The famous catalogue

Some days I remember that old job
Long hours and low pay  and nothing good
Working for a well known catalogue

A man came round as  nasty as a frog
He shouted,faster,stupid women,are you wood?
Sometimes I remember that old job

If we had to pee, they kept a log
Seemed as if they wanted guts and blood
Working for a cruel catalogue

The men were bosses at the old golf club
They  thought that they were wonders as they trod
I don’t  need  reminding of that job

This was long before I had a blog
No-one knew  those sacrilegious pigs
Working for  mail order catalogues

I nearly  lost my mind ,maybe I did
Sinking very slowly in the mud
Even now I shudder at that job
Working for a famous catalogue

 

 

Stop smoking

I asked my boyfriend to stop smoking so he went outside threw himself into the 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.~

 

I see your face

To be my friend, respect my sacred space
Do not conquer me, we’re not at war.
Knowing this, we both receive kind grace

Love, not power, is shared by an embrace
Without this care, we will not come  near
To being friends, respecting sacred space

To love and gaze upon one holy face
To be accepted without selfish fears
To know all this, is in itself a grace.

To be connected, loving  is a state.
We must respect, be near but not too near.
Becoming friends makes a new sacred space.

The first and also last is each dear face
Where we gaze, deciphering what endured
To realise this, is in itself a grace

So life itself diseased, seeks out a cure
If we ignore what glitters, what allures
To be my friend, respect my sacred space
I am me, myself , let us save  face

 

 

 

 

Evoke

KODAK Digital Still Camera
KODAK Digital Still Camera
evoke
ɪˈvəʊk/
verb
verb: evoke; 3rd person present: evokes; past tense: evoked; past participle: evoked; gerund or present participle: evoking
  1. 1.
    bring or recall (a feeling, memory, or image) to the conscious mind.
    “the sight evoked pleasant memories of his childhood”
    synonyms: bring to mind, call to mind, put one in mind of, call up, conjure up, summon up, summoninvoke, give rise to, bring forth, elicitinducekindlestimulate, stir up, awakenarouseexciteraisesuggestMore

    • elicit (a response).
      “the Green Paper evoked critical reactions from various bodies”
      synonyms: bring to mind, call to mind, put one in mind of, call up, conjure up, summon up, summoninvoke, give rise to, bring forth, elicitinducekindlestimulate, stir up, awakenarouseexciteraisesuggestMore

  2. 2.
    invoke (a spirit or deity).
    “Akasha is evoked in India when a house is being built to ensure its completion”
    synonyms: bring to mind, call to mind, put one in mind of, call up, conjure up, summon up, summoninvoke, give rise to, bring forth, elicitinducekindlestimulate, stir up, awakenarouseexciteraisesuggestMore

Origin
early 17th century (in sense 2): from Latin evocare, from e- (variant of ex- ) ‘out of, from’ + vocare ‘to call’.

Stay well by being creative

cat gazing at flying objects
Cat gazing at flying objects by Katherine

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/nov/05/art-and-soul-how-sparking-creativity-helps-you-stay-well

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/nov/05/art-and-soul-how-sparking-creativity-helps-you-stay-well

 

“We need to remind ourselves that creativity can be as simple as playing or doing things differently, so that we give ourselves permission to open the door to other activities and usher in all the benefits that come with this – from time to reflect or overcoming perfectionism to communicating or simply having fun. In this way, building sandcastles or writing witty emails can be a gateway to a pottery class or keeping a journal or writing a poem.

Imagination and inventiveness should be for everyone. If we let go of the idea that artists are somehow “other” and that we can only access that part of ourselves when under pressure, we could all be more creative.

The Taste of Blue Light by Lydia Ruffles is published by Hodder

 

A deeper place

 · 

The problem is that we were supposed to be politically correct and so not give voice to things like racism , anti-Semitism ,anti -feminism and speaking about women or touching them an offensive, dominating way.But like many imposed solutions it didn’t work very well as it merely hid how some people, mainly [ white ] men, still really felt.The change will have to come from a deeper place. and will take longer to become genuine, if it ever does.Ethical and moral values are weak.
A man said to me, we just had a black President so women could not expect to have a woman to follow on..as if white men were being deprived of their right to be President for most or all of the future.If there is a future once the new regime  continues.

Mistakes

Scillies_ManxShearwaters.jpg
“Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that
nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he
admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.”

– William Faulkner, The Art of Fiction No. 12

Cause of death

1 Fell off writers’ block into a pit of tigers.Bad layout.
2.Strangled by over-loving cat.Verdict: guilty
3.Large bottle of ink bounced back off wall . thus broke skull.Suicide denied by dead man or wife as appropriate [Delete one]
4 Forgot to eat while writing long novel.Was not worth it
5 Forgot to sleep owing to inspiration.Stupid despite possessing genius
6.Killed by malfunction of new laptop.[Can be returned to Amazon  free when body is removed]
7.Tried to meditate and fell out of the window. Accidental death
8 Tried to clean outside of the window with a microfibre cloth.A pane broke and cut his throat.Incidental death
9  Got depressed by lack of air.Jumped and lost balance killing two cats on the patio.Verdict Unfurred
10.Thought he was sleepwalking and walked off roof of extension [only just completed].Insurance will be paid.
11.Fainted in  church and was used as a human sacrifice.Jesus wept
12 Hit head on bannister while falling down the stairs.Euthanasia while dizzy.Resurrection imminent
13.Fought off wife but bitten by the dog .Both dead.Verdict, pointless end.
14 Wrote a best seller, got drunk and died of shock!
15 His blog was declared a threat to humanity.Died of shame.

The lavender I dried lies in between

The lavender I dried lies in between
The   past, its  memories, and the present day
These  pages of the book you wrote and dreamed

I see you writing and the way you leaned.
The cat across your shoulders loving lay.
The lavender I dried was not yet seen

Now empty is the room  that held those scenes
The old cat  died, depriving me of play
Here still  are the pages of  books  dreamed

Is life a lesson, what does living mean?
Are those wounds of  battle or dismay?
The lavender I dried scents the unseen

That was life eternal, so it seemed
But you have gone and none are here today
Except the pages of  these books  we dreamed

When will we reach the harbour, fine and gay?
For God is smiling as we cross  the bay
The lavender I dried lies in between
The pages of the life that we once dreamed.

How power corrupts the mind

IMG_0012.jpghttps://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/07/how-power-corrupts-the-mind/277638/

 

 

“Though it’s not that the powerful are bad people. “There is a tendency for people to assume power holders are uncaring, they’re cold, they don’t care about the little people,” says Pamela Smith, a power researcher at the University of California San Diego. But that’s not always the case. It depends on who gets the power. “You put someone in an experiment, temporarily, in a high-powered role, and what you find is that people who say they have pro-social values, the more power they have, the more pro-social they are. The people who say they have more self-centered values tend to be more selfish the more power they have.””

The sentence is in stock

To be a writer you must buy a block
Then you need a pen and paper both.
I don’t what my shops have in stock

You have no right to find another dock
So stand in court  and take a solemn oath
To be a writer you must buy a block

Quickly  stir your dinner in a wok
For brains need food when energy falls low
I don’t what omens are in stock

You might need more paper, hire a truck
Fill it up with reams  of  stuff in rows
To be a writer you must buy a block

Once you write a line, you’re  called unstuck
To its fellows you must be the host.
I don’t what  sentences we stock

The sentences must run out  unenforced
And between them we ignite  further words
To be a writer you must buy a block
Just see what  the Bailey’s got ad hoc

 

 

 

 

For the lost, our little heart will pine

Remembrance, anniversaries in the mind
The date, the number, year return again
The painful feelings flood up, unresigned

Yet were these rituals once a  good design
To shed the many tears that still remain?
Remembrance, anniversaries of the mind

 

And to the lonely mourners are they kind?
They make the loss of love so very plain
The painful feelings well up, unresigned

Those who cannot see, the wilful blind
And those who withold love cause helpless pain;
Remember in the solitude of  mind

For the lost, our little heart will pine
The wildness of the feelings is untamed
The painful facts are noticed, undermined

Death is  here and tears flow out unfeigned
The symbols of normality disdained
Remembrance, anniversaries hit the mind
The painful feelings rise up and resound

 

 

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 so well the suffering of your days
A fear of tragic pasts feared imminent
The pathos in your eyes made sad my gaze
The mental torment heavy all your days.
Yet you must hide from men intolerant
You revealed the face within your face
Like martyrs, you were tortured and disgraced
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 mad, the poor vagrant?
You revealed the face within your face
The pathos in your eyes makes me ashamed

I’m relieved I’ll never have to retry

Since my husband died I’ve burned eight pans
And  just like him I’ve got eight wireless sets
I leave the hot tap running and I’m banned
For breaking all the cups I’ve not caught yet.

I do the stupid things I told him off for
Like putting empty pans back on the gas
And sometimes I have even thanked professors
Who tell me in my dreams I’ll  never pass

I’m back at Uni  feeling lost and lonesome
Wondering  if I’ll ever  find a room
Wondering if my mind will get some thoughts in
Or will my world come down to crash and doom?

I’m relieved I’ll never have to retry
To teach those undergraduates to knit pi

 

The answering machine

I got a new phone with an answering machine so I said to it
Why is the country in such a mess? But it didn’t anwer.I’ll send it back to BT and ask for a refund.No wonder the country is in a mess if answering machines are too lazy to answer my questions.Even if it just said,Noone knows,that might have helped me.As it is I shall see what the fridge says about it.

Bonhoeffer the brave

http://www.nationalreview.com/article/255411/bonhoeffer-brave-interview

 

“A new look at a 20th-century hero Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s life was more riveting than most of the novels written this year. And Eric Metaxas, in his new monumental biography of the Lutheran pastor who was executed at the Flossenburg concentration camp after his participation in a failed attempt to kill Hitler, tells Bonhoeffer’s story with the fluidity of a novel. Metaxas talks about Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy with National Review Online’s Kathryn Jean Lopez. ”

Read more at: http://www.nationalreview.com/article/255411/bonhoeffer-brave-interview

The writer’s block fell on me

I thought I’d write fifty-five sonnets
And a novel as well, while I’m here
But the writers’ block fell on me
Fellow poets yelled at me
All I could  make was a tear.

Will villanelles be better subjects
If all I want is quantity?
I never knew what they were,
The very name seemed bizarre.
How hard is my job going to be?

Well, maybe the triolet being shorter
Will give me a kick in the pants
My husband is watching me
His ashes rise from the TV
He said ,why can’t you get a  big grant

I  used to write free verse when starting
As I never thought I’d  go on
But the demon-possessed me
It gets very pesky
And Jesus b’aint here, eeh by gum!

I wrote on some paper at dinner
For my husband had  got very slow
I wrote two good sonnets
I am very honest.
I  didn’t ken  that was death’s door

He said, why don’t you talk to me, Mary
Instead of misusing that pen.
But he knew nothing of logic
Which I felt was quite tragic
So I put him to bed with a hen.

I see the hens as a blessing
Instead of a duvet of down.
They may lay an egg in bed
But as Jesus , no doubt, once said
The cock will crow thrice for a noun

 

 

Quality or quantity in writing

29routine9-superJumbo

http://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/by-writing-goal/improve-my-writing/quality-v-quantity-do-they-need-each-other

“Now that I’m escaping from the vacuum of National Poetry Month and another successful April Poem-A-Day Challenge, I find myself wondering about the relationship of quantity and quality in writing. Is there value in writing every day? Is a writing routine a good or bad thing for poets? Questions such as these have been swirling around my head, and here’s my take: I think quantity can lead to quality.

First, let me be clear: Quality is the ultimate goal for any of the poems I try to get published. I’m not trying to publish as many poems as I possibly can for the sake of getting published. I wrote for more than a decade before I even tried submitting my poems, so quantitative publishing is not my end game, and I would not recommend that route to other poets. In my mind, one great poem is better than a million poems nobody remembers. So, let’s not get mixed signals about my views on quantity and quality.

I do think the way to be good at anything, including art, is to practice. If you’re a painter, you paint. If you’re a mathematician, you solve problems. If you’re a writer (whether you write fiction, nonfiction or poetry), you write.

Of course, there are many other layers of complexity that can be placed on the poet’s shoulders. Poets should read other poets. Poets should revise their work fearlessly. Poets should take chances. Poets should listen to the world around them. Poets should live. But at the end of the day, poets should write poems.

During the month of April, I wrote 30 poems in 30 days (actually, a handful more than that). Am I going to hold on to all those poems? No. But I am hopeful that a few will stick around and make it into a collection after revision. Or at the very least, maybe a few lines or images will find their way into another poem or two down the line. As my friend S.A. Griffin likes to say, it’s all about process.

Here are a few reasons why quantity leads to quality:

  • Writing poems prepares you for inspiration. Inspiration strikes when it strikes, and everyone is struck with inspiration from time to time. What separates a poet from others is that the poet is ready to take that inspiration and turn it into a poem. A painter might take the exact same inspiration and turn it into a painting. A novelist a novel. And so forth.
  • Writing poems opens your mind to more poems. Some poets hold onto an image or idea until it is fully processed. I think this is great, but sometimes I lose those images and ideas if I don’t write them down. Plus, I’ve noticed when I write I clear that space in my head for new ideas and images.
  • Revision comes after the first draft. Great poems come from revision. It’s hard work, sure, but poets can’t revise unless they have first drafts upon which to play. In other words, poets need to write to revise.

Of course, there are many other routes to quality beyond quantity, but I often feel poets (and other writers) are afraid to write anything that’s not nearly perfect on the first draft. Don’t be afraid. Write, write, write. That’s the only path you can take to get to the ultimate goal: a quality poem you love.”

  Shame

When shame has overwhelmed me like a curse
And scarlet cheeks now decorate my face,
Are manners failures and not evil worse
To cast a person out from their right place?

To disappear from here is all I wish
To hide myself beneath a beggar’s cloak.
To eat soup from a convent’s dish.
As in familiar haunts, they often joke.

Guilt can be expiated and redeemed
But shame destroys the deepest source of self.
What helpful measures may now intervene,
Cover my shied face, restore with health?

Is it only I who see my plight?
Imagined laughter hides  me from your sight

IN DEEP

 

I’m in deep now, never been this deep before
The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door.
In so deep, the ocean has its own startled floor.
I’m down, down. down.never been so dark , so more.

I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am
I think I had an accident, fell over, then I swam.
Sometimes it’s a loss, be times it’s a man.
I guess I only do it ‘cos I know some folk can.

I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain
Would I choose to relive it,  if I was born again?
The deep joy is the amazing gain.
But the sorrow is damn sad, let’s admit it plain.

I’m in deep and it’s over my head
What was I thinking of, when I fell out of that bed?
I look up and the sea’s so turquoise like that mist is red
When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.

At first, it was all just black, black pain
But from the bottom of the well, I looked up with awed love again.
That’s when I recalled ,feelings are sound and sane
Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep, deep zone.

I dunno if I’m ever comin’ out.
We can’t control it ,ain’t that what life’s all about?
I’ll never love with innocence again, nor not feel doubt.
But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout.

I’m swimming and the ocean’s so mysteriously bright
Down here,we don’t have no day nor no night
Fish nudge me with big grins and teeth white.
Sea-flowers fondle me and whisper, turn off that light!

Lessons on writing from Stephen King

Photo0292  3.jpg
Original photo and art by Katherine 

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/news/stephen-king-22-lessons-creative-writing-advice-novels-short-stories-a8021511.html

Phones

I am too concerned with my mental life to  answer any phones phonemes and phoney operators so I will not listen to the messages.
My cat just died.Please don’t leave a message
I’m in the bath so I am afraid of the phone falling in.Thanks
I am asleep so hang up.
I have got ” do not  disturb” on my phone.So try to, please.I’ll tell you the results.
My phone has Call Control.I can throw it at the wall and it won’t break
My phone can block you.And you.And Boris Johnson
My phone is better than yours because I  stuck glitter all over it and some mistletoe.
My phone might have spoken to Bibi  Netanyahu but I don’t know anything about it or him.He left no message unless it’s in a bottle.It’s a good excuse to get drunk before I see Theresa May.
My phone is here but I am not.If you have any spare money put it in the post.I need it.Coffee is £2.75 now!
I can’t understand myself at all.Am I here or not?

Virtue or vice

Marsh-H-Dry-Sand.jpg
We don’t live a good life to gain rewards.We do it because we feel better living that way.
But how do we do it?
We can’t be good entirely by willpower but maybe we can recognise when we do bad things.And try to learn
I believe perception is what matters.Change that and everything else changes.
Many terms from art  are good  for living

A  new perspective
A sense of proportion
Looking at what is NOT there.
Opening our eyes
Getting the balance right
Another point of view
Seeing what is there, not what we want to see
Letting life affect us.
Letting others give their picture.

If not to grief

I don’t think I’ll write a villanelle
I’ve done the form to death, if not to grief
I  feel like I am flying up a well

I have learned that only victims tell
That time is not a giver but a thief
I don’t think I’ll write a villanelle

I’m feeling poor; I’ve nothing I can sell
I’d better start a newer, fuller life
I  feel like I am spying in a well.

A sonnet is much harder yet they sell.
I realise I could now take a wife;
So I don’t think I’ll write a villanelle

I ponder over Patel’s Israel
Theresa May is getting all the strife
I  feel like I am drowning in my well.

Mortal sin has taken on new life
What about our loss of  love and grace?
I don’t think I’ll write about this hell
The government are fools and lie as well

The phone

I’ve got my landline on ” Do not disturb” but on reflection, I see it is cheaper not to have one at all.
Wasn’t it great going on holiday years agi with no post, no phones ringing and no-one asking you for favours? Now they can email  and text you all the time
I got  a message on my answer phone

Ahhh,uhhh,grrhhhh, cough, cough, vlah, blah,eff off, is that you Lord?Aaaah,uhhhhh,ohhhh.I did not sin after Mass.Ohhhh,grtoooom bum,la la kaaaa,bang.

That is interesting.Am I God or what?

Amazon prime now trick?

Oxford_2017-2.jpgAmazon prime now food delivery was free albeit a £2 tip was suggested and I paid this as getting food the same day os useful midweek.Today I discovered I would be paying an additional £3.99.Unless I spend £40.But the access is not to the whole Morrison’s site so it’s not  good for all your shopping
.I also noticed last week they were charging me £3 for some tissues which were £2.38 in Morrison’s  own shop.They were an own brand mansize
So if I had not been careful I’d have been  paying £5.99  and the £3.99 goes to Amazon not Morrison.I could have removed the tip of £2 but the delivery person gets that and as they are not paid much I didn’t mind it~
So if you are somewhat disabled like I am, then plan ahead carefully.

I am even thinking of using real hankies, as I have loads of my husband’s here!!
Another helping hand cut off.

Political poems

3000456.jpghttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/144562/political-poems

 

COLLECTION

Political Poems

Poets lend voices to current events and elections as they critique and defend the social and political issues of their day.

Plato wanted to banish poets from his Republic because they can make lies seem like truth. Shelley thought poets were “the unacknowledged legislators of the world,” and Auden insisted that “poetry makes nothing happen.” This collection of poems point to the many different kinds of political poems, and the reasons for writing them.

USHERING IN: U.S. INAUGURAL POEMS

JFK requested Frost, Clinton invited Angelou and Miller, and Obama asked Alexander: read the four poems that have been read at presidential inaugurations.

  • ELIZABETH ALEXANDER

    I know there’s something better down the road.
    We need to find a place where we are safe.
    We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

  • MAYA ANGELOU

    But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
    Come, you may stand upon my
    Back and face your distant destiny,

  • ROBERT FROST

    Something we were withholding made us weak
    Until we found out that it was ourselves

  • MILLER WILLIAMS

    But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
    except in the minds of those who will call it Now?