Month: May 2019

Silence and paradoxical meditation

 

light road landscape nature
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2010/nov/13/tim-parks-silence-meditation

Extract

I’d reached that point where you’ll try anything. Lie down, this book said, close your eyes, take a few deep breaths, focus on some tense part of the body and don’t try to relax it. Just observe. That was the paradox: the body would only relax if I really didn’t try to relax it. But there was also this instruction: “Avoid all verbal thought: scientific research has shown that it is impossible to relax the body deeply while words are running through the mind.”

Is it hard to relax?

 

 

 

 

Rydal2019-3This method works if you have time to allow it.I used to do it for headaches

I think progressive muscular relaxation is good.But I found another method.You might like to lie down before you do it.
Then you tell yourself that deep down inside you are already relaxed so all you have to do is get in touch with that part of yourself.So lie still and feel your body and just let go until you feel you are at  one with yourself.

That’s it!

Happiness and David Cameron?

new-cats-today-1https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2011/apr/10/david-cameron-wrong-type-happiness

Extract:

“I wanted to be much clearer that this was much more than a happyology. What humans want is not just happiness. They want justice, they want meaning. An interesting example is that there is quite a bit of evidence that says people’s mood isn’t as good once they have children. If that were all people were interested in, we should have been extinguished a long time ago,” he told Psychologies magazine in an interview to be published next week.

Even depressed people, he said, can flourish. “I think you can be depressed and flourish, I think you can have cancer and flourish, I think you can be divorced and flourish. When we believed that happiness was only smiling and good mood, that wasn’t very good for people like me, people in the low

Kiss  the person whom you like the best

Soothe yourself by knitting a  long scarf
Reading poems  out loud and taking baths
Letting spiders live beside your chair
Putting out the rubbish when you’re bare

Listen to a Schubert  song divine
Cross the street in an exact straight line
Take a  photo of the   metal gate
Ask your cat if they would like a mate

Make yourself an omelette in a trice
Remember we are walking on thin ice
Kiss  the person whom you like the best
Fail benignly on an IQ  test

Write yourself a  letter every day
Tell yourself that life is like a Play

Odium theologicum

hebrew_mss_mahzor_vitry_add_ms_27200_f156vhttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Odium_theologicum

 

“The Latin phrase odium theologicum (literally “theological hatred”) is the name originally given to the often intense anger and hatred generated by disputes over theology. It has also been adopted to describe non-theological disputes of a rancorous nature.

John Stuart Mill, discussing the fallibility of the moral consensus in his essay “On Liberty” (1859) refers scornfully to the odium theologicum, saying that, in a sincere bigot, it is one of the most unequivocal cases of moral feeling. In this essay, he takes issue with those who rely on moral feeling rather than reasoned argument to justify their beliefs.”

 

“Philosopher and historian of science Thomas Samuel Kuhn argued that scientists are strongly committed to their beliefs, theories and methods (the collection of which he termed “paradigms“), and that science progresses mainly by paradigm shifts. He claimed that scientists with conflicting paradigms will hold to them as dearly as theologians hold to their theological paradigms. Philosopher of math and science Imre Lakatos, a student of Karl Popper, described the nature of science in a similar manner.

According to Lakatos, science progresses by continual modification or else supersession of what he termed “research programs” (roughly equivalent to Kuhn’s “paradigms”). Lakatos claimed that a research program is informed by metaphysical beliefs as well as observation of facts, and may infinitely resist falsification if a scientist wishes to continue holding it in spite of problems or the discovery of new evidence. If this view is correct, science does not remedy odium theologicum, it provides another field in which it may manifest.”

Emile loses his nerve

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Stan was happy for a few moments when he woke up.Then he realized Emile was not anywhere to be seen.Mary had already gone out as she wanted to catch a very early train to London.She needed to visit the British Library.She urgently wanted to find evidence that Wittgenstein wore a hat in bed.
Stan went searching around the house but Emile had vanished.Usually at 8 am he would be dashing about pretending to chase flies and giving a balletic performance worthy of Sadler’s Wells.
I wonder who Sadler was, Stan muttered as he filled the kettle with fresh water and put some Earl Grey tea into the teapot.
Then, a strange feeling came over him.He looked up and there was Emile
crouched on top of the highest cupboard in the kitchen.
Emile, he cried, What are you doing up there?
I’m training to be a spy, Emile replied nonchalantly.
But how could this kitchen be of interest to the Intelligence Services?
Well, the cat murmured, I am practicing hiding.
You gave me a terrible shock, Stan said.I had this feeling I was being watched.I wondered if it was paranoia.Then I saw your gleaming eyes.
So, you need to get some dark glasses, Emile said.
No ,I would still feel that horrible feeling.And how were you planning to get down from that high ledge?
I’m not sure, the cat miaowed faintly
Well, the first lesson for a spy or even a detective is,
Never go anywhere unless you can make a quick exit,
As it is ,I may have to ring 999.
Just then the front doorbell rang.There stood a man with a white beard and moustache.
Hello ,he said holding out his hand to shake Stan’s.
I am called Peter Fried.I have just moved into one of the new flats across the road.I am a psychoanalyst.I have taken on another flat to use as a consulting room and a waiting room
A psychoanalyst! Do we need one round here? Well, Good morning, I have just brewed some tea.Would you like to join me?
How kind, said Peter.
I say, old bean, did you know there’s a cat on top of your cupboard?
Yes, that is Emile.Today he has surpassed himself in wickedness.How I will get him down I don’t know.
My training analyst used to say, What goes up must eventually come down.
That seems a bit weird for an analyst.To what was he referring… something to do with sex I don’t doubt.It’s all sex with you people.
Yes, some of us are very peculiar…that’s why we enter the profession.
What I meant was, if Emile got up he can get down.How did you get up, Emile?
I leaped, answered the tense animal.
Can you leap down?
I’ve lost my nerve, replied the poor creature softly.
Well, as it happens, being a therapist, I always carry few spare nerves with me.I’ll climb up this step ladder and pass you a new nerve.
And without waiting, Peter climbed the ladder.He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a golden thread.
Here you are,Emile, Catch this in your claw.
Emile caught the golden thread and wrapped it around his neck.
Can you leap down now? enquired Stan.
Emile leaped down and landed in a bowl of hot water in the sink.
It’s a good thing I wasn’t making chips, laughed Stan hysterically
Come here, Emile and let me dry you on this old towel.He put Emile
in front of the fire and he and Peter drank mugs of Earl Grey tea.
I have got a mistress, Stan told Peter.
Well, do you want therapy for your conflict?
Oh,no.I’m far too old for therapy or indeed for a  mistres. She liked helping a man making tea, typing notes, calculating averages and calling the ambulance.. you know what I mean.She likes the paramedic, Dave ás well.
Is she not married?
No , her husband fell into the wheelie bin during the night and alas he was taken away with the rubbish.
That is a strange story.Are you certain?
No, it could be he grew tired of her and ran away.Then she invented this story,
Well , this may be a quiet suburb but I can see there is plenty of material here for me to write my next book:
Deceptive appearances and the fascination of apparent dullness.
Oh, that sounds very unusual.
Well, I’ve never believed in true dullness.There is always a story.
See, I’ve just met you a man of 98 yet you have a wife, a mistress and a crazy cat.. and I’ve only been here for one day.Imagine 6156119_f260

what else I may discover here.
They heard a siren.
Oh, no!We’ve not even rung 999 and here is the ambulance….
Mary will be so angry.You see Dave is bisexual
My goodness, are you having an affair with him.
No way, shouted Stan.My life is tough enough already.He can be bisexual or even trisexual but I’m not interested.
What does trisexual mean, enquired Emile.
I have no idea but I thought it sounded good, admitted Stan.
Peter stood up.
I think I’d better go home and start to see my patients.
Now Emile, put your nerve somewhere safe.We don’t want you to lose it again.
Thank you, darling cried Emile.I think I’ve formed an erotic transference with you already.
Peter rushed out.
Is it me or is it them?he wondered.
I thought it would be quiet here on the edge of Knittingham but I think now wherever you are there will always be something unexpected happening.But I hope Emile will not begin to follow me around.I shall have to buy a lady cat and then Emile might fall in love with her instead.So off Peter went whistling a Bach cello suite and wondering how to cope with life in a suburb.. clearly it was not as dull as he had imagined.

 

We freeze  or we cannot keep still

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

 

When thinking hurts us

cats-staring-3

 

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

http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/fulfillment-any-age/201110/the-essential-guide-defense-mechanisms

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.

IM000484.JPG

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)

Related articles

He said he was seasick, before Labour began

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

Mental pain needs more than Panadol

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

Poetry for grief and healing

5230546_f248 (1)

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 after God is dead?

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?

Broken windows

rosahimalayanmusk

 
Passing water into a small bottle for the doctor to have analysed is a task even the most brilliant find hard.Rosa  was not even  averagely  brilliant amongst the brilliants of history like Plato,Aristotle ,Simone de Boredwoy or Blaze Rascal not to mention St Coal,.
She grabbed her mobile as a dying man at his wife’s hand  and rang the cab service. she used now she was unable to see properly or ride her bike.
Hello,it’s Rosa Benchez here.Can a driver pick up my urine sample and take it to the surgery for me.Thank you so much.
No problem, the manager told her and soon afterwards a young man with dangling earrings arrived.She showed  him the sample hidden inside a Sainsbury’s shopping bag.He looked puzzled but agreed on payment of £259.89
She realised she had not eaten any breakfast so  decided to have an early lunch instead.As she ate her toasted cheese  and snake oil she fell into a daydream.She was with her  online man friend walking through a huge field of  her favourite flowers,cyclamen.They were walking along companionably without holding hands but together whilst also being apart which was delightful.
This was agreeable  since she had never met this very handsome  man in the flesh.He was called XY Matrix although his parents had never studied algebra as far as historians can tell.Could it be a pseudonym?
Maybe he was being raised to be a mathematical prodigy but he became a writer  and musician and managed to earn  a good income.He had a beautiful detached house filled with antiques and ceramic lamps like Freud’ study.In fact  he had copied that from historical photos and descriptions ; one day he hoped to become a therapist
Rosa and Fox as she called him got on well and shared a liking for poetry and music.Sometimes he had sent her music  as attachments on his emails.He seemed to love Wagner and Britten which seemed a curious combination to the British woman.He loved Britten’s Donne’s Sonnets sung by   the  stunning tenor Ian Bostridge.

After lunch, Rosa opened her laptop.She found an email from Fox.
You have been here and broken all my windows and my bath  is ruined, he wrote.I  am moving house to get away from you.And I am having  plastic windows.
Rosa was alarmed as it  defied  common sense.She did not know where his house was ;  it was in another country.So she emailed him back,
What is wrong , dear? You only said 2 days ago that my poetry had helped your sick friend when you went to visit him in the hospital
Waiting anxiously for his answer, she sipped some coffee and looked at her friend Dolly walk by, dressed in a pink suede jacket and black linen culottes with unmatching  red boots.
Where is Dolly going she wondered pensively  ,feeling like a cloud floating over Rydal Water in the winter not knowing which way the wind might blow it
After two hours  of  utter silence, she decided to wait until the evening when she had put away the  groceries and written a  triolet or two.She was  keen to do  it before she lost the  impetus
The whole evening went by so she emailed him again.But again he did not reply.
The next morning  she found a letter on the doormat.

 

1,Rancour Villas
Horror Lane
Dumbtown

Dear Rosa

I thought you would be kind and gentle like your poetry but you  have wounded me.
You asked me what date my dental appointment was which was an invasion of my privacy.
You  also told me you would not mind if  your son was gay whereas to me it is a sin  to indulge those sick appetites and you should not encourage him

Signed XY M

A dental appointment? It’s not as if she had asked him if  he had a sexually transmitted disease or whether he really believed in Jesus as his Saviour.Nor had she asked him if he liked  to smoke cigars in bed nor if he  let Lassie his sheepdog sleep on the bed and cuddle with him.For all she knew, the dog might be his partner or even his wife

She emailed him  as she felt anxious  in case he was having a breakdown.He replied,   saying she was not who he thought and he was finished with her.
I wonder who he thought I was, she asked herself as she sat   with tears in her eyes feeling concerned about what was really going on in his dear  mind.
Her cat Lucy ran up and sat on the arm of  the chair gazing frenziedly at her owner and mother
Don’t worry Lucy.I am sure I will soon  be ok. This must be a mistake.I think he has got paranoia which gets worse and then better
Rosa looked on Amazon and found a book called

Understanding Paranoia: A Guide for Professionals, Families, and Sufferers

Kantor MD, Martin

 

 Having read  a little of the book   online she decided it had some useful tips which could also apply to people who were not  paranoid , like always being polite, never telling lies and never arguing.As it was only £1899  she placed an order.If  her friend was really ill she did not want to make him worse.
On the other hand ,who   knows what his real motives might be?He could be a sadist or have got many women friends and not enough time to keep them all happy.
He might be gay and be using her to  see if he could love a woman at a distance better than one in the flesh.
We have to admit that often none of us know why we do certain things.As a friend used to say
It seemed a good idea at the time.
And so cry all of us.
.

I  feel I’m  more important than before

I  feel I’m  more important than  before
For no-one cared I lived here in my house
Now Google  spies on me  through my glass door

If I buy shoes from Clarks, they’ll tempt me more
Advertising frequently  and loud
I  feel I’m  more important than  before

If I  buy one new laptop, I need scores
How stupid is AI , and yet how proud
Now Google  spies on me  through my glass door

They know I’ve been to Boots but not what for
Soon they  will be spying via my mouse
I  glow, I’m  more important than  before

They steal as silently as none before
Even when I’m ironing  my spouse
See Google  spies on me  through my glass door

I   taught   what the laws of chance  allowed
I even taught my cat till she miaowed
By FBI and MI5   ignored
I   guess I’m  more important than  before

 

 

Watercolour love

Like watercolours left out in the rain
Our colours mingled,yet the originals still remain.
Two watercolour paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colours blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colours intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
My watercolour painted by the rain
We die but our Watercolour Love remains

Joining its reflection

pinkcatandsun
Two whole worlds.
One small cut.

One little chink.
Hard to find.
Very,very hard.
One small place
Where a very little cat
Could slip right through
The geometrician ‘s cut.
Cat could slip right through.
Just,slip straight through.
Joining it’s own reflection
On the opposite side.
The mirror’s other side.

And if I caught that tail,
If I caught her little tail,
She could pull me through,
She could pull me through,
So she and I too
We’d be on the other side,
The wrong way round,
On the opposite side.

So when you looked in,
If you looked in,
You would see me there,
Looking out at you,
From the opposite side.
From the opposite side.
And the cat beside
Looking very small,
Very,very small;
But very, very real.
How do you think you’d feel,
If I was looking out,
Staring at you
From the opposite side?

I can’t get back.
I can’t find Riemann’s cat
and without that pussy cat
I can’t find Riemann’s cut.
I think I’m in a trap.
I cannot find that cat.
So she can’t find the cut
To get me back,
She can’t bring me back
To where I was before.

Oh,how queer,
To have two of me in here.
I hope I’ll get on well
With my other self,
Behind the looking glass.
No one looking in,
But two are staring out.
From that other world.

I am looking out,
I’m looking out
To see if you are there.
One of you’s with me
That makes the total three.
Oh,dear me,
I should not have grabbed
Little pussy’s tail.
I didn’t really know
Where she meant to go.

“Wherever have you been?
Where do you think you’ve been
To get so filthy black,
And where’s your pussy cat?”
She never came back.
Never came back
From the opposite side.
Mother thought I’d lied.
I don’t tell lies,
But I can see my cat
Staring out at me.
Staring out at me
From the other side.
From the opposite side
Of my looking glass.
My lovely looking glass
Has trapped my tiny cat
On the opposite side.
On the opposite side
On the other side

A new name for Rosa?

p1000273-23p1000273-2

It is a truth totally unacknowledged  by human beings that Professor of Linguistics and  Word Mismanagement Rosa Benchez hates her own name.It is for this reason, she is keen to get married.Unfortunately ,her only suitor is Charlie Blogge. the well known TV biology  expert
Does Rosa Blogge sound any better, she asked her friend Amy Panicker.
I find it hard to judge ,Amy answered. Ar least it’s not Bloggess. But there is another answer.
Rosa and her cat Lucy looked up expectantly.
Go on tell  us!
Change your first name.Have you got any other name besides Rosa? Don’t say Wooden or Iron,I beg you.
Rosa looked surprised.
In a way that is harder emotionally,she began, because that’s what all my friends and family call me
They must have been dim to call you Rosa, Amy cried.
Don’t say that.Who wants to be compared to a light bulb?
Well ,who wants to be compared to rows of benches? Amy retorted.
Well. grandad was called I.Ron Benchez. Rosa shouted.He was from the USA.
Thank God ,he is not the President,Amy smiled
I think that is stupid.The name of the person has no bearing on how they can lead a government.
Well,how about Trump? Is it a real name or did they pick it from knowing the word trump from card games,Amy asked quietly
I  have no idea,said Rosa.I shall look it up now
Wow, you have a new iPhone!
Charlie gave it to me,Rosa confessed shyly, blushing dark pink
You had better check whether he  is tracking you, Amy told her anxiously.You never know what men will do nowadays.
But can’t you track folk on Samsungs or Nokia Lumias? said Rosa in  her mellow voice.
I don’t think it is very romantic to give a lady  a smartphone instead of some jewellery,Amy cried.
You can sell jewellery but who wants a second-hand iPhone.
As a matter of fact ,some old Nokias from the 90’s are now worth a few hundred pounds
So if you have one keep it unless your  home is already overflowing with collections of pens,watches old newspapers and cats like my friend Percival’s, Rosa retorted.
Percival? what  is his last name?
Joyce.Rosa whispered.He is related to the writer James Joyce.
Rosa Joyce…. how does that sound?
Well as you know any word you keep repeating begins to sound odd and the same is true of names.Even the nicest name like Katherine With-Doubt begins to sound odd when  delivery men ask you for it.
Are you with doubt? one had asked her, she told me
Who is without doubt?  she had replied courteously.
Who indeed said the clever Polish doctor working in the UK  delivering stuff for Amazing,dot com.He lives round the corner: Thom Without-Doubt
Thank God you are not called that.
Amy asked Rosa if she could make a pot of tea.They sat in the old orange walled kitchen eating cream crackers and cheese and sipping hot tea.
Lucy was eating some cat biscuits and suddenly   had a good idea
Why don’t you and I swap names, she mewed to Rosa with a  loving smile.
Do you know,said Rosa, I am so fed up with names I shall change mine to a number if we carry on like this
Do you think 678 Benches sounds any better,giggled Amy.
I was thinking more of a name like Platonic form or pyramid
How does Platonic Benchez sound. Or Platonic Blogge?
And so ask  all of us.

The trauma of facing deportation

bonfire surrounded with green grass field
Photo by Vlad Bagacian on Pexels.com

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/04/03/the-trauma-of-facing-deportation

Extract:

She believes that people cannot be truly healthy unless they have trygghet, a word that in English translates as “security” but which has a broader meaning in Swedish: trust, a sense of belonging, freedom from danger, anxiety, and fear. The modern Swedish welfare state was built on the idea that it must safeguard trygghet for its citizens, minimizing the risks to which they are exposed. “Security is the most basic foundation of the individual,” the Swedish minister of social affairs explained, in 1967. “Nothing good has ever come out of insecurity.”

If any man proposed,I’d feel a blow

I do not need a diamond ring I know
Once the final treasure of a wife
But wish to entertain with  trumpet show

But missing an engagement, I feel low
I’m down and out, I have no proper life
I do not need a diamond ring ,oh,no.

If any man proposed,I’d feel a blow
Here I see   young Hamlet and his knife
I   wish for grandeur from Chanel cologne

My long gone children haunt me as I sew
I mend  the world, I wish to do it thrice
We do not need a diamond -horn to blow

I shall be humbled by the summer snow
The ice upon my cake is thick and white
I   wish for heat , wish for the sun to glow

Shall Jehovah come to earth and smite
Those who hurt by envy and by strife?
I do  not need that ring but love  alone
I wish to entertain  with fun and groans

Sadness in its force has an allure

The memory of my loss still gives me pain
I do not wish to feel it  anymore
The butterfly is   battered once again

The waiting with its vigilance is strained
As if a monster shuffles to my door
The memory of my loss,  oh heart of pain

Who for love will risk this sadness named?
Who  is criticised  for spirits poor?
The butterfly, the storm will come again

Life is hard and  wildness can’t be tamed
Sadness in its force has  an allure
The memory of my loss still gives me pain

Leaving Sodom,  salt dissolves in rain
I must look forward with a vision pure
The butterfly find pleasure once again

The loss of movement  we may  each endure
The ills of age won’t have a final cure
The memory of my loss  will fade with time
The fluttering flower  gives joy  yet has no fame

 

The philosophy of poetry

parthenon athens greece
Photo by Josiah Lewis on Pexels.com

https://philosophynow.org/issues/114/The_Philosophy_of_Poetry

Extract:

In his introduction to this collection of essays, its editor John Gibson tells us that the emphasis here is on modern poetry. In modern poetry, meaning is latent rather than overt, or is put into question, and any sense of narrative or anecdote is fractured or subverted. For Gibson, any theory based on the concept of narrative would be inapplicable to poetry in the modernist paradigm. (It is pertinent to point out that most poetry, whether of the past or of the present, doesn’t obey this paradigm.) Yet, if we need different philosophical theories for each different genre, style, or period of poetry (which, after all, are scarcely watertight categories), this doesn’t say much for the scope of theory. We are led inexorably from the generalities of the philosopher theorizing about a particular artform, to the specifics of the literary critic giving an account of a particular poem. In practice, regardless of Gibson’s strictures, many of the contributors to this volume are happy to generalize about poetry as such.

 

Lonely blue

Cyclamen-2019

I bought sweet cyclamen and thought of you
Wandering through wild poppies  by my side
I don’t know where to put them,they might die.
Then I would feel so sad and lonely blue
All we read of pain and love is true.
Yet we let our hearts stay open wide
I bought sweet cyclamen,remembered you
Wandering through wild meadows  by my side.
I have loved not widely but a few
I have touched on bliss  and when it flies
I have touched the grief that truly  lies
I bought  these cyclamen,oh, where are you?

How to ruin a laptop

Eat your dinner from the  open keyboard
Drink beer while typing
For a touchscreen,use a fork to move the cursor
Hit  the keyboard if you are angry
Keep the teapot nearby and hold your cups over the laptop
Watch violent films and spit as far as you can before hitting your head on the screen
Never close the lid and never clean the keyboard
Keep it in the kitchen next to the microwave
Keep it in the fridge with  raw bacon in between the screen and keyboard
Use it as a doorstop
Carry it about with you without a bag or cover
Hit people on the bus with it and refuse to apologise.

I’d be afraid of  a nuclear accident in my chest

She thought she’d like to be a poet
Calculating her vocabulary was ironic
She wrote free verse in stanzas three lines long
With a short intermission
She learned innocent  and good people
Attract the Evil and that even people who have suffered
Are not less susceptible to wanting power or worship
She learned idolatry is rampant  in men of power
“Men” is naturally inclusive
As you will know if you went to Eton
Or even to Mass in 1956
Why would I want Jesus’s soul even if he is God?
I’d be afraid of  a nuclear accident in my chest
There’s danger around the sacred,we need to know
Satan did have the best lines
Jesus did not answer the questions
We had no right to ask.
I find it’s useful to work with abstract concepts
Otherwise I might suffer too much
Whatever “too much” is
It could be epsilon or delta, you know what I mean?
Isaac Newton.Mercury.The dentist.
Leibniz’ dots.Whatever

He sent the Word, but who can hear the Dead?

The evil  leader  wants to be our god
Controlling thinking, focusing our needs
He rules  us with  the fearsome gun and  rod

Hitler drew the adulation of the crowd
At Nuremberg his ego swelled in greed
The evil tyrant  wants to be a god

With distant face, God heard the violent sound
But from the human world he long has fled
Hitler’s people worshipped what they found

God dwells in his grave now, underground
He sent the Word, but who can hear the Dead?
The evil  man identifies as god

In Church they took Christ’s body in their mouths
Their souls were never present as He bled
Hitler’s human  sacrifices spread

From the Pulpit Jesus’ words were read
As gas destroyed the Jews, where was the threat?
The evil  leader  deigns to be our god
He offers Heaven,  Hell is made instead

 

Writing tablets?

1* Writing tablet
1* Stylus

Precautions:
1.Do not violent writing, will damage the screen affect the writing effect.
2.Products avoid water, avoid using sharp objects scratch the screen.
3.Clean with clean cloth when cleaning.
4.When replacing the battery, please use the battery that matches the battery.
5.Age of application: over 3 years of age.

 

img_20190510_163338-1

 

I’m over 3 years old, I must confess
Will violent writing help me to express
The rage of Brexit, Union Jack
The hatred of the Jew and Black
The Muslim woman answering back
The anorexic culture thwack ?
I’m over 3 years old ,  and nappyless
Are we depressed
I think you guessed

 

Spiritual poetry

36064355_1156369647836245_7488378942043193344_nhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/68606/spiritual-poetry

 

“The root of “spirit” is the Latin spirare, to breathe. Whatever lives on the breath, then, must have its spiritual dimension— including all poems, even the most unlikely. Philip Larkin, Sylvia Plath, William Carlos Williams: all poets of spiritual life. A useful exercise of soul would be to open any doorstop-sized anthology at random a dozen times and find in each of the resulting pages its spiritual dimension. If the poems are worth the cost of their ink, it can be done.

But, no, I’ve been asked to choose, to recommend. The poems I suggest here are this moment’s choices, not “the best spiritual poems” (a phrase weighing nothing in so intimate and personal a context). The “gates” are an equally personal selection of entrance points into spiritual life. Some of the poems are well known, others less so. “

I see your face,  you disappear again

The blank paged notebooks where you  used to write
First with pencil then with ballpoint pen
The Freeling novels you read in the night

These special objects bring you to my sight
I see your face,  you disappear again
To blank paged notebooks where you  used to write

The reading lamp showed in its small clear light
Your telephone, your desk, your writing plan
The Freeling novels you read in the night

My heart feels strange, my feelings re- ignite
The fires of love quelled by the sudden rain
Oh, blank paged notebooks where you  used to write

I did not let you go without a fight
But once accepted, I endured the pain
I read the  books that you read in the night

The force that makes the  wheat produce its grain
Also kills   as freely as blood stains
In blank paged notebooks where you  used  to write
Where  do you read  now in  endless night?