I’d like to hide inside a cardboard box To be protected from the world of hurts Where messages come both live and via text
I hear the clock and notice how it ticks My life is going and my friends are curt I’d like to hide inside a cardboard box
We travel on a ship which may be wrecked We end up on the sea bed ,still alert To messages that come via a text
Why do human hearts feel so attacked When lovers leave yet memories stll flirt I’d like to crouch inside a cardboard box
Yet boxes are more vulnerable in fact Unless they are our coffins in the earth No messages could reach us via texts
To some ancient faith I may convert After travelling through the sad desert I’d like to hide behind an iron fence Yet love may come and end this great silence
Developing in the 18th and 19th centuries among writers such as Jonathan Swift, John Ruskin and, especially, Matthew Arnold, cultural criticism as it is practiced today has significantly complicated older notions of culture, tradition and value. While Arnold believed in culture as a force of harmony and social change, cultural critics of the 20th century sought to extend and problematize such definitions. Theorists like Raymond Williams, Antonio Gramsci, and those connected with the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies in Birmingham, England—as well as French intellectuals such Louis Althusser and Michel Foucault—described culture not as a finished product but as a process that joined knowledge to interest and power.
What is a metonym?
It’s like this:
If I can speak in several tongues….. here tongue is being used to stand for something more… a language.It is no longer referring to the actual tongue in your mouth.
I said, show me your pencils, not where are your tonsils.
I said your dinner is ready, not you’re a sinner already
I said, I have no honey, not give me your money.
I said,I’m not afraid. not I’m Dr Freud
I said,I love your dear profile not buy me a new mobile.
I said, what time is supper, not I hate your kippers
I said, I’ll make some hot toast not where is the post.
I said, are we still married not I hate Hubert Parry
The lark was ascending ,I did not mention ending
Where is the humour when we listen to rumours?
There was a long low white house in a steep lane
I’m sitting on a drystone wall smiling at you
I’m wearing a fuchsia T shirt and a long blue cotton skirt
And some Chris Brasher hiking books
I am happy, that is clear.
I got stuck climbing some rocks
But some young men helped me.
Why did we do that with no training?
On the moor lots of people,women alone
Families, groups, it was green and pleasant.
I am looking at this photograph you took
But you’re not here.Noone else will know
But I know
So taste
as day
rearranges the red
and orange flowers
from tongue to tongue
like losing the cymbal’s
clang for all its glints
we crept behind the moon
which always insists on sleeping over
barely a belly for a mouth
an hour past the movie
we were still filming
the way food fills
each curving lapse
between your teeth
or song
in sheets
against the windshield
no one believes
air is the enemy
so don’t be afraid
to breathe all this speech
someone already died to say
the moon is on the couch
so we climb onto the roof
where our bellies swell open
to slosh and go flowers
red and orange flowers
hairy and pink-stemmed
like champagne flutes
we always overuse
everything that
happens happens
wrong if not
by tongue’s might
in the little time
left before sun drives
all the workers into work
all the workers into work
I thought that I would use this voice to type in because my fingers are still a little bit inflamed ;not all of my fingers mysteriously it’s the little finger on my left hand which swolle.After I had the operation on my arm in July my left thumb and wrist became very red and swollen for several hours despite the fact that the operation was on my right arm.
Life is very puzzling I went to a walk-in centre on Saturday to see a doctor; he has given me some very strong antibiotics.On the leaflet inside it says that these antibiotics can cause one to have hallucinations or to become agitated or both I suppose I would certainly get agitated if I had a hallucination unless it was a hallucination of something very good .
I suppose many people may have such hallucinations but they don’t go to the doctor because they like them. I can guess if you saw a beautiful person coming into the room smiling at you,would it matter if they were real or they were just a figment of your imagination brought on by the antibiotics?
These tablets can also cause you to get a red rash all over that looks like chicken pox The thing is how will you know it’s not chicken pox? I really don’t know I certainly feel rather peculiar. I feel as if I’m not really here whether that is due to the antibiotics all the infection or due to my being constrained in what I am able to do because of this infection
I cannot tell . I believe that they have and more and side effects but I have not read the rest of the leaflet .It was either this or becoming more and more unwell and it unable to go out so I decided to take them as the doctor seems very sensible too.
He is not my usuak doctor because on Saturday is in the United Kingdom we cannot see our own doctor but we can go to a walk-in centre and see a nurse or a doctor depending on how serious we are feeling or how seriously they think I condition is but I went straight into the doctor ;anyway we’ll have to wait and see whether his worries are justified because to be honest this is the fourth lot of antibiotics I have had since I had the operation on my arm in July
I know the feeling that I am not getting any better yet because they kill good bacteria as well as bad ones. Well they’re not really bad but there’s just too many of them in the wrong clothes it’s a bit like you, you could say it’s rather like a protest March when you get too many people crowding into Trafalergar Square or some of the London spots where political people like to wand waving flags showing we don’t like Donald Trump.
Personally although I don’t like what I have seen of Donald Trump so far I do not think there’s any point in English people having a demonstration about it and in fact they haven’t.
I was just using it as an imaginary example to illustrate a point I was making but it was in my imagination you see; it might even be a hallucination that I thought I saw a crowd of people in Trafalgar Square but it was these antibiotics made me believe that and in fact there was a nobody at all in Trafalgar Square except me and a lot of bacteria.
I thought the bacteria might stay in Trafalgar Square and let me come home at 3 from all ills if you get what I mean which will be very difficult because as well as being agitated ,suffering hallucinations I’m also suffering from confusion division and profusion
I am just teasing the computer because I am speaking and the computer is typing and it is trying to make sense out of what I’m saying; actually it’s not doing too badly really.It seems to be doing better now than the one on my previous computer so this is meant to be funny but it’s not coming out terribly funny is it?
Anyway I was looking on Google to find the name of a man who only seen on YouTube giving a lecture about Sigmund Freud and I find the book which I believe this man had written but the actual man that I saw on YouTube was not the man that I saw previously so I am getting very puzzled .Because the man I am looking for is much older than the man that I found although he seemed a very pleasant man.
Pleasantness is not all we need in men ;we need the man to be the right man even if he is not very pleasant .In fact they are very pleasant they’re all psychoanalysts so they are used to dealing with people with problems
The most peculiar thing I ever read was a man was having therapy and one day the therapist got a letter problem on his girlfriend saying that she was very sorry that he had just died. Was the therapist was upset !!
He sent a very nice letter of condolence to this girlfriend but heard no more. 6 months later he got a phone call and it was this man he was not dead at all it was a trick and he wanted to come back into therapy.
Strangely this was permitted as they could use as his behaviour to try to understand him at a deeper level ;that he wanted to shock people and frighten them because it appears that the first two years of his life his father and mother had not got on and separated when he was 2 years old and he had been subjected to a very violent environment of course he didn’t remember it; he was what we call acting it out.
It seems very peculiar to me;how did he manage for 6 months pretending to be dead I mean where was it ?D id he go to work could you eat could you sleep question mark
I think he was a very talented man because not many of us would have the imagination to end our therapy by telling the therapist that we would do it we were dead
Maybe it gave him a feeling of privacy because psychoanalysis could seem intrusive to patients as they have to say whatever comes into their head but that might make them feel vulnerable and they want to create a barrier between them and the psychoanalyst and say you’re dead and sending him and invite to the funeral knowing that he will notbe able to come at that time will be a very good way of creating a barrier
So this goes to show that you should have some boundaries so you can save yourself from being intruded upon, but it is a rather extreme to pretend that you are dead. Surely any sensible human being could think of a better way of saying I do not like this therapy and I am not going to come for 6 month besides it will save me money as well
I suppose some people would like to hibernate but it could be quite useful if we went into a coma and now you’re lying on your bed and woke up and it was next summer
Well I think I have tried this voice to typing and although it’s not too bad it’s that my just contained some errors the problem for the reader is to decide which are the errors and which are not errors. Thank you
She said he was in an inverted coma all last week.
Doctor, where is my semi-colon?
Are you pro nouns in verse?
The traffic came to a full stop in St Giles.Except for me.I rode a bicycle into a stationary policeman.So remember, don’t ignore any full stop.
Are there any question marks hanging over my head?
Jargon is language more complex than what is needed.Circumlocution is Anglo Saxon then?
She is sympathetic to wit and tyranny.
I don’t know much about para-graphing.Is it paranormal?
What format is the best for bad writers?
Where do they keep their eyeballs before they roll them?
Can I see you for a meal? You can see me raw!
My “boots” were not made for the winter snow
Names and functions split like logs of wood
My “raincoat” is no good where waters flows
The “woollen” hat of polyester glows
Yet in the frost it will not warm my head
These” boots” were not made for real winter snow
So why do we such torment undergo?
Why have form and sense and reason fled?
A “raincoat” is no good where waters flows
Irony is hidden , we don’t know
When will “bed” not be a genuine bed?
These “boots” are not boots for our real life snow
Do I want a “coat” that can but show
I am right on trend though I be dead!
A “raincoat” is “ok” but it’s not so.
As dough rises to become our bread
We must rise and take back our own heads
The “boots” are not made for the winter snow
I trust my superiority will show
Do not warm your cold hands in this microwave
Do not put your head into this fridge.
Do not iron these knickers while you are wearing them
Do not iron food with this new device.
Do not lie in this bed to any woman,man or carnivore.
Do not iron while inebriated or high
Do not swear in front of this electric poker.
Do not use women with malice
If you can’t read the above advice, please phone us at 016758wc98776554332877777bath111ready2eat
and ask for customer revive us service
God is not a verb or noun
God is not a name
God is not a colour
God is not a form
God is not a posh white man
God is not a shape
God is what he says he is
As the prophets warn
God is the whole universe
We destroy and maim
God’s more fierce than polar bears
God cannot be tame
God may be invisible
But not blind nor insane
God may be a fire
With ever glowing flames
God may speak in thunder
God whispers to the lame.
Where is he in humans?
How is he portrayed?
He’s not inside a mirror
His image is his name
Oh,I can’t be an atheist any more.
Come back to me, my sweetheart
Don’t leave me all alone.
Come back to me, my darling
I can’t believe you’ ve gone.
I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again.
I’m crying’cos I’m falling like a stone.
Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty
And my voice forever young.
Let me tempt you with my spirit
My laughter and my songs.
I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong.
I’m crying ‘cos with you I still belong.
I thought maybe I’d follow,
To see where you have gone
But there’s a hand upon this tiller
That is not mine alone.
I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song.
I’m crying ‘cos I’ve been lonely for too long.
The hand upon my tiller
The mystery of the dark
The unknown one who lives in me
And sings like a skylark.
I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song.
I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue
Sometimes when bereft I’d love a snail
Though it might wet my bed with silvery trails
Would snails be lonely living in my house?
Shall I be but fit to love one louse?
I hugged a rowan tree but now it’s dead
The council said they’ll give me oak instead
It stood upon the pavement by the gate
But now it is what McCall Smith calls “late”
I wonder if self massage’s the thing
Some perfumed lotion stolen on the wing.
I stroked my arms with Cream E45
Now they say I’m not allowed to drive!
I was sad but now I am at peace
All I needed was some eggs in grease.
A man whose face was smiling in repose
His eyes gleamed with the lustre of a gem
He never said too much but had his woes
Carried with a good will, and great aplomb
Like the lights where people cross the road
He had a face that smiled in kindness sweet
He never said too much, he hid his woes
Despite his age he still had both his feet
Like a poem has metre,has a beat
Like the lights where people cross the road
Signals make us sensible when fleet
He never said but knew how gnosis grows
His company is kind and never awes
As a poem has metre,has a beat
He cannot tolerate my jangled flaws
Symbols that insinuate deceit
He never entered College can he read?
His company is kind,no stasis glares
Never would he plead for my defeat
He cannot bring his custom to my flaws.
And so he is an instrument quite rare.
Who will not snoop nor wander with wide ears
Alive but cause unknown
A good talk cured this patient.Sent home with CD
Alive or a good actress.
Alive despite treatment.
Alive though humourless
Died laughing,cause unfound.Maybe doctors’s face triggered fit
Alive after eating the hospital food for a week.Sent home to lower risk
Said pain has moved to the third level.Sent to the Tower by lift
The sleeveless coat is wet and so am I
What made me buy such foolish,fashion garb?
Rain struck like sad lizards with bad eyes
From their poisoned blood some women die
Life in third world countries is damned hard
The sleeveless coat is wet, oh foolish I
But with the fire as hot as a Trump lie
My clothes have dried and I send my regards
Though rain fell like old lizards with bad eyes
The Walk In Centre is a blessing undenied
From my sofa I can watch the cars
The fire is warming me as burn Trump’s lies
I wonder if the doctors may be spies
Yet nothing I reported needs a guard
As rain fell like wild lizards bloodied eyes
If you dislike this, you may discard
And, on your mobile phone, block me,your bard
The sleeveless coat is wet and so am I
Rain flayed like hot lizards with bad eyes
The pantoum originated in Malaysia in the fifteenth-century as a short folk poem, typically made up of two rhyming couplets that were recited or sung. However, as the pantoum spread, and Western writers altered and adapted the form, the importance of rhyming and brevity diminished. The modern pantoum is a poem of any length, composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first.
The pantoum was especially popular with French and British writers in the nineteenth-century, including Charles Baudelaire and Victor Hugo, who is credited with introducing the form to European writers. The pantoum gained popularity among contemporary American writers such as Anne Waldman and Donald Justice after John Ashbery published the form in his 1956 book, Some Trees.
A good example of the pantoum is Carolyn Kizer’s “Parent’s Pantoum,” the first three stanzas of which are excerpted here:
Where did these enormous children come from,
More ladylike than we have ever been?
Some of ours look older than we feel.
How did they appear in their long dresses
More ladylike than we have ever been?
But they moan about their aging more than we do,
In their fragile heels and long black dresses.
They say they admire our youthful spontaneity.
They moan about their aging more than we do,
A somber group—why don’t they brighten up?
Though they say they admire our youthful spontaneity
They beg us to be dignified like them
One exciting aspect of the pantoum is its subtle shifts in meaning that can occur as repeated phrases are revised with different punctuation and thereby given a new context
In fiction, character is (almost) everything. We discuss “the elements of craft” – characterisation, plot, point of view, dialogue, detail, setting, style, and so forth – as if they were separable, as if you could disentangle them one from another. You can’t, of course; but when you filter almost all things through the specificities of character, many questions resolve themselves, almost miraculously.
Each of us is, in any given moment, the sum total of our temperament and experiences up to that point. Our baggage and idiosyncrasies may be suggested in our appearance; but much is invisible to the world. We all know that if there are three people in a room, each will tell a different story about what happened there – so character determines the story itself. But it also determines what will unfold – the plot.
As a writer, when you create a character, you don’t simply create his exterior (the wispy goatee, the receding hairline, the Liberty print shirt and expensive loafers); you must also come to know who he is (bullied in school, uneasy in friendships, veering between eager to please and cruel; vain but pretending not to be), and what has formed him (a Catholic school in the Sydney suburbs? A comprehensive in Exeter? Born with a silver spoon; or things started off comfortably, but his father’s business failed when he was 11? Raised in the shadow of three older siblings? Or alone with a single mum?). You must know his passions (loves pugs? Bicycle racing? First world war history? Talmudic study?) and his fears.
Once you know this person as well as you know yourself (or better), and once you put him, or her, in a particular place in a particular time, your character can only really act (or react) in a limited number of ways. He will notice only certain things, and those things only from a particular perspective; he will interact with others as only he can. If you’re using the first person, or the third person privileging this character, your diction and syntax – your very writing style – will be shaped by this person.
So much about a character is invisible, in fiction as in real life; but what lies beneath the surface will affect every aspect of your story. If you really take the time to figure out who you’re dealing with, much will become clear.
• Claire Messud is a senior lecturer in creative writing at Harvard
My patient announced she had good news … and bad. “The medicine for my earache worked,” she said. “What’s the bad news?” I asked.
“It tasted awful.”
Since she was feeling better, I didn’t have the heart to tell her they’re called eardrops for a reason. —Murray Grossan, MD, founder of the Grossan Institute, Los Angeles
t’s the headmaster trodden to death
No, it’s a number.
I think it’s a Greek letter
It’s just in your imagination
I can’t see anything at all.
What blackboard?
What is a blackboard?
How out of date
Throw it away.
Him not it
What a character he was.
Metaphorically speaking
The child too shy to join a little group
Or shamed by her old clothing and her shoes
The one who feels they don’t fit in or match
The one who suffered early from the blues
The barren wife, no virgin yet unused
The girl so clever yet she was well bruised
The middle age of suffering ends and views
The loneliness of age with none amused
The man too nervous to make any move
The man who cannot pass yet cannot love
The aging figure hopelessly bemused
The sperm still leaping,never to be used.
Some are in and others are outside
How few stayed with Jesus as he cried!
If we were more like him we would now mix
With the people who fall through the cracks.
A hint of suffering in the edge of eye
A hint of sadness by the mouth denied
A hint of being tired of one’s own life
A hint that maybe someone wants to die
“The meaning of Greek kharakter was extended in Hellenistic times by metaphor to “a defining quality, individual feature.” In English, the meaning “sum of qualities that define a person or thing and distinguish it from another” is from 1640s. That of “moral qualities assigned to a person by repute” is from 1712.”
I am a mystery mostly to myself
Others see my acts better than I can
And they see my face with its expressions
Again I see just the reflection in their face
So maybe we could ask, yet I feel afraid
As if I might see the head of the Gorgon
Or you might see me like that
You might say wounding words
Why do I fear that?
Mostly people don’t look at us so much as we fear and hope
At first it seemed like summer once again
When cats curled up on cushions drowse and dream
Yet second seeing finds the sun estranged
Makes autumn bring out ancient colouring schemes
The world, intense, is full of new born dawns
At first it seems like summer still remains
We love the greeny grass of ancient lawns
Yet second seeing learns the sun’s disdain
While cats curled up on cushions drowse and dream
While little children play with whip and ball
Then autumn brings out ancient coloured schemes
As we begin to view the full filled Fall
So older people’s minds weave new and lost
And cats curled up on cushions drowse and dream
We notice how the sun has burned the grass
While autumn paints its ancient coloured themes
Round the wheel turns at a steady pace
Yet it seemed like summer had remained
Nature does not enter any race
Yet second seeing finds the sun estranged
In my end is origin and growth
For the racing hare and weary sloth
What is a metonym?
Do not warm your cold hands in this microwave
How my heart sings 