Evening meal

1.Avocado pear and melon with black grapes
Chop into small pieces and pour over it some olive oil and lemon juice

2.Cover a rectangular oven dish with layers of onion,mushrooms and tomatoes all sliced
Place on top some lamb chops.Bake  for about 45 minutes at about Gas 6…. till chops are brown.New potatoes go well

3. Mix some cream cheese with honey or maple syrup and serve in  very small round or square dishes

Sit in a comfortable chair and read a novel while drinking whatever you fancy  with whom you fancy or fantasise about  the tennis star of your choice.Or watch TV

Go to bed and dream about the sands at Old Hunstanton and how you  would feel riding a horse there.

How do you charge

How much do you charge?
About half

How do you charge?
On demand

Is therapy good for  us?
Only if  you are madder than the therapist

Can I find a new partner?
Why not resurrect the old one
Jesus Christ
Well, well.Are you a  virgin?
Almost.
What do you mean?
It’s  like limits in calculus
I’d say, more like the sum of an infinite geometric procession
Well, bless my soul
Done!
Thanks so clutch
Are you a virgin yet?
I’ll have to try
Try what?
What do you think?
I never do.
I can’t like others
But they like you

 

Or can we keep it sepia somehow?

Doctor can I have some therapy
I can’t like all these others whom I see.
I need to move to  better contexts soon
Gee, I sense  there is impending doom

Well, how much does it cost, what’s the  full fee?
Can you cure me if I work with you?
Will I need to dream in colour now
Or can we keep it sepia somehow?

I just say whatever comes to me
Free associations  cause us glee
I have been in therapy  before.
That resulted in the last World War

I still can’t like the others  but Freud said
Misery’s not quite madness when you’re dead.

I can’t like others

I can’t like others if they don’t like me
I need responses and a judgement fine
Love is transitive and may soon flee

I love to entertain  folk  having tea
Unless  some try to argue hate is fine
I can’t like others if they don’t like me

I do not wish to   savour enmity
While opening a new bottle of good wine
Love is transitive and may soon flee

There may be a gap before we see
Where we ought to draw a boundary line
I can’t like others if they don’t like me

Reflections may  change sides in harmony
Nothing  is not much until defined
Love is transitive and  so are we

Petulant and pouting, see me whine
At least my face has never caused a crime
I can’t like others if they don’t like me
Love is  here and  I may soon  agree

 

Could I love my neighbour very well?

I wondered if I were a cannibal
Could I eat my neighbour not a cow
As long as she was roasted really well?

With the army led by Hannibal
The Alps were crossed despite the ice and snow
I wondered if  they  ate an animal

Sheep and goats will often wear a bell
They ring melodiously as up the hill they go
As long as  they are treated really well

I guess I’d be dessert in caramel
Eaten up with cream till overflow
I wonder if   there still are cannibals

 

Oh, dear reader,I may say farewell
I need to see the oven is restored
So it  roasts potatoes really well

At least  consuming humans  is no bore
As long as they   like dwelling by a flower
I wondered if,  were I a cannibal,
Could I love my neighbour very well?

 

Just in case I might flatten a brown cow

In school they taught us how to iron men’s clothes
Handkerchiefs,shirts and even hose
I dreamed I took the iron from the nun’s grip
Then I laid her down and ironed her till quite flat.

And so it was I found my rage within
I went to school to learn and not to sin
I never told my mother of my dream
In case a flattened nun would make her scream.

I should have taken sculpture  in a class
Then made a model of this nun in glass
After she was  flattened she looked good
A piece of   clay could well  have understood

My dreams  escape as I awaken now
Just in case I might flatten a  brown cow

 

 

Stillness without dread

Half of me feels glad and half feels sad
I wonder which will take the higher place
I feel a need for stillness without dread
To let the hints of grace  in me  be read
Without obsession over what you said
Or listening to that fearful heavy  tread
I sometimes hear when I have gone to bed
Where is the essence of the love  we had?
Somewhere there must be a hint or trace
Part of me is sad and part is glad
Can  they each accept and then embrace?

It is seemly

The place where  my words live is overgrown
Despite it’s winter, freezing, and dark grey.
How did these creepers reach from their old home
The honeysuckle and the honey comb?
The Russian vine is wilder when it roams
The Ways of G-d  alone are not my ways.
The  place where my words died  is not yet shown
But   these days it is seemly should we pray.

Anthony Hecht.. a great poet

pexels-photo-408503.jpeghttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/anthony-hecht

“George P. Elliott contended in the Times Literary Supplement that “Hecht’s voice is his own, but his language, more amply than that of any living poet writing in English, derives from, adds to, is part of the great tradition.” Though his early work was often slighted as ornate or Baroque, his collection The Hard Hours (1967) is generally seen as his break-through volume. In that book, Hecht begins to use his experiences as a soldier in Europe during World War II. The often unsettling and horrific insights into the darkness of human nature told in limpid, flowing verse that characterize the poems in the collection would become Hecht’s trademark. According to Dana Gioia: “Hecht exemplifies the paradox of great art. … He found a way to take his tragic sense of life and make it so beautiful that we have to pay attention to its painful truth.”

 

Poetry and Truth

Hawfinch_Northmoor_2018-2.jpghttps://www.newcriterion.com/issues/2015/4/poetry-truth

Extract

The poet Mark Strand, who died this past November, once told Wallace Shawn in a Paris Review interview that “You don’t read poetry for the kind of truth that passes for truth in the workaday world. You don’t read a poem to find out how you get to Twenty-fourth Street.” In other words, poetic truth does not inhere ultimately in the denotative language of the poem. For facts, we have much more effective means of communication: the instruction manual, the brochure, the travel guide, or the public lecture. When Goethe takes “Poetry and Truth” as the title of his autobiography, what he is suggesting in part, I think, is that experience, in a work of art, may be rendered most clearly, and in a sense most truthfully, by attending to something beyond the verifiable facts. Fine, you might say, but doesn’t art, then, become, as Jacques Maritain wrote, “a world apart, closed, limited, absolute”—not the apprehension of reality but a replacement for reality, an illusion? This was a mote to trouble the mind’s eye of Plato.

Adefinition of poetry put forward by the poet Yvor Winters in his book Primitivism and Decadence (1937) sheds light on the question. A poem, Winters wrote, is a statement in words about a human experience—so far, so good, no?—a statement, he was quick to add, that pays particular attention to the connotative or emotional charge of language. Now, we all know where to find the denotative meaning of a word: we go to the dictionary. The connotative shades of a word, however, are harder to locate precisely. Take, for example, the word prison. The OED reports: “Originally: the condition of being kept in captivity or confinement; forcible deprivation of personal liberty; imprisonment. Hence (now the usual sense): a place of incarceration.” Clear, certainly, but a little dry. One could not say that this definition contains the complete meaningof the word.

The Shade of the Baobab

See this lovely post

Scribbled Verse

The wandering soul rests,

under a Baobab tree that offers sanctuary,

as the South African sun,

burns copper red.

The wanderer gives thanks to the ancestors,

a moment of respite from the unending journey,

sifting through the dust,

divining the road ahead,

a time to reflect,

on the miles lost through the sieve of time,

on the paths that have yet to be tread.

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The hole

The rosemary had a gap and a large hole
A blackbird made a nest there  where it sang
Startled people passing asked, who rang?
If I knew, I never would have told.

This gracious shrub was old and very wide
It made a home for snails against the wall
Near where  blackbirds busily might call
Yet wrongly pruned,eventually it died

One must not prune a bush into the wood
This plant is tender like the inside wrist
Where wanton lovers avidly do kiss
Thinking  they are  flagrant in their  good

 

Later we had placed a  beech  bonsai
Small and frail behind the red brick wall
Where the blackbird sang in Spring and Fall
Now the tree’s as tall as any lie

Small its leaves yet mighty is its heart
It pushes half the hedge off at a slant
Where the prickles fill with antic ants.
Hot the sun on leaves  that know no chart

Here the metal gate is open wide
The path is level but with spirit none
My heart is in the case with him who’s gone
I carry all my shopping bags inside

On the shelf, a little wooden tray
A butter dish perhaps or a cheese board
Too small for  any man who was a Lord
Here he left his  gold at end of day

How the picture changed

One sad day, the picture on the wall
Changed from The Three Bears to Waterfalls
A  three arched bridge across a river blue
A cataract, a grave. a sailing crew.

 

For little children have a world their own
The symbols are constructed as are poems
Bears play a large part in infants’ lives
Their comforters, their babies, their right guides

Would it occur to me  that Mam and Dad
Had no interest in a bear fur clad?
What was me must surely still be them-
United in our love till kingdom come.

I saw the picture  shift and change its guise
With these blue coloured orbs that are my eyes