https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/belief/2010/jun/12/science-darwin-newton-religion-atheism
Month: October 2018
Mary Midgley
Share this:
No visa
They took my blood and ethnic group, they did.
My soul was skulking, knowing of the strains
If I have no visa, they’ll get mad
Reading my thick newspaper was sad
Seeing they’re deporting love again
They took my blood ,my heart and I feel bad
Water has no salt whereas blood has
And losing it will cause a lot of pain
If we have no visas, oh dear God.
The water circulates; we’re effing dead
So when we’re shot there’s no red blood to stain
They looked for human souls and then they bragged
The Jews, the gays the helpless .felt cold dread
And who resists now Fascism rides again?
We scream when we’re asleep,oh helpless God.
We invented torture , prison, shame
Were God here he’d hear the frightened groans
They took my ethnic group and stole my blood
Now they call me ” nigger”, ain’t life sad?
Share this:
Ain’t so good to blow your own fuse.
She was built like a brick outhouse
Ya,born with a silver spoon in her mouth
Her momma was like an old brown mouse
And her pa was just a slimy stuck up louse.
She was built like an old outhouse
On the top, sharp eyed vultures used to roost
Her brother has gone for a Dead Sea cruise
Her sister wants to let all hell break loose.
She was in for life with those smart spooks
A creepy horror in every nook
Her ma never learned her how to cook
She ain’t never even read a single book.
No aphrodisiac ain’t of much use
When the true Furies are on the loose.
Do what you can to cook thet goose
Ain’t so good to blow your own fuse.
No,those Furies are on the ball
They come looking for us one an’ all.
Keep your face hid and your ego small…
What’s thet dark shadow on your wall?
Share this:
Cello
Share this:
The window
Share this:
And on blue Cleveland Hills
Coats on the hall stand
Smelling of you;
Coats on the hall stand
Some are mine too.
Hats on the top hooks
Caps that you wore.
Now where you’ve gone
You will need them no more.
My hats will be puzzled,
Hanging there all alone
Now when I see yours
My heart feels like stone.
I found some of your shoes
All covered with green
Now they’re in the bin bag
No more to be seen.
I found half your pyjamas
The rest are all gone.
I wonder where these hid,
Where’ve they come from?
Last night in my dreams
You were right by my side
We were cleaning the oven
With brillo and Tide.
But when I awakened
No glimpse did I see.
Except looking slantwise
Towards the red maple tree,
Why did you leave me?
Why did you go?
I held your left hand
And fondled it so.
Come back to your loved one
Don’t leave me alone.
I don’t want to live
Just to hear myself groan.
Touch me with your fingers
Melt my poor, sad, lone heart
I let go of your hand~
Then the agony starts.
Up north in old Richmond
And on blue Cleveland Hills
I’ll remember your dear face
As my eyes with tears fill.
I will lift up mine eyes
To the hills where my strength
Comes down from the Heavens
Endless in length.
Stronger than granite,
Stronger than steel,
Stronger than silver
Is the love that I feel.
Stronger than iron;
Stronger than gold;
Stronger is my love,
For the one I once held.
Share this:
No ,he was not a Christian
Why did Jesus have no shoes?
He had sent his soles to be heeled.
Why was Jesus kind to sinners?
Because they were not hypocrites
Did Jesus go to church on Sundays?
No ,he was not a Christian
Did Jesus have a nuclear family?
God the Father and the Holy Spirit.
Was he an only child?
GOK
Why did Jesus not wear trousers?
Jewish tailoring had not got that far 2,000 years ago.
Did Jesus drive a car?
Drive a car what?
Did Jesus write letters?
They had no Royal Mail then and soon we shan’t either.
Why did Jesus go to a comprehensive school?
He wanted to widen his appeal.
Did Jesus iron his clothes?
It was before the Iron Age.
How about this atom bomb here in my pocket?
Please, let it drop,I beg you
Share this:
The News
The entire population of the UK is moving to Uganda.
Great Britain is being turned into a Nature Trail.
Westminster Bridge is being moved to the Niagara Falls
Or is it Nicaragua?
St Paul’s Cathedral is going to Damascus
St Paul was a romantic poet who burned with no flame
The Queen is having a baby.Next week
The Vatican is being moved to Nairobi
Mystics are wanted .We will arrest you soon
London Buses are still read.
King’s Cross is Henry V111th
Enfield Wash in the River Lea.
Epping Forest is being moved to the Sahara.
Elsynge Palace will be rebuilt in the Gaza Strip where they tear gas!
Theresa May has entered a nunnery.
A new public convenience is being built in Scotland Yard.Can we hang on?
If you want Marks and Spencer it is in Transylvania
I am building a border with barbed wire in my garden so I will know how to cross it
Share this:
In the pink.
“
Not dead yet” was a phrase that was part of a comic act here on TV… it’s that odd humour here in England.
If we meet we say:Who are you?
And this is what we answer
Fine thanks.In the pink.
- Feeling groovy.
Could be worse I suppose.
Think I’ve got that bug that’s going round the Food Bank
Still here…give is a wink
Still alive,apparently
I flunked.
I am in the theatre.Pass the needle,nurse.
I would have fallen over in front of a bus except the dog would miss me.Besides I am the driver
Not dead yet.Must try harder
Could be better at maths if she learned to read first
Why do you frisk?
Have we been i traduced?
You look vaguely familiar.Are we married?
I think I met you once on the Underground.
How unkind of you to ask.
Is that cat glued to your head or is it a transplant?
Do you come here frequently
How did you say you care?
Have we met or are you on TV? Did you see me?
I’ve booked a hotel in that place that’s been flooded.Bow wow wow are you?
I say,old boy.How nice you asked.I’m fine I just got married again..I I have a lot more news…..ah,well.I never liked him much really,the bastard.
Where have you been all my strife?
Do you know everyone leers?
Are you hiding anything? I can only see yout eyes.You seem to have three.
I can see gold lights all over the place.Is it Xmas?
Share this:
Art and poetry
https://www.tate.org.uk/research/publications/in-focus/pegwell-bay-kent-william-dyce/art-and-poetry
Art and Poetry
“When William Dyce visited Rome, he was astonished: ‘In truth, to me Rome was a kind of living poem, which the soul read unceasingly, with the soothed sense which poetry inspires’.1 In comparison with the bracing climate and rather more austere architecture of Aberdeen where Dyce had grown up, the warmth, colour and sheer magnificence of the Eternal City was overwhelming. To describe it as ‘a kind of living poem’, however, suggests not just the visual artist’s acute perception of the city’s distinctive appearance, but also a deep sensitivity to the overall tone, history and special atmosphere. Dyce first travelled there in 1825, a year after the poet Lord Byron’s death. Born in 1806, Dyce was only a few years younger than the poets John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley, so recently buried at the Protestant Cemetery when Dyce made his initial visit to Rome. He was thus part of an era in which the very idea of ‘poetry’ was broad enough to encompass any imaginative response to the world, enabling Shelley to include Raphael beside Homer, Tasso and Bacon in stirring references to the ‘greatest poets’ of all time.2Artists of the Romantic period could rise as readily as writers to the ideals articulated by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1817, in praise of Wordsworth’s poetry:
It was the union of deep feeling with profound thought; the fine balance of truth in observing with the imaginative faculty in modifying the objects observed; and above all the original gift of spreading the tone, the atmosphere, and with it the depth and height of the ideal world, around forms, incidents, and situations, of which, for the common view, custom had bedimmed all the lustre, had dried up the sparkle and the dewdrops.3
For Dyce to describe Rome as a ‘living poem’ would not have seemed odd to those nurtured on the grand ideals of the Romantic period, and although subsequent decades saw a diminishing faith in poetry, and indeed much else, the influence of Coleridge, Wordsworth and other stars of Dyce’s formative firmament continued to be felt. John Ruskin, for example, presenting a Victorian readership with Modern Painters (1843–60), still drew inspiration from Wordsworth, including more quotations from the elderly poet laureate than any other source. The third volume, published in 1856, was prefaced by lines from Wordsworth’s The Excursion (1814), lamenting the modern tendency to neglect the soul, which Ruskin considered as relevant to readers of the mid-century as to those four decades before. Modern painters, he suggested, should look to Wordsworth for inspiration in the fullest, most spiritual sense. Dyce’s own analogy between the experience of visiting Rome and the ‘soothed sense which poetry inspires’ could only have been made by a poetry lover, and throughout his artistic career he frequently chose subjects with literary dimensions. From his early sketch of Puck 1825 (Aberdeen Art Gallery and Museums, Aberdeen) to his late portrait of George Herbert at Bemerton c.1860 (Guildhall Art Gallery, London), Dyce demonstrated his interest in poetry; but even works less obviously indebted to specific sources often suggest a deeply literary sensibility. As the Art-Union observed approvingly in 1844, he was one of the few modern British painters who considered it ‘as much their duty to read and think as to draw and paint’.”
Share this:
Flowered fields
The face that was familiar is no more
Yet in my dreams ,we amble through bright fields
Where cornflowers and blue linseed softly grow
The face that was familiar is no more
The emptiness and loss, confused, real
The face that was familiar is no more
Yet in my dreams ,we wander through flowered fields
The hand that once held mine I still do feel
Warm with tapered fingers and hard nails
That death was near you did not then reveal
The hand that once held mine I still can feel
The memory impressed like iron or steel
You were growing colder,oh,so pale.
The hand that once held mine I think I feel
Warm with tapered fingers and hard nails
Share this:
Grief and the consolation of poetry
https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/grief-and-the-consolation-of-poetry-1.1697178
All my work is finished, Kate, and I am free and finally known.’ ”
The latest novel from the prize-winning David Park contrasts three marriages, one made in the heaven of mutual harmony of mind and heart, one in the hell of Stalinist Russia, and one in the land of contemporary dysfunctional families.
The stories are told by the widows of great poets: Catherine Blake, wife of William Blake, the 18th-century visionary; Nadezhda Mandelstam, wife of the Russian Osip Mandelstam, who died in a Soviet prison camp in 1938; and Lydia, fictional widow of a fictional modern Irish poet who writes in a cottage somewhere near Portrush.
The novel deals with complex emotions: love, the grief of the bereaved, the role of religious belief, and the immortality of poetry.
Nadezhda Mandelstam, based closely on the historical woman, is presented as she who is most intently aware of the importance of poetry and of her husband’s work in particular. In Russia, it is obvious that poetry matters, as they are always killing poets, Nadezhda wrote in her own memoir, Hope Against Hope .
Her husband’s crime was to write a scurrilous poem about Stalin. Married to Osip for 18 years, she lived without him for more than 40. After his death she learned all his poems by heart, ensuring that while she lived they would survive. Julian Barnes, in his wonderful essay on the grief of the bereaved husband, Levels of Life , writes that his strongest motivation for living is that he is his wife’s best rememberer.
Nadezhda Mandelstam fulfilled this role for Osip literally: it is largely thanks to her unstinting devotion to preserving his poetry that he is now recognised as one of Russia’s greatest 20th-century writers. Park’s version of her story is shorter, gentler in style and more accessible than her own autobiographical work, which, although brilliant, is densely packed with facts, names and political references – more history than novel.
Testament to Park’s power as a storyteller is that he manages to convey better than she does herself the character of this tough and formidably intelligent woman, and to express her profound love, grief and devotion to her husband and his work.
His completely fictional creation in the novel is Lydia. Unlike Nadezhda, Lydia did not love her husband, although she was married to him for 41 years (somewhat unaccountably).
Moments of infidelity
All three poets in this novel are alleged to have had moments of infidelity. In the cases of Blake and of Mandelstam, these episodes were subsumed into the sturdy texture of their good marriages. But Don, the Irish poet, was persistently unfaithful, and not even his daughters have a good word to say for him. Lydia feels, as she prepares to scatter the ashes of her husband, that she is “lighter, freer, and at the same time a little frightened”.
Curiously, Lydia’s relative lack of pain at her bereavement feels sadder than the searing grief of the loving wives. Like them, however, Lydia recognises the greatness of her husband’s work. In spite of her resentment she determines to preserve his manuscripts: “What she had to do was owed not to him but to something greater.”
Nadezhda Mandelstam and Lydia have in common that they appear to have no strong belief in an afterlife. Catherine Blake, who was married to William for 45 years, and survived him for only four, has the comfort of trusting that on her death she and William will be reunited in heaven. And even in her widowhood he visits her on this earth, chats and gives advice, both spiritual and practical: “Take what’s left of my collection of prints to Colnaghi and Co and try to get the best price you can.”
Share this:
Had he left her for a woman who dressed in thick beige blouses and stockings with grey skirts?
Professor Rosa Benchez was in the staff-room at Middle-Jeans-Rise University collecting her mail and having coffee at 9.30 am on Monday morning after running 10 miles on her rowing machine.It rowed and she ran
How are you? enquired Danny her friend and colleague in the School of Learning.
I’m feeling very insignificant today,she replied. quietly.I am giving a lecture on Semiotics and it’s those French people who use such idiotically complicated language.We all know that an object like a bird has to have a name before we can talk about it.
Well.,said Danny, I thought you’d just say,”In the pink” as usual to my greeting, so you must feel bad.Does each bird have to have its own name,he continued wonderingly?
Well,it depends on the context, she informed him enigmatically.
First,if we are looking at birds as a class or set, they just need a name like “bird”.It could have been anything but somehow it was” bird” that occurred like x is used in algebra.We may just study one bird then we give it a number to identify it.That is its name
Danny gazed at her beautiful bosom under her semi-transparent pink blouse.Did she dress like that on purpose to provoke men or did she feel so deeply insignificant that she didn’t realise anyone at all could see her purple lace bra and her green silk and wool thermal vest with matching briefs, though fortunately, the latter were invisible from the outside .
Danny,I’m talking to you, she called sympathetically.Why are you quiet?
I dunno, the world famous biologist replied.Maybe I am not quite here today.
You too,she murmured quietly ,like the stream in Little Walsingham by the ruined Abbey.
Are you anxious about your lectures,she enquired softly and caringly?
No, not really ,he said tearing his eyes away from her revealing clothing.
Is there a biological reason why a scholar like Rosa would wear this unusually exciting outfit.
The truth was more mundane.Rosa bought her clothes in Sales and was indifferent or unaware to the way men might feel seeing her like this.After all,did she notice if they wore deep purple underpants that showed above their low rise jeans or gold coins on a chain with matching long earrings?
She only looked at their faces while they naturally were drawn to see what outfit she was wearing that day. and what her new lingerie looked like.
What did her partner feel?Had he left her for a woman who dressed in thick beige blouses and stockings with grey skirts?
To dress well takes time and Rosa did not give it enough although so far she had not lectured in a string bikini nor an evening dress she had found in a jumble sale.
These French people have made a fortune by re-labelling well know things like birds as “signified” and the word “bird” as signifiers!
It reminded her of a sociologist who got a large grant to see if women were more scared walking under a railway bridge at night if there were no streetlight there
The conclusion seems obvious.And that was what they proved “scientifically”
Statistics,numbers, that’s what journals want.
She went to her lecture room and turned on the lights.Eighty students gazed at her happily.She was the best and funniest lecturer in the place.
I put 30 handouts in Dr Bevan-Finnish’s drawer for the seminar but someone has stolen them, she said menacingly.I write these handouts myself and if they do not appear by noon ,nobody will get another one for the entire semester
With that, she turned to the blackboard and defined ” the signifier”
Well,it’s better than taking the insides out of chickens on a conveyor belt she thought silently as she moaned on while the students took copious notes or wrote limericks on kleenex tissues with their own blood
After lunch Rosa was in the staff room talking to some women colleagues when Dr Bevan -Finnish came over,blushing dark red as he approached.He said the handouts were back in his tray
Why is he so shy, Rosa asked herself,not realising it was her outfit that provoked his blushes.And that is a very important thing to remember… whoever we are with affects us so a bold man like Bevan-Finnish seemed shy when with Rosa whereas with another more sensibly dressed woman he was quite at ease.
There may be a few men who are not affected this way but not many otherwise the human race would die out and then where would we be?Nowhere!
What a pity nobody tells a lady like Rosa the facts of life so she goes about causing sinful longings in her colleagues quite oblivious.Even some of the women were getting affected but nobody dared to tell her.At least it drew students to her lectures and who knows, they might have learned some Linguistics as well.And it kept them off the streets.Which streets nobody knows.Yet!
Share this:
The art of sadness isn’t hard master
The art of sadness isn’t hard to master
Anyone can learn this should they choose
Dwell on all your losses and disasters
Think of all the bad times, slower, faster
Ruminate until you get the blues
The art of sadness isn’t hard to master
Make your face numb like cold alabaster
Never smile or cheer at friends’ good news
Dwell on all your losses and disasters
Compare yourself unkindly with your sister
Let envy ,spite and hate dwell in your house
The love of evil isn’t hard to master
See ambiguity as inevitatably nasty
Let your soul be poisoned and abused
Dwell on all your losses and disasters
As we stumble through the sites of memory loose
We could change perspective and our views
The art of sadness isn’t hard master
Ruminate on nothing but disaster.
Share this:
Vice typing
Here I am I will seize my hands as they are hurting so I cannot type; if there is any noise in the song here because because of the computer not me.
it doesn’t seem to be working very well today
My joints are inflamed. if I belong to a certain school of thought I would think that inflamed joints would symbolically mean that connecting to other people is painful and I should be forgiven for whatever I may have done
I do prefer gentle people with quiet voices I don’t like people who argue badly in loud voices
I don’t really believe this I could write poetry using this voice to typing tool but I might try who knows what would come out?
I have no love left in my heart today
and neither do I wish to Talk or pray
for I am feeling Shetland in my mood
So here I search and that’s the way I brewed
Soaking is a very stupid act
Light rumination ,I think truly daft
Better far to cast the burden down
And go to see a film about a clown
What do you do when you suffer pain
it’s not so bad just ones but comes again
n fact I have it all day and all night
And if I had a partner they’d take flight
Let us not dwell in the realm of words
But open up our eyes to humming birds
Share this:
The lamp
By Katherine
Share this:
Inspiration, Information, and Learnings For People In The Arts
Do read this article written by David J Rogers.I just found it
via Inspiration, Information, and Learnings For People In The Artsby Da
Share this:
In our sleep we find the open door
The face that was familiar is no more
Yet in my dreams he is alive again
Thus his image lives inside my store
In our sleep we find the open door
We see the precious faces of those gone
The face that was familiar is no more
A nightmare,anxious, running as before
To find our car, to bring home my dear man
Now his image lives within my store
His voice to me sounds muffled by great doors
He wonders how I manage all alone
The love that was so potent is no more
An anger at the doctors made me roar
A dying man ignored by every one
Now his love lives on in my deep core
Death will capture all but is that fair?
We live then die at last of all good bare.
The face that was familiar is no more
Yet his sweet love still haunts my deepest core
Share this:
I don’t know how I created this cover
Share this:
The rage of loss
The face that was familiar is no more
The golden meaning of the world destroyed
Where is love and where are its new laws?
Though none but God itself should be adored
The rage of loss for tumult is employed
The face that was familiar is no more
In the earthly life come no encores
As down the river we each float unmoored
What is love and where are its new laws?
Hate and envy give no cruel succour
Yet whose the heart that loss has fast devoured?
The face that was familiar is no more
Must we sip the fatal bloody gore?
Must the evil humans be empowered
What is love and are there gracious laws?
Over me the fear and panic glowers
Shall I hide in some old unused sewer?
The face that was familiar is no more
Will the memory birth a new desire?
Share this:
Pushover?
Diatribe
diatribe
ˈdʌɪətrʌɪb/
noun
noun: diatribe; plural noun: diatribes
-
a forceful and bitter verbal attack against someone or something.“a diatribe against consumerism”
synonyms: tirade, harangue, verbal onslaught, verbal attack, stream of abuse, denunciation, broadside, fulmination, condemnation, criticism, stricture, reproof, reproval, reprimand, rebuke, admonishment, admonition; More
Origin
late 16th century (denoting a disquisition): from French, via Latin from Greek diatribē ‘spending of time, discourse’, from dia ‘through’ + tribein ‘rub’.
Share this:
Why I write.. different poets
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/why-i-write
“My interest can be defined by at least part of Charles Reznikoff‘s characterization of his poetry: “images clear but the meaning not stated but suggested by the objective details and the music of the verse.” As a reader, I look for such clarity of image and phrase, for a rhythmic pulse and a rich verbal texture, for a sense of shape and coherence even in the midst of apparent fracture. As a writer, I try to provide these things. But an overall “meaning” or “interpretation” isn’t the first or the main thing I seek, as either reader or writer. “A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have one” (Stevens 914). Attend to the senses and sense will often attend to itself.
I respond to urgency, to a sense of felt necessity, to passion. The word passion derives from the Greek for “suffering, experience, emotion.” The word itself summons up the poem as an experience undergone by the writer and the reader alike. Passion is not just a passion for my lover or for botany or for history, but a passion for words, a passionate struggle to try to create verbal experience that would be as real as the rest of the world. Stevens insisted that “In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all” (902). Like any object of love, that also means that the poem will resist its creator, just as the world resists us. The struggle such passion entails is both joyous and painful. As Stevens also famously wrote, “Poetry must resist the intelligence almost successfully” (910). Of course, that presumes both an intelligence to be resisted and an intelligence that resists. The poet, the poem, and the reader must all be as intelligent as possible.”
Share this:
What is a diatribe?
What is a diatribe?
One of the lost tribes of Israel?
What is fratricide?
Oh,Cain and Abel
What is deicide?
Wasting the only time we have ?
What is a syllogism?
Something to do with erotic love?
What is a neologism?
Maybe a syllogism that failed
What is logical positivism?
Seeing only the good in others
What is a pancake?
A cake that won’t rise.
What is a logical error?
A feeling.
What is mathematics for?
Designing knitting patterns.
What is a neurosis?
I d d d d d doubt my answer will be right.
What is an axiom?
An atom with Ki
What is a borderline personality disorder?
When you can’t manage to have a full personality disorder.
When you keep building walls till you spent all your money and die of starvation
When you have like geometry and being tidy?
What is starvation?
Invasion by a star?
Invitation to be a star?
Share this:
Who wrote this?
The doctor says I am suffering from allusions to poetry.So he put me on major tantrum tigers.
I’m an agnostic too.I believe God is here sometimes.He’s a wave and a particle and very light.He comes and goes and he waves!
Meanwhile in the garden there is a mass wisteria.It will be ok in a few weeks when we get cold blasts of air from somewhere forbidden.Not hell!
There is a big depression where we bury the vegetable peelings amongst other things like the dead.And what the cat catches,
So we are inflating the law.
The priest says my sins are mortal but not deadly.
I have been text-communicated by the Immigrant in the Vatican
I didn’t realise it was a sin to have sex when your husband has died.
No,I mean with someone else!
Is a vibrator sinful? Or is it the folk who might use them?
Is it a sin to make them in a factory?If so the economy will slump…
It’s funny that Boots sell something that could send us to hell for all eternity.I am not referring to their famous face cream though it does remove the top layer of the skin.It is however not enough for those who have cancer especially if it is on your bum.
If Boots sell vibrators surely the Church must see it’s now the norm and does not use birth control which they still ban, so t could be a gracious way of having sex without need to take the PILL.Still it does seems odd to imagine that you get married and you both have sex using vibrators.Not quite a honeymoon especially if you take two vibrators.What, though, if the battery goes flat?What if you forget your adapter for the plug? I suppose you could take it in turns!
It’s like food.We used to do that ourselves once.Now it’s sex.No worry about wasting the weekend in bed whispering in each others ears though ,do rememeber not to use one while driving up the M1.I know it’s boring but do you want to be on a video on Twitter? You do! Are you mad?
Remember though that you might have an accident involving others.If you are suicidal, please jump off Beachy Head.Do not cause a traffic jam as you will most likely be murdered.And murder is not suicide,is it?
You will have injured someone else and that is more unethical than using men ,women or vibrators for recreational purposes.I rest my taste.Or my vase.Or my handbag… BTW is there a vibrator bag? If not, why not become self employed and start a new business… different colours and so on.I have no idea about size so an expandable fabrix might be good.
When it comes down to it why not enter a monastery? It’s less trouble
Share this:
Is it cool?
Part of the article:
“Of course, this is nothing new. What is Trumpism or Brexit now was the “Dreyfus Affair” for the French public in the late 1890s. Dreyfus was an artillery officer who was given a life sentence for treason in 1894. Half of French society defended him, pointing at the very weak evidence that supported this verdict, the other half attacked him and insisted he was guilty. While the Dreyfus Affair lasted, pro-Dreyfus and anti-Dreyfus people ended up at bitter loggerheads. Close friendships and even marriages broke up and some of the most prestigious salons split in two over it.
Sound familiar? The political divisions these days may be more obvious (you could not read someone’s political views on their Twitter feed at the end of the 19th century) but the poisonous atmosphere is the same. And this is where the author Marcel Proust, a supporter of Dreyfus, comes in.”
Share this:
What you may learn from writing poetry or journalling
There was a question on Quora for ages asking if you can psychoanalyse yourself.Well, it seems unlikely to me.I think relaxing and speaking freely is hard to combine with the attention needed from another person who has no emotional stake in your life or actions or feelings
However you can by careful observation notice qualities in yourself you were unaware of.{I don’t mean beginning to write poetry when 65 years old]
When someone hurts me I often seem to feel I have hurt them and I feel distressed.Yet if I write about something similar I realise I have done nothing to cause this and it is not I who need to apologise
Maybe I confuse myself with others..? Is this common?
I suppose I have found it worth thinking about. I can’t eliminate it but I can ask myself , who has done what here.Maybe I try to take the blame rather than think about whether this person is worth being friends with. That would be if it happened a lot.For we all do hurt each other now and then inevitably.But we can reduce it
And friends are friends
Is there a deeper meaning ? Have I failed to develop an ego? If so. it is a bit late now!
Share this:
What we are
You should not worry as much about what you do but rather about what you are.
People should not worry as much about what they do but rather about what they are. If they and their ways are good, then their deeds are radiant. If you are righteous, then what you do will also be righteous. We should not think that holiness is based on what we do but rather on what we are, for it is not our works which sanctify us but we who sanctify our works. Meister Eckhart
Share this:
Good will
https://biblehub.com/parallel/ephesians/6-7.htm
good will,
εὐνοίας (eunoias)
Noun – Genitive Feminine Singular
Strong’s Greek 2133: Good-will, kindliness; enthusiasm. From the same as eunoeo; kindness; euphemistically, conjugal duty
as
Share this:
Love is never evil
The face that was familiar is no more
Lost like butterflies that wind destroys
And I sit alone by this closed door
From this anguish take me,I implore
Hoping that my prayer will not annoy.
The face that was familiar is no more
All the years have vanished from my store
With the empty future ,love destroyed
As I sit alone by this closed door
As days pass by, truth and pain conjoin
Love is never evil but conveys
The face that was familiar is no more
With nature’s rhythm, we touch on the benign
Loss and even sin are cast away
As I decide to open this closed door
So I travel down the path of each new day
Good will and acceptance come, I pray
The face that was familiar is no more.
Kindness, love and courage can restore.
How my heart sings 