Britain is mentally ill
Who will invent a new pill?
Anti-pschycotics
Make us robotic
We freeze or we cannot keep still
Brexit was never foreseen
Its fog makes us gray as we scream
I don’t get a vote
I must be remote
I like you but I am unclean
If most of the public are mad
The sane people cannot be glad
Brexit is cryptic
In the bud we should of nipped it
But let’s not laugh till we’re all sad
My title has two meanings.One is that sometimes we have to think about a painful event or a person who has hurt us.Or even some past events…I recall pain when I was told about Hitler and Stalin
On the other hand some of us use thinking in words as a way of blocking painful emotions.whilst this may work for a time,it may give a lot of trouble when we need to deal with pain.Essentially we do not wish to “know” the truth in the full sense… we deceive ourselves and maybe others too
William Blake wrote this poem
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine,
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Through the world we safely go.
I’ve been reading Sylvia Plath recently.I see that after her husband left her she went into a frenzy of activity.She had two very young children.was often i ll with flu but she wrote all her most famous poems at this time;then she moved to London antd socialised a lot to prove she was not just a deserted wife.After this she became more, ill,there was a severe winter….then she crashed into the depths…I feel that her frenzie writing was a way of not admitting her grief… and she got worn out and decided death was better.
Some of us who are quite cerebral are not in touch with our bodies.We don’t feel that knife in the heart,the tears unshed,the anger that threatens… and eventually this cam lead to problems.,sometimes flu sometimes a breakdown,sometimes a broken marriage.and also the thinking can take on a life of its own so it keeps us awake at night… and the feelings can come out in nightmares.
So thinking can be a curse.We all need defences at times but too much cuts us of from our own lives.
And brooding and ruminating are very damaging to the mind and soul.Thinking is not wisdom
.
A lovely poem that i am fond of
O sweet spontaneous
by: e.e. cummings (1894-1962)
sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty, how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
I’ m from Croatia, how about you?
I talk with my crutches that I bought in the zoo
The eagles were flying as if they might pray
I talked to God but he said he can’t say
I do like this England , I grew up in Madrid
I should have been sad for my mother was dead
Croatia is stunning,I’ve seem my old man
He said he was seasick, before Labour began
I can’t vote in Elections, nor receive ready meals
My skin is still white but they say I will peel
Croatia’s my dream place, the mountains are steep
The sea it is blue as we know by the bleeps
I wish I was English, but it’s no use to dream
I ‘m psychopathic and abnormally clean
I’ve got attachment disorder, am I mentally ill?
I was nearly newborn when my mum took the pill
Humanae Vita, no abortions allowed
No contraception as we’re all well endowed
The Pope gave his answers, we all disobeyed
Otherwise virtue is nobody’s game
The cherry tree looks like a parasol
I rest beneath it on a neighbour’s wall
I shall not tell of hate or love painful
The cherry tree looks like parasol
Mental pain needs more than Panadol
Today a hot blue sky is just symbol
Here no vultures fly nor magpies call
The cherry tree looks like a parasol
I sit beneath it on a neighbour’s wall
https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=126282089&t=1558608220178
Extract:
Early in the collection, Young includes a poem, “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden, that was read at his father’s service. It begins:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
It’s that ability — to express a feeling like the one that arrives quickly after the loss of a loved one — that poems like Auden’s wield.
“I think that’s a real part of grief that we sometimes aren’t able to talk about and I think that poetry talks about perhaps better than anything else,” Young tells NPR’s Renee Montange. “It’s able capture a moment, a feeling, perhaps a fleeting feeling, and even make — as that poem does — music out of it.”
What do we worship now when God is dead?
What golden calf or lover is adored?
No holy book or ancient prayer is read
Who do we worship now when God is dead?
We are lost souls, oh urgent is our dread
What do we worship after God is dead?
By adverts, propaganda we are fed
Our mind is full, such images are stored
Which leader may we worship when God’s dead?
Who can make a structure, who restores?
How my heart sings 