Suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome?

Well.smoke does not need digesting so cigarettes may be the answer.The more the better.

Any questions?

I wonder what makes you happy.I hope you are happy.And if not, what do you do?

So,for me. I feel happy when I have completed some task and have a sense of achievement because then I can relax and sit staring into space because staring into space makes me feel happy.And if there is a tree there,even  better.I like to sit with maybe music but no talk.I like not to talk.

If I am not happy,I do whatever I need to do as slowly and carefully as I can.And  think what I’d say to another person who felt like that:It’s alright to be sad.Be sad but don’t wallow in it.

Then I’d make some tea and listen to Die Winterreisse which is very sad but it makes me feel happy…perhaps it expresses what I can’t express.

like tea more than coffee and I like home made bread made in someone else’s home.
I am no good at sewing but I like turning up hems because using my hands makes me happy too.I would like to do more with my hands.I believe that is good for the brain.

I like going out at dusk when people put on the lights and I stare into their windows to see how they have decorated their rooms.So don’t pull the curtains,please.Is it legal?I am surprised how bare some rooms are..

I like helping blind people across the road as long as that is what they want.

I don’t like it when men push me or let doors close when I am going through.At Christmas people get very aggressive shopping.

I  used to like hearing people quote adages like

There’s many a true word spoken in jest

but I don’t think people say  such things now…. more like

What the hell are you doing playing ball in the street?

And who says now

I am in the doldrums  [from the Ancient Mariner]

Or even,

To be or not to be.

That is bad for my digestion

Is this a dagger I see before me?

No,it’s the potato peeler!

That’s my offering

When you are far,
so
far
away,
The longest night,
The shortest winter day,
will be places where
I
might die.
The heart’s interior
no-one else
Can view.
When you are lost,
I cannot find
your face…
Its outline on the pillows,
My fingers shaped to trace…
The new design,
the stellar rhyme,
Where have you gone?
You slipped from out my arms.
You slipped away.
Was night or day
Ever cut by such a narrow line?
In your embrace I lay.
You seemed so strong.
Yet,sighing, took the path away.
I can’t see where
Is
it
night?
Or is it
day..?
I tried to write
to bring white light,
It’s dark, and still.
I long for you to come.
Oh,will we ever quite
Find out our way?
Or is that pure illusion?
As we stagger through
the wandering furrows
in the fields
They shoot us down.
What is this confusion?
The war goes on
The world goes round
The mirror gapes at each new clown.
But in a crack, a seed may grow..
I can’t see you,
But yet,it’s so.

The sky is stark, the air is cool and still
The black cat’s run, the birds unfold all day
I sit down here and with my dark  heart pray
Ye cast o’ foolish thoughts, you raped my will.
We’ve each enraged the bureaucratic mill.
Oh frigid purse, I never meant to pay!
The sky ‘s a-spark, the air is warm and shrill
The saturnine demoted knelled their way
With this feathered pounce, my sample quill,
I cite the cheque and date it for next May.
Oh, tit for cat, the tiger’s bed ‘s astray.
Yer life is settled by a harlot’s will
The sky ‘s a shark, the air is sharper still.

https://theconversation.com/making-poetry-their-own-the-evolution-of-poetry-education-74671

 

Extract:

In the mid-20th century, it became less important for schools to make citizens or teach English language through memorized lines. Instead, poetry in schools separated into two strands: “serious poetry” and “verse.” Serious poetry was studied; it was officially sanctioned, used to teach literary elements like iambic pentameter, rhymed couplets, metaphor and alliteration. Verse, on the other hand, was unsanctioned – playful, irreverent and sometimes offensive. It was embraced by children for the sake of pleasure and delight.

By the late 20th century, classrooms and curricula began to value the sciences over literary expression and information and technology over art. The study of any poetry – serious or not – became marginalized, seldom occurring except in AP courses preparing students for college literature study.

Poetry in the classroom today

Though the late 20th century saw a decline in the study of poetry in schools, recent decades have seen an upsurge in poetry that is more relevant and more accessible to young people.

For instance, if in the past, schoolchildren learned poems written almost exclusively by white men glorifying a sanitized version of American history, recently students have begun to read poems by poets who represent racial, ethnic, cultural or religious diversity as part of their heritage. This represents a major development in the world of poetry for children.

The alchemist can turn base  metal  gold
The symbol of salvation caught in words,
The holy fires burn acid, ice and cold

We need an aid in  holding firm our souls
Until the  still, small  voice  speaks and is heard
The alchemist can turn base  metal  gold

There is another kind of fire, I have been told
Based on rage and anger and hot words
The holy fires burn acid, ice and cold

Yet as we see our own misdeeds unfold
We see more gently, envy is less stirred
The alchemist can turn base  metal  gold

Noone’s without sin when souls are bared
I and You can bring forth that Love Third
The holy fires burn acid, ice and cold

Can we look on God, what human dares?
Yet  our ordeal by fire is what we share.
The alchemist can turn base  metal  gold
The holy fires burn acid, ice and cold

A lost and cold old cat  sleeps  as I write
Giving  yelps  of  pleasure as he dreams
I welcome such a  presence in the night

I feel less defenceless in daylight
Without a self, the mind rotates its screens
A lost and cold old cat  sleeps  as I write

What gives brazen images their might,
For like old demons, unknown faces  scream?
I welcome  a  beast’s presence in the night

Anxious, we confront a judge and court
Like children pulled from bed to angry blame
Still a  lost, cold cat  sleeps  as I write

When did we commit our crimes of hate?
Are not all us humans somehow lamed?
We welcome  a  kind presence in the night

Sins of hate and envy run like streams
Yet in the midst of blackness,brightness gleams
A lost and cold old cat  sleeps  as I write
I welcome his warm  presence in the night

 

“Most importantly, the example shows that we cannot draw a sharp boundary to distinguish some language as intrinsically poetic.  We can apply our poetic attention to commonplace language, and thereby give that language unexpected depth and importance.  Indeed, poets such as William Carlos Williams purposefully challenge us to extend our sensibilities and find the poetry in everyday language, whenever they construct poems with familiar vocabulary and cadence.

How do we cultivate the poetic imagination?  We must attune ourselves, however we see fit, to the features we notice in a poem, as a prompt to experience its language more deeply.  This search for significance can target any noticeable feature of the poem—regardless of the meaning, if any, the feature might literally encode. We can listen to the sounds and rhythm of the poem. We can feel its syntax and structure. We can even attend to its visual shape and layout before us, as the poet e. e. cummings often invited his readers to do.

However, even when we explore the familiar domains of sound, meter, rhyme and line, we must be prepared to explore the variable and open-ended significance of each observation.  We saw, for example, the different effects of lineation in the Missed Connections poem.  There is no one meaning or effect for parsing lines; for annotating lines; or in juxtaposing the two. What we find in all these cases is just a formal contrast, an echo of further differences, which we can appreciate more deeply only by probing the poem further. This variability underscores the creativity poets and readers bring to their art.”