What we most fear

How like a monster is my fear of pain
Expanding to fill all my heart and mind
Swelling like a  giant sponge   in the rain,
This fear begets  new  feelings more unkind.

For humans being chased by lions fierce,
Fear gives us the strength to  dash away.
But when by inner turmoil we are pierced
We cannot run  yet need  not be its prey.

Most strange ,we need to do   what we most fear;
Walk towards the pain with curious calm.
As else we may be maddened like King Lear
With no Cordelia to bring us balm.

To  feel in proper ratio to our   pain.
We need perception,grace and all their gains

20th Century Literature

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https://www.bl.uk/20th-century-literature/articles/an-introduction-to-a-room-of-ones-own

 

“Professor Rachel Bowlby examines A Room of One’s Own as a key work of feminist criticism, revealing how Virginia Woolf ranges beyond the essay’s official topic of women and fiction to question issues around education, sexuality, and gendered values.

What kind of a book is Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own? Opening it first at the description of meals at two Oxbridge colleges, you might think this was some sort of eccentric TripAdvisor review: men’s college dining, halfway to heaven; women’s college dining, one star. At other points, you could take it for an extended list of recommendations for future research, on topics never mooted before for serious study: the everyday lives of middle-class women in other times, or the history of men’s opposition to women’s emancipation, or the value that men place on female virginity. Sometimes Woolf’s suggestions for study sound like a preliminary report on these and other subjects, with information (and exasperation) gleaned from a morning’s reading of works by men on the subject of women. (This reading takes place at the British Library, in its earlier location at the British Museum.)

There is a lot in A Room of One’s Own about literature – about what it says about women (when it’s written by men), about what kind of writing women writers have done or have not been able to do, and about whether writing is helped or hindered by an author’s conscious sense, when writing, of being either a he or she. At the same time – and this ties in with all the suggestions for research – there’s an emphasis on how writers of any sex, but women in particular, need a solid minimum of material support in order to do their job (or create their creation): in order to think, that is, without interference (or ‘impediments’, to use Woolf’s preferred word). Woolf sets this material requirement quite high. Every woman, ideally, should have an annual income of £500 (which was a comfortable middle-class man’s salary at the time). And she should also have that now famous space, a room of one’s own.”

While I washed the pots the cat saw red

I poured detergent over my own head
Surcare Sensitive for dishes I recall
I rinsed it off before I went to bed

I often recall  these words my mother said
The King will not dismount for  one or all
I rinsed it off before I went to bed

While I washed the pots the cat saw red
He wanted me to throw a woollen ball
I played with him before I went to bed

I look like I’ve had chemo,it’s incred!
The hairdresser has trimmed it, till it’s mauled
I rinsed it well before I went to bed

When inside a Salon,sense has fled
Don’t ask for a trim, you’ll be appalled
I  toyed with men, they knew my hair was dead

Over me a sense of doom had crawled
As my mother said,she won’t be told
I poured detergent over my own head
I rinsed it off with brandy,so well bred!

Do not fear, with bitterness, the cracks

Life is woven daily , warp and  weft
We    make the threads and colours as we act
As we age our hands become more deft

I like  almost  everything  that’s Left
The NHS. the OU , what a knack
Good is woven daily , warp and  weft

When we see the butterfly. we kiss
Creating joy and love with gracious tact
As we age our  hearts become more soft

One by one our loved ones turn to dust
Yet on this life we will not turn our back
We  still make  our good daily , warp and  weft

On Jacob’s ladder held by angels fast
We see the Heavens open to our lack
As we age our  hearts relearn to trust

Do not fear with bitterness the cracks
The light shines in  and darkness is pushed back
Life is woven daily now and past
As we age, we  make truth  our repast