Lonely blue

I bought more cyclamen and thought of you
Wandering through wild flowers  by my side
I don’t know where to put them,they might die
Then I would feel so sad and lonely blue,
All we read of pain and love is true.
Yet we let our hearts stay open wide
I bought some cyclamen and wanted you
Wandering through wild flowers  by my side
I have loved not widely but a few
I have touched on bliss  and when it flies
I have touched the grief that truly  lies
I bought  cyclamen and recalled you

Trust the dark unknown, to hold us

Four o’clock- and the sun’s still glowing
Four o’clock – on a  colour bright day,
Up above, pink clouds are sliding
Down still sky, sweeping sun away.

Come back sweet sun, do not leave us.
Come back bright beams,we need  your light
Down on earth,it’s witch moon darkness,
While your  face is out of sight.

I see the orange clouds extending
I feel such width of sky lit bright.
But gently now, the mist surrounds you
And sweeps away that happy sight.

Into velvet blackness sinking,
Dazzling, dreaming darkness falls.
Goodbye to haste,and glare, and sunshine,
Time for reverie,night-time calls.

On the night-train’s gentle journeys,
On this  trackless train we ride
Strange new sights and haunting pictures
We will find in dreams’ designs.

In my night train,I’ll be happy
In such rich deep reverie.
We visit darkness in our sleeping,
There we learn its ecstasy.

Now we may have no God to hold us,
In His Hands of Living Love,
What will help us trust deep blackness
If there’s no Saviour from above?

Must we enter that great darkness,
Go back to dark from which we came,
Into dark all living creatures,
In that darkness find our home?

Trust the dark unknown, to hold us,
Trust the dark,both night and day.
Must we walk into that darkness
And trust it is our safest way?


Nothing is so low as  dark  dark. earth
Every living being turns to dust
Where  worms and beetles make no claim to worth

I wonder if they’re capable of mirth
As we parade our egos ,as one must!
Nothing is so low as  dark  dark. earth

From blackness comes creation and new birth
As little insects calm us with their trust
The  worms and beetles make no   noisy fuss

Life will happen, cannot be rehearsed
As the tide of life rides with true lust
Nothing is as good as  dark  dark. earth

Looking round, we tremble on our path
Are we selfish,are our actions just?
The  worms and beetles make no   worried fuss


Comes the day and comes the aged Nurse
Has she got your money in her purse?
Nothing is as   dear as  rich  dark. earth
Where  worms and beetles  ground us as they work


What is humility?


“Outside of a religious context, humility is defined as being “unselved” a liberation from consciousness of self, a form of temperance that is neither having pride (or haughtiness) nor indulging in self-deprecation.[4][5] The materialistic view characterizes humility as self-restraint that frees oneself from vanity.

Humility is an outward expression of an appropriate inner, or self, regard and is contrasted with humiliation which is an imposition, often external, of shameupon a person. Humility may be misappropriated as ability to suffer humiliation through self-denouncements which in itself remains focus on self rather than low self-focus.[6][7]

Humility, in various interpretations, is widely seen as a virtue which centers on low self-preoccupation, or unwillingness to put oneself forward, so it is in many religious and philosophical traditions, it contrasts with narcissismhubris and other forms of pride and is an idealistic and rare intrinsic construct that has an extrinsic side.”

 Rivers freeze and  fields are  thick with frost

Steam rose like a cloud of raging  dust
I’d left a copper pan on a hotplate
Yet all around the  ground was  thick  with frost

I did,I did, I did,I must confess
But surely I don’t need to emigrate
Steam rose like a cloud of raging   dust

Some feel shame and some feel overstuffed
With guilt and horror,hot as fiery grates
Though all around the  ground is  thick  with frost

So we do not like to take a risk,
Look for work and find a loving mate
Sins hiss like  black clouds of raging   dust

The ruler of our soul has iron fists
We’re seldom free enough to navigate
Rivers freeze and  fields are  thick  with frost

Fear and terror can annihilate
Then rage comes by to further isolate
Steam rose like a cloud of raging ghosts
Dispel such vision with a cold,cold frost


Poetry and identity

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“For my money, the best poem on the subject is WH Auden’s In Memory of WB Yeats, which unites issues of personal and literary identity, and explores the question of the extent to which authors can identify themselves with their work.

“For him it was his last afternoon as himself,” says Auden of Yeats’ dying day,

An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs, The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections, To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. The words of a dead man Are modified in the guts of the living.

The brilliance of Auden’s poem, for me, is that not only does he raise these fundamental questions in some of the most fervent, lyrical lines I’ve come across in poetry, he also uses his poem to enact the point he is making. The poem is divided into three sections, and in the third, Auden pays ringing tribute to Yeats in lines that have an unmistakably Yeatsian flavour. The two poets merge for a moment on the page, identity becomes fluid, and Yeats comes alive again through Auden’s lines. It’s a heartstopping poem: I highly recommend you give yourselves a Poetry Day treat and read it.”

My vowels

_100192499_p05zfw5gSo what gives you anguish?
My bowels!
I don’t mean that kind of anguish.
You wait till you’ve been in and out all night
That’s a double entendre.
If only.
Still, it makes me grateful to have a bathroom with a radiator
Why, what do you do with that?
It keeps  me warm while I do Super Fiendish puzzles
Why  do those?
I can’t waste any time.
But when you die will God ask you how many you did?
I’ll ask him why my bowels  are so sensitive
It’s not just your bowels.
I wonder why they ate called bowels and if they are related to vowels?
B and V are quite similar in some languages.
Funny how we learn all the sounds as babies and we don’t even know we are doing it
Then we spend  years learning to read and write and we do know and for some it is hell
The average reading age here is 9!
So is that why people buy the Sun?
Apparently.What they should do is bring out a simplified version of a  paper like the Guardian
No, it lacks human interest.That’s what many of us want.Gossip,sickness,bravery, fires,death,cancer,bombs, heroism,scans,shingles and  flu
I don’t know how you can get to the doctor’s if you have flu as it makes you so weak
Then the doctor might catch it!
What would we do then?
Lie in bed and drink lots of water and read dirty books.Oh,pardon me.Clean books
You are so funny
i can do it without trying
Although listening can be trying!
Buy some ear plugs
Or stop talking