Day: November 2, 2018

Oxford

Gold stone from Cotswold quarries men brought

And built into a way of life for those who bought

Their lives so cheaply.And did not see

The children’s eyes, the ball, the game , the tree

Of life that grew in small backyards and gave all

To those who climbed into its arms

Why should this not be you?

Oh,Eden,I see that you are nearer now

In lowly homes where love is free

Than in the temple, grove,and soft set brow

Of those who worship God in churches built of gold.

Now we can see that this is easy to behold

When sun is setting,and escapes the ashes

Thrown up and floating in the watches

Of the days of voter’e eyes cast up to skies

and , wondering fearful, what will come

when all the secret deals are done.

So take the gold of life and let it fall

Into your children’ s growing souls

And let this Cotswold town and spires

Melt into sunset’s glowing orange fires.

Gods’

I saw some mobile foam coming out of the bathroom.Then I knew

She said, what a tart phone

She sai,d  about thy lines

I have a war in  my bed robe

I got some kosher vitamin D today.So then it might be my far wits are……

I have my own Tablet so all I need is God.

Can we have  more athletics free with our newspaper?

I forgot we need washing but I ironed my soul today ready for the knight

So we bathed in the River Mersey  and oil came free.

I  can’t bare to turn off my phone in town

I have been smart myself at rhymes.

So  we all have cameras,  who looks at the world? Is there any?

My IQ is like infinity… it gets bigger and bigger and suddenly is infinite before coming back to zero from the negative  side.

You say I’m unbalanced.Yet I have smashed the wide hopes of  the Langdale Bites

We are all human.But not Gods. We are Gods’.

Suffering our own sentences

Travelling down these sentences we find
Unknown,unsought, unthought, but always real
A home where we can rest our  fragile minds

The people  dropped,the habits left behind.
The good, the mediocre, what we steal
While travelling with the sentences we find

The hate that frees,the love that too close binds
The heart, the soul, the body, how we feel
For homes where we can rest our  fragile minds

The touch that chills, the distances unkind
Unwished for yet demanding all the soul.
Unravelling are our sentences unblind.

The freezing looks,the glories undermined
Ill timed,ill gotten, ills both new and  old,
Hedge homes where we could rest our  fragile minds

I have never dwelt in realms of gold;
But there are many stories never told.
Suffering our own sentences we find
A  home that welcomes, our more liberal minds.

The future of poetry

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Image by Katherine

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2010/jun/18/the-future-of-

Extract:

“The simplest and best answer I got at the event in Oxford was “for paying attention”. Judith Palmer, director of the Poetry Society, echoes that phrase. “One of the things poetry gives all of us is a way of developing an attentiveness to life, a way of observing the world, of noticing things and seeing them differently,” she says. A good poem looks closely at the world; does that Martian thing of trying to see it for the first time. Everything else – the emotional charge, the lyrical delight, the intellectual pleasure – is secondary.

The Hungarian-born poet George Szirtes, who teaches poetry at the University of East Anglia, says poems try to capture a reality that is deeper than language. “You’re trying to say: I know what this thing is called,” he says. “It’s called a chair, and that thing is a table. I’ve got this word ‘chair’ and I’ve got this word ‘table’, but there’s something peculiar about this chair and table which using the words chair and table will not actually convey.” Readers, he says, may race through novels because they want to know what happens, but they should look to inhabit poems. “Nobody reads a poem to find out what happens in the last line. They read the poem for the experience of travelling through it.””