Introspection can be bad for us


Wilson Van Dusen was a very interesting man.Some of his views I am unsure of but his book,The Natural Depth in Man,shows how much we don’t see normally when we look at others.

He was a mystic in a sense.And he worked with people with severe disturbances.His definition of  madness that it renders the person useless.Also introspection is bad when one is in a vulnerable state.. better to do useful,practical tasks like sweeping the floor.And always be polite.In other words,stay in touch with others and this world.

. Oh  frigid purse, I never meant to pay!


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 a laugh I 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

As lovers kiss, so smiles the Holy One,

The inner coil and tangle of the wild,
Where rose run mad and holly are as one
Ensure that nature’s heart is undefiled

To these depths, the winter bird’s beguiled
Until the red dawn’s fetched by lowly sun
Through the coil and tangle of the wild.

On the path’s side, brown-green leaves are piled
A thousand beetles search for food within
A hidden space where nature’s undefiled

The cat is waiting, acting like the mild
Then dancing, hunting, acting like his kin
At ease in coil and tangle of worlds wild.

The sun is setting, and the night clouds pile.
As lovers kiss, so smiles the Holy One,
Living all his natures undefiled.

Now, at last, the darkness has begun
The trees, unmoving, shield the riots within
The inner coil and tangle make the wild,.
Is the space for soul still undefiled?

A strange ring

P1000410.jpgThe phone  has a strange ring
It has got married

The radio has gone off
Always was unfaithful

The TV  has a big  remote
Call it Trump,

The washing machine  looks odd
It’s bisexual
Bisexual who?

The microwave is dirty.
It’s not morally responsible
Well it is 7 years old
It’s not a Catholic
Now,you tell me.
You got it
But it was mail order
Did it not give spiritual dimensions?
No,it was born agnostically
It’s not alive, you know
It must have died in the night.
Are you a machine?
How would I know?
Have you no label?
Not one I can reveal.
What does it say
If found please return to Maker
Why did they lose you?
They were switched off.
On drugs?
No the fuse blew
Then what happened?
A storm.
I just feel confused.
Let me uncon you.
Why, we might fuse.
Well,we’ll be together at last

In your glance, you touched my heart.

I saw you on the pavement
with your old brown dog
You were shabby,poor,ragged,
Sat on your tartan rug.
You had water for the dog,
You hugged him and you sang,
But the people walked on by,
And no-one looked at you.
No-one looked at you.

But you still sang your song.
And you sent me so much love
It crossed from eye to eye.
I felt it coming in.
I heard that you had died,
Though you were only thirty three.
Only thirty three.

I wonder,where’s your dog?

I felt our souls had touched,
You gave to me so much
As I wandered in my grief
Through the roads and round the streets.
In your glance, you touched my heart.
I felt love swimming through,
From you right into me.

Will you come again?
I see all these dim, grey men
Who cut your benefits
To give more wealth to few;
So that the needle’s eye,
which is waiting when we die,
is forgotten, for they want
protection for their wealth.

I wish that beggar man
would come back here again.
I liked to hear his songs
But I can’t recall the tunes;
Maybe I’ll write songs myself,
That’s the highest sort of wealth
Our creativity
Is a path to dignity.

Come back every one!
I wish you had not gone.
come back in my dreams
and give me some new themes.
I’m singing like you sung.
it’s this world that’s so wrong.
come back beggar man,

I knew you were the One

Pre-emptive war,is it ethical?

DSC00039_edited-1-1-1 1134 5.jpg


“The third criterion, of right intention, looks forward in time. Assuming there is just cause, the morally sound intention of the statesman, and the citizen, must be the preservation or restoration of an enduring peace. It cannot be to take advantage of the weakness of an enemy in order to seize territory and secure other political objectives.”

Trump and Putin’s missiles   rape the Womb

You may find  a War has just begun
Israel has punched  a little hard
Trump and Putin’s missiles  lust for  fun

We may see no soldiers with their guns
Drones and missiles launched from our backyards
You may find  the War has just begun

The top commanders rub their hands and stun
But who the hell has got the devil’s card
Trump and Putin’s missiles  lust for  fun


All religions have their Holy One
But seems from conscious minds ,God is debarred
We may find  a War has just begun

The  foolish  boast they’ve bigger,that note jars
Missiles are more dangerous than cars
You may find  a War has just begun
Trump and Putin’s missiles   rape the Womb

Missiles:danger of visiting East Mediterranean


Pan-European air traffic control agency Eurocontrol on Tuesday warned airlines to exercise caution in the eastern Mediterranean due to the possible launch of airstrikes into Syria in the next 72 hours.

>Israel on high alert, prepares for possible Iranian retaliation after strike on Syrian base ■ 

From Haaretz

The ignorance we found was quite bizarre

It’s wonderful we British are the best
We have done no more than fight just wars
We’re civilised.we’re cultured,no debate.

We spread the best religion to the rest
They didn’t know salvation’ nor its prayers
It’s wonderful how British is the best

We gave them all the standard  English tests
The ignorance we found was quite bizarre
Most civilised.we’re cultured,they the least

Actually I’m  Celtic but God bless
I’m not like the Africans,no way!
It’s wonderful I’m British so I’m best

In India we seized  the jewels, our heist
We gave them Christianity ,God’s play
Most civilised.we’re cultured,they the least


Now we all read Fifty Shades of Grey
We use whips and handcuffs when we play
It’s wonderful we British are the best
We’re civilised.we’re cultured, could you guess?
No way



How poetry can change lives




“There are poems that have, literally, changed my life, because they have changed the way I looked at and listened to the world; there are poems that, on repeated reading, have gradually revealed to me areas of my own experience that, for reasons both personal and societal, I had lost sight of; and there are poems that I have read over and over again, knowing they contained some secret knowledge that I had yet to discover, but refused to give up on. So, at the most basic level, poetry is important because it makes us think, it opens us up to wonder and the sometimes astonishing possibilities of language. It is, in its subtle yet powerful way, a discipline for re-engaging with a world we take too much for granted.

When the purveyors of bottom-line thinking call a mountain or a lake a “natural resource”, something to be merely exploited and used up, poetry reminds us that lakes and mountains are more than items on a spreadsheet; when a dictatorship imprisons and tortures its citizens, people write poems because the rhythms of poetry and the way it uses language to celebrate and to honour, rather than to denigrate and abuse, is akin to the rhythms and attentiveness of justice. Central to this attentiveness is the key ingredient of poetry, the metaphor, which Hannah Arendt defined as “the means by which the oneness of the world is poetically brought about”. It’s that power to bring things together, to unify experience as “the music of what happens”, that the best poetry achieves.

Most of us feel that this is true of the great dead poets society of history, of Shakespeare and Milton, of Coleridge and Shelley and, of course, of TS Eliot, an American who re-envisioned and so renewed and enriched our idea of England. Yet I would argue that poetry is, or can be, as central to our experience now as it has ever been. To read “I Am Your Waiter Tonight And My Name Is Dmitri”, by the great contemporary American poet, Robert Hass, at the height of George W Bush’s xenophobic repudiation of “Old Europe”, was to be reminded not just of the injustice and futility of war, but also of the very richness and complexity of history that Bush sought to expunge.”

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