropriately
Your computer is faulty: I don’t have one.
Your computer needs checking give me remote access; I can never find that remote.
I am a BT  engineer: so am I
I am  a highly trained person: I don’t like people touching my computer that I don’t have.
I am from Dell: Did you say Hell?
I am from HP: We never use sauce.
I am from Acer: Someone stole mine from the patio.
I am from Asus: Are you God?
I am from Lenovo:Le Nouveau what?
I am very skilful: At what?
What is your name? Theresa May.What’s yours?
Your laptop has a virus: I  have to wash my hair now.
Your laptop is malfunctioning: how amazing.I’ve not even opened the box yet
Your laptop has got a new disease: I’ll  put it to bed then and pour water into it.
Your laptop is an error.Send me a bow.
Your laptop has no sound.Why, can you usually hear it?Where are you?
This is the police.Robbers are near you. If you are the police catch them!

Abstract colour

leg34

I asked my boyfriend to stop smoking so he went outside and threw himself into my old bath full of rainwater.
When the flames died  down he got out and asked me what I thought
I said, I meant the cigarette, not you.

A-atheism

5346929_e6134c32792_m

http://www.journal-psychoanalysis.eu/a-atheism/

 

 

“It ensues that monotheism, such as it would become with the Hellenization of the Jews and later with the rise of Christianity, carries a very relevant and most remarkable ambivalence: a new divine order actually conjoins itself to the assumption of atheism itself. The God of monotheism is no longer a god of presence, but one of absence. He retreats into another world or a world-beyond. But this other/world-beyond[1] is also what requires a thought henceforth in search of a principle or a foundation for the world of given effectiveness [effectivité].

Thus the God of Judeo-Christianity could become – at least in part (we’ll discuss the other part further) – the bearer of this principle or foundational value. It is by starting from here that we may understand the modern becoming of atheism or at least what gives atheism the mark that makes it appear as truly modern.

 

2

Modern atheism is no longer that of the departure or the disappearance of the gods, but of the refusal of God. That is to say that it consists in the negation of a position – a thesis or hypothesis – where “God” is denoted. This position is that of a subject of the world or of the totality of beings. Not Being [l’être] as a quality of beings [de l’étant], distributed and spread across all that is, not a being that takes all the inflexions of the verb to be (to be heavy, true, potential, active, situated, and so on), but the substrate of every modality of being, its foundation or principle. The subject of Being [être], therefore, the utmost of beings , or the being [étant] more being [étant] than all others, and consequently the self too, the auto-position of this substrate that should be supported by nothing else.

This thesis or hypothesis (we can take the latter term in the sense of a thesis that implies all other thesis [toute autre these]…) is capable of taking on two forms: either the subject in question is simply equivalent, no more, no less, to the totality of beings or else it forms a distinct being in itself.

The first form is illustrated by Spinoza in the clearest of ways (Deus sive natura, God or nature). The second posits a (“supernatural”) “supreme being”. The first won Spinoza the accusation of atheism. The second, in contrast, would seem to correspond to all the other great systems of classical and then romantic philosophy.

However, despite appearances, no metaphysics strictly follows this thesis. The “otherworldly” distinction of a metaphysical god is always accompanied by determinations that tend to reduce this distinction (for example, the necessary link that ties god to his creation, or the presence in the latter of his “image” or “providence”, and so on.). The fact is that the position of a subject of the world is impossible without us being condemned to a regression in infinitum (what is the subject of the subject?) or without returning to the Spinozan equivalence between “god” and “nature”. It is the absolute alternative between the pure “auto-” and the pure “given”… Their alternative, or even, insidiously, an identity of theirs…

This is something metaphysics has always known, even when it sought to dissimulate this knowledge to itself. This is why, in the very middle of its history, it produced with Kant the collapse of the so-called “ontological” argument. The idea of a supreme being cannot entail the necessity of its existence because existence is only given, not deduced, and the only necessary existence is the one which is given: indeed, it is the given of beings [de l’étant], with its ensuing contingency, or in its contingency.

 

3

There has never seriously been, therefore, a metaphysical God, and “God is dead” states the truth, matured and declared belatedly, of the entire history of philosophy. Philosophy is atheist in its very principle, and with it onto-theology as a whole, in which “god” is the putative name or convenient cipher for a necessity of the given, the name postulated by desire to make sense of the contingency of the world.

The thesis or hypo-thesis of God has no philosophical consistency. Theism is nothing but the nominal multicolored reverse of atheism, which is at once real, logical and material truth; a cold and grey logic, in fact, like the solitude of the world in the middle of nothing.

Thus we realize the uselessness of the notion of atheism. “God” is not a question for thought – and, on the contrary, thought essentially consists in moving in the element where this question does not take place. Reciprocally, to fix oneself in the element where one Subject or the other binds the world to its foundation is to cease thinking – whether this Subject is called God, Man, Nature or History. This is why no philosopher has ever “believed in God” even when defining his qualities (Descartes or Spinoza, but even Thomas Aquinas, Occam as much as Leibniz, and so on).

Nevertheless, this does not mean that philosophers, and anyone else besides, have nothing to do with this: when it comes to the element in which no Subject, no Substance, no Foundation can present itself in any way – when, in other words, it comes to the element in which no Thing sustains or holds the indefinite multiplicity of things, in which no instance of unity other than a distributive and disseminative one (unity itself is disseminated a priori) can sustain itself, then in this space of “nothing”, in the sense of no Thing (all things = no Thing, no-thing[2]), thought discovers that it thinks beyond all possible thought. It thinks beyond any Object and consequently beyond any possible Subject for an object in general.

4

And yet it thinks. And yet it opens up precisely to what is outside thought itself or it reveals to itself that it has reached the point of exceeding itself, not eliminating itself but not elevating itself either: doing nothing except opening itself. But this opening turns out to belong to a different logic and a different dynamic than that of the thought of the object, of the necessity and of the concept in general (unless we considerably modify the very concept of the “concept”, as Hegel does, and as Deleuze also does, differently).

What is outlined here is then a relation to something other than a thing. To something other than the world-thing. To a sign, in a certain sense, but not to the sign of a signification that would itself have a referent in the order of things. A sign as a signal of opening itself and towards opening. A sign as a call, as an address, and at the same time as the reception of a call or an address; neither to do nor to seize whatever it may be, but to undo and relinquish every thing and every signification of a thing. A call by the opening to the opening, a call not closed in on itself but infinitely opening the sameness of the same.

The name “God” may also have been the bearer of this sign, or even the sign itself. God as a sign of nothing, as the address of nothing but the opening of the world to a meaning that is outside itself (as Wittgenstein says), but that is not a “sense” in this outside, because this outside “is” not. The difference between the inside and the outside, between the world and what the world opens onto is not a difference of terms, since one of the terms is absent. It is the very difference of the same: the identity of an opening, not of a completion.

Is it then possible to “invoke” the name of “God”? There is no certainty of it and perhaps it has become forever impossible. The fact remains, however, that in secular usage this name has also had this function – if one may call it a function – and it had it because it towered by far over any other kind of supreme being [être] or subject. Never has a great mystic, a great “spiritual”, never has a true “worshipper” believed in the existence of God: we can be sure of that. Instead, they have invoked, implored or celebrated, they have adored – which is to say addressed – an unnamable name, which in fact remains unnamed, as a sign of the opening through which meaning escapes and truth announces itself.

 

Perhaps this is what the prayer of the a-atheists consisted of: repudiating god and non-god alike, and stammering, open-mouthed.”

Translated by Gianmaria Senia

 

In the  total stillness is his grace

The vanishing point’s not something we can snare,
For as we move towards it, it’s nowhere.
The two sides of a road will never meet
Despite you run with your eternal feet.

Yet we seem to see it as we stare,
Its existence is remote yet clear.
In the geometry of  dimension three,
Infinitely dear, this point ‘s not me

And so I ask myself if God compares.
We need his “presence” whether he is ” here.”
Without  that “point of view.” we have no “selves”
To see the holy earth in all its wealth.

Fast retreating from the ones who chase
In the  mystic stillness, he is grace.

Like curtains closed his eyes

A happy death is joy and sorrow twined
My man was going and it was not wrong
Yet sheets of tears fell  from my little eyes.

A sheet so dense I could not see the line
Of nurses,doctors,listening to my songs
A happy death is joy and sorrow twined

I never saw my nervous father die
And so his death in life did not belong
No sheet of tears fell down from my  child’s eyes.

My mother too  escaped  her daughter’s sight.
So I  had no  pasts to dwell among
A happy death is joy and sorrow twined

Darkness fell on London, and moonlight
I know  I was  quite silent having sung
Still sheets of tears fell down from widowed eyes.

I saw the hands of gold from Heaven descend
I was embraced too , death had no sting
A happy death is peaceful   and divine
The sheets of tears,  like curtains,  clothed his eyes

The  love of strangers brings to us its balm

Exchanging glances,humorous and warm
You were getting off the bus near me
The  love of strangers brings to us its balm

I remembered men who proffered  arms
Helping me to climb,though not up trees!
Exchanging glances,humorous and warm

 

I prefer the normal,not the charm
Just a little makes folk like to please
The  love of others gives both sides its balm

Reach out with your eyes but do not harm
Do not use sharp looks nor  try to freeze
Send a message,make it somewhat warm

As some welcomed Jesus with their palms
The Romans wished to kill and not to pray
The  faces of  the powerful  cause alarm

The message of  the adverts we must flee,
Love   embraces first the refugee
Exchanging glances,humorous and warm
Kindness gives us strength when we’re forlorn

Want to start writing poetry?

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https://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-m-raab/start-writing-poetry_b_7005194.html

Reading and writing poetry also has healing and transformative powers. As a matter of fact, many therapists augment their treatments by encouraging their clients to write poetry to express their feelings. This is one way to foster hidden creativity and a chance to allow the client to express themselves using another form. This may be done by writing about a moment or experience in the past, the present or even the future. The idea is to write including as many details as possible so the reader feels as if they are with you on the page, living the experience side by side. Writing poetry also forces you to go deeper into your heart and to write with your heart and not your head as a way to access your inner voice.

Like all types of writing, if you want to be a poet, it is imperative that you read lots of poetry. If you have never written a poem or have not written in a long time, a good place to begin is by writing a prose poem. This type of poem uses the rhythm of a sentence. It could be just a few sentences about a moment that changed your life, a vignette or a short story. The prose in a prose poem extends to the right hand margin, where verse breaks each line at a place not determined by the margin. The prose poem can be a story, description, or a captured mood. In a prose poem, all unnecessary words, phrases and clauses are eliminated. The French poet Charles Baudelaire was largely responsible for popularizing the prose poem.”