Month: March 2018

Perfect love will castrate perfect fear

There is humour in the Bible we revere
Soles are heeled,partitions sent to God
Perfect love will castrate  perfect fear

Five thousand people shared a single deer
The meat was cooked by a fast lightning rod
There is humour in the Bible, we can hear

There’s nothing much to buck up  the impure
But plentiful the ways to cut off heads
Perfect love can escalate  one’s fear

God made  Jonah subtly disappear
And caught Elijah when in caves he hid
There is humour in the Bible if you peer

 

With a wail from Jonah,God  appeared
His still small voice  got louder by  the Flood
Perfect love will castrate  perfect fear

After many liars are turned to wood
I hope Gomorrha you will all be good
There is  guidance in the Bible, but laugh here.
Perfect love will castrate  perfect fear

Well,I got my hair  cut on Good Friday,yeah

Well,I got my hair  cut on Good Friday,yeah~
Should folk  be working then d’yah think?
I look like I’ve had chemotherapy

So cancer,I am ready, if you prey
I’ve had a cut and now it’s dyed  and punk
Well,I got my hair  cut on Good Friday,yeah~

Once we had more order in our ways
We got married and had sex  when we were drunk
I look like I’ve had psychotherapy

See, I look at this life  somewhat differently
I have the treatment backwards  to show spunk
Well,I got my hair   trimmed on Good Friday,yeah

I’ll have no chemo  and the illness may
Be upended like a ton of flying junk
I look like I’ve had vinotherapy

 

When you get that  letter, have  a thought
This is not the fish our Saviour caught
Well,I got my hair  cut on Good Friday,yeah
I look like I’ve had logotherapy

 

Mysterious is the Fire which needs no spark

At the entrance to the tunnel of the dark
An angel warmed me in  soft golden light
Mysterious as that Fire which needs no spark

On dangerous journeys we unknown embark
Stricken by a grief, we are in flight
To the entrance to the tunnel of the dark

As hesitantly as a  babe will walk
Who has no mother nor love’s proper sight
Mysterious as that Fire which needs no spark

As strange as what makes silent people balk
When failed by humans,with no rest, respite
We reach the entrance to the tunnel  dark

 

Gathered in by angels  of the heart
No false pride  in me led to  a fight
Mysterious is the Fire which needs no spark

The body is  the home to sacred rites
Love erotic,humble in delight
With a golden net, I had been caught
Mysterious is the Fire which needs no spark

No arguing

When they find they are wrong
Don’t expect them to be open
They will fling more excuses at you
Justifications
If you are argue, it pushes them back to find more
They already know, but they are afraid
Or proud.Gradually truth will come to the forefront
They will be either modest or bitter
But don’t sit there waiting for them to confess
Only let them fling themselves to the ground weeping
As in their sorrow they will find the truth
Some will accept and others become evil.
But that is  mere self-importance.
Just let it be

Then we rise up and our songs float out.

5 · 

I learned a hymn in our old kirk.
I realized then that God is black
I think he sometimes laughs and cries.
When one thing grows,another dies.

We went to church and we all sang.
The organ played and the big bells rang.
But we never heard the answer then
till a strange loud voice called out,”Women”

I’m not sure  we were fit to sing.
Yet, what but joy can we each bring?
The psalms will comfort us at night.
And in the dawn we see the Light.

Then we rise up and our songs float out.
The cats miaow as they run about.
The dogs join in to bark and growl.
And from the sky we hear God howl.Amen

R.T is  ¨Russia Today¨ and not the Radio Times

 

pear-and-apple-2.jpg1.All flights were cancelled from Tottenham Airport owing to cats on the roof of the departure lounge and the runway has not been barnacled yet.
2.After a fire in a waste bin, the ladies´ toilets are very warm.Please sit carefully
3 A woman in Chingford has been fined for selling hot cross buns outside  Marks and Spencers on Maundy Thursday when they are only legally sold on Good Friday and we should not be profiting from them or God
4. R.T is  ¨Russia Today¨ and not the Radio Times.Do not expel any Russian lodgers from your house as the airport is already full and we are expecting a lot of British dipsomaniacs to be arriving tonight from Moscow and  other cities.
5.Night is cancelled owing the the sun not going out when we pulled the cord.Please read your books and phones and refrain from screaming blue murder.We hope to turn the sun off tomorrow

[signed] H M ‘ s Government liars

Tell me your sins

Say,Father,may I make a confession?
No, the confessional box is broken
I want to tell you ,not a box
Are you a Catholic?
What kind of a question is that?
Fairly simple.
Well ,do Protestants have to use a box?
For what?
You are so evasive
We have to be in case you are a spy.
Who for?
That´ś what I am wondering
I might be a double agent
Oh, for goodness sake,tell me your sins
I thought you would never ask!

But God himself is killed  and killed again

The wicked  men might pay the price of sin
Execution by the State was law
But God himself was killed outside and in

Impersonal ,the State judged  guilt and then
For its sentence, history recalled
The wicked who had paid the price of sin

No-one sees why murder had begun
Cain and Abel´ś story then evolved
But God himself was killed outside and in

Only God knew sin and act were   twinned
Since someplace sacred there had been a Fall
The wicked self might pay the price of sin

Jesus loved, and learned our human pain
Good was murdered,love itself dissolved
As  God  was killed  with  cruel,cold disdain

Who was Jesus, what did he stand for
When armies took his  ensign into war?
The  high and wicked  hide their guilt and sin
But God himself is killed  and killed again

Elected Silence by Gerard Manley Hopkins

https://genius.com/Gerard-manley-hopkins-the-habit-of-perfection-annotated

 

3 The Habit of Perfection

ELECTED Silence, sing to me
And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
Pipe me to pastures still and be
The music that I care to hear.

Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:
It is the shut, the curfew sent
From there where all surrenders come
Which only makes you eloquent.

Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark
And find the uncreated light:
This ruck and reel which you remark
Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.

Palate, the hutch of tasty lust,
Desire not to be rinsed with wine:
The can must be so sweet, the crust
So fresh that come in fasts divine!

Nostrils, your careless breath that spend
Upon the stir and keep of pride,
What relish shall the censers send
Along the sanctuary side!

The Lamb by Wm Blake

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43670/the-lamb-56d222765a3e1

 

The Lamb

Little Lamb who made thee
         Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
         Little Lamb who made thee
         Dost thou know who made thee
         Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,
         Little Lamb I’ll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
         Little Lamb God bless thee.
         Little Lamb God bless thee.

The Tyger by Wm Blake

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43687/the-tyger

The Tyger

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
  • Related

God’s grandeur

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Photo by Katherine

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44395/gods-grandeur

 

God’s Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
    It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
    It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
    And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
    And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Are we to blame?

birds28
Mike Flemming is to blame for this photo

http://bostonreview.net/forum/barbara-fried-beyond-blame-moral-responsibility-philosophy-law

 

“There are other possibilities that neither hold us hostage to reactive attitudes such as blame nor require us to view others from a position of moral superiority or indifference. We could begin by extending to others the interpretive generosity we would wish for ourselves were we standing in their shoes. Here is Erin Kelly’s eloquent account of what such a standpoint might entail:

While it seems to me that we are not morally required to enter into a wrongdoer’s perspective enough to appreciate the difficulty of the obstacles that led her to falter, the possibility of a compassionate recognition of the reasons for a person’s moral failures humanizes relationships and opens possibilities for understanding, forgiveness, and an honest reckoning with faults we might share.

Which kind of respect would you rather have? “

In some cultures customs become laws,is this logical?

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This photo is from Russia Today.I thought it was the Radio Times for a few minutes

Why  or when should a custom become a law? Why would it be necessary? If it were the custom to eat Christian missionaries in some remote African tribe,ought that to become a law thus ensuring their descendants would cry:
But mother I don’t want to eat a Christian missionary,I want some green leaves and a banana!
And as many of the missionaries were celibate the supply would run out hence it follows that these poor folk would have to build ships and sail to Britain to find some more as they were common here once but now only a few are left in the wilds.
Would you agree that customs might  make bad laws and which of your customs would you love or hate to become laws?

Human words

By Katherine

Words have far more power than we know
We speak with little care and little thought
Hitting human hearts like leaded snow

Thoughtlessly we chatter as we go
Loving silence needs now to be taught
Words have far more impact than we know

On and on in speech we let it flow,
Or by a news reporter we are caught
Hitting human hearts like leaded snow

Some use their words mainly as a show
Meaning nothing, harming those untaught
Words have far more power than we know

When we speak there is an undertow
Like a turning tide well out of sight
Hitting human hearts like leaded snow

Oh, where is there a place with better light?
We did not intend to start a  fight
Words have far more power than we think
Stinging human hearts until they sink

Words of wisdom

 

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I did this using Microsoft Paint on Windows Vista which was a very simple programme
On Windows 10 it is more complex but you have to draw with the cursor which is hard in either case

“It is not inertia alone that is responsible for human relationships repeating themselves from case to case, indescribably monotonous and unrenewed: it is shyness before any sort of new, unforeseeable experience with which one does not think oneself able to cope. But only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical will live the relation to another as something alive.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

“You don’t know what work these conditions are doing inside you”

chesire-car-index

“Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any misery, any depression, since after all you don’t know what work these conditions are doing inside you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. If there is anything unhealthy in your reactions, just bear in mind that sickness is the means by which an organism frees itself from what is alien; so one must simply help it to be sick, to have its whole sickness and to break out with it, since that is the way it gets better.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

All our ethics fled as hate ran loose

The old man stumbles as he sits by me
We were both athletic in our youth
Now we’re wounded by life history.

We sat in pain on plastic sloping seats
London Transport fears  a crazy thief
The old man stumbles as he sits by me

Oh,I would love to sit down by the sea
And let the tide  remove my tears of grief
We’re  each wounded by life history.

Yet we’ve lived three times as long as Keats
The artist soul who died still in his youth
The old man stumbles as he sits by me

My granny  had 10 sons  but four would die
Another  shot in France,oh God on high!
We’re  each wounded by life history.

The genocides and wars unstructured truth
And all our ethics fled as hate ran loose
The old man stumbles as he sits by me
We  wound   and kill  the Others as they flee

 

What is Sacred? by Lee Herrick

pexels-photo-277184.jpeg

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57225/what-is-sacred

Launch Audio in a New Window
I have no idea what priests
dream of on Christmas Eve, what prayer
a crippled dog might whine before the shotgun.
I have no more sense of what is sacred
than a monk might have, sweeping the temple
floor, slow gestures of honor to the left,
the right. Maybe the leaf of grass tells us
what is worthwhile. Maybe it tells us nothing.
Perhaps a sacred moment is a photograph
you look at over and over again, the one
of you and her, hands lightly clasped like you
did before prayer became necessary, the one
with the sinking cathedral in Mexico City rising up
behind you and a limping man frozen in time
to the right of you, the moment when she touched
your bare arm for the first time, her fingers

Feel their geometry in the mind

It’s Autumn weather, geese fly by,

Autumn rust, red, gold, low,high.

Drystone walls edging fields,

Apples gathered,holly berries

Flash so brightly

Look like flowers

Sun shines sideways,shadows long

Of trees appear.I dwell among

Woods of gentle beeches sing

Swaying with the sideward wind.

See their roots, all intertwined.

 

Look up now into the sky,

See the V formation high.

Geese fly home at end of day.

My heart is moved by patterned dance

In this peace and vast silence

My mind widens like the sky

And in this moment I would die,

So I could stay with this still vision

Of geese set out on autumn mission.

Snails in rain pools slither near

My feet upon the terrace here

And look,upon their whorled backs

All the sense of life is packed.

And yet so easily Life’s destroyed

When blind foot steps into the void

While buildings ,once thought beautiful, decay

 

Life is  lonely in the city here
We left our birthplace seeking  work that paid
So many folk, yet nobody is near.

The mass of crowds  brings on a paranoia
While buildings ,once thought beautiful, decay
Life is   alien in the city here

From the doorways ugly faces leer
Like evil children,  tortured by dismay
Many people,  nobody who’s near.

The birds don’t sing  yet I can hear them jeer
Then fly in circles in a fierce display
Life is alien in the city here.

My eye is dry, it lacks a single tear
As I become neo- static with despair
Many people,  nobody who’s near.

Why can’t I be merry, if not gay?
Why do thoughts so savage my heart flay
Life is  lonely in the city here
So many folk, so few  who will come near

If God won’t come to me, then I’ll go there

I planned to make a cake for Easter Day
Almonds ,raisins, sugar, eggs and flour
But God and my old man,have gone astray

If they’re not near,I wonder should I pray?
Into who’s ear shall my words be poured?
I planned to make a friend for Easter Day

If God won’t come to me, then I’ll go there
In my mind, I’m off at any hour
But God and my old man,have gone away

Can I buy a ticket on the way?
I’ll wear a mac and hat with little flowers
I planned to make a cake for Easter Day

Alternatively, should I see that Play?
Erase my google history in the shower?
As God and my old man,have gone away

Disabled and half blind, I laugh at power
I am so wise my humour seems to glower
I planned to make a cake for Easter Day
But God and my old man are in that Play