Month: November 2019

We won’t know if Hitler’s come back

Why  do you watch the news, mother
It always makes you get so sad
You wake up  feeling  in the pink
Then all your spirits sink
Don’t you know you can drive yourself mad?

I saw you in the Hat shop this morning
You were trying on velvet  and fur
I think maroon is too dark for you
Try coral , eyes will spark for you
Then you won’t get mal de mere!

Yet if we don’t read a news precis
We won’t know if Hitler’s come back
So choose very wisely
Even precisely
Then act if it makes you feel black.

What do we need to  know daily
About the PM and his friends
Use your own judgement
About the repugnant
We hope to avoid a dead end

On google earth you look so far away

O
Like the street where I grew up and  fondly played
You are fading into mist and memory
On Google Earth it looks so far away

I’d like to go, but it’s too far for one day
And gone is my extended  family
From the street where I grew up and joyous played

The  Convent School was sold,not on E bay!
I hated   how they used to torment me
On Google Earth it looks so far away

Now a Mosque stands on the hill to point the way
We Christians lost our faith. God’s territory
Bare the street where we knelt down  at night  to pray

My life felt like enacting a mad play
I angered nuns  with violent modesty
On their Earth I felt so far away

The water soft made better tasting tea
The    rivers ran,the moors  grew bilberries
Oh,dear land where I grew up and  fondly played
On Google Earth you look  too far away

 

 

 

Your face is map enough for me

Your face is map enough for me ,

Your gaze, your smile, your frown, your glee.

And if I want to know the rest

The shape your posture‘s made is best

For showing what your life is now.

A look,a gesture all this show.

Till who you are is then disclosed

And I am in your arms enrobed.

Love vanishes when analysed,

And thinking too

by  Love’s despised’

Choose the means to fit the end

And then I’ll  be what you  intend

Whitman and Democracy

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/151134/filthy-presidentiad-walt-whitman-in-the-aocracyge-of-trump?utm_source=Poetry+Foundation&utm_campaign=9043ea8aed-POFO-NOV-15&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_ff7136981c-9043ea8aed-185545637&mc_cid=9043ea8aed&mc_eid=548544474a

 

EXTRACT

Walt Whitman is two hundred years old in 2019—and the bicentennial of democracy’s bard falls in the shadow of a demagogic presidency.

John Marsh, in his book In Walt We Trust: How a Queer Socialist Poet Can Save America from Itself, has this to say about the poet and democracy:

For Whitman, democracy is a way of being; in particular, it is a way of being with others … it has much more to do with how you approach your fellow men and women. Do you respect them? Do you acknowledge their dignity? Do you identify your interests with theirs? In short, do you love them?

Whitman expressed his vision of democracy as “a way of being with others” in #24 of “Song of Myself”:

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from
     them,
No more modest than immodest.
Unscrew the locks from the doors!
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!
Whoever degrades another degrades me,
And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
In Spanish:
Walt Whitman, un cosmos, el hijo de Manhattan,
Turbulento, carnal, sensual, comedor, bebedor y procreador,
Ni sentimental, ni erguido por encima de los hombres y mujeres,
Ni alejado de ellos, ni modesto ni inmodesto.
¡Arrancad los cerrojos de las puertas!
¡Arrancad las puertas mismas de sus quicios!
Quien degrada a otro me degrada a mí,
Y todo lo que se dice o se hace vuelve al fin a mí.
A través de mi ser la inspiración divina se agita y se agita,
A través de mi ser el corriente y el índice.
Pronuncio la palabra pristina, hago el signo de la democracia.
¡Por Dios! Yo no aceptaré sino aquello cuyo duplicado acepten todo

     en las mismas condiciones.

My late one’s whisky bottle

I am being haunted by a bottle
It’s half full of whisky,which I hate
I thought your love would be a bit more subtle

You see  love as a  fraught battle
I ache to see  the next, who is my fate
I am being haunted by a bottle

Why you sent me whisky is a puzzle
I prefer a cup of tea with cake
I thought your love would be a bit more subtle

!I don’t like your kisses,wear a muzzle!
I am not the Lady in the Lake
I am being haunted by a bottle

We will never make a lovely couple
The atmosphere is poison when I bake
I thought your love would be a bit more subtle

I  feel so cold I’d like a fire and stake
My spelling is atrocious,oh, milk flake
I am being haunted by a bottle
I  enjoy love   only when it’s subtle

Why write in form?

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/89288/why-write-in-form

Extract:

Unlike other arts—and perhaps even other forms of writing—readers and writers alike often associate poetry with feeling, not technique. Part of this may stem from a misunderstanding of William Wordsworth’s famous definition of poetry, in which he begins, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. …” His wording encourages a reading in which poetry simply occurs and does so uncontrollably. If this is the part of the quotation that sticks with you, it’s no surprise that you might associate poetry more with emotional intensity and less with the how of its conveyance. But in the second half of that quotation, Wordsworth tempers his original statement: “… it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” Those unexpected and powerful feelings are actually being observed at a calming distance from that emotion.

More important, Wordsworth’s statement doesn’t acknowledge the structure that serves as a scaffolding for those feelings, a framework that makes a poem more than just cathartic release. It doesn’t acknowledge form. Why would it? For Wordsworth and his contemporaries 200 years ago, form was assumed. If a poem didn’t rhyme, readers could be sure it employed some sort of metrical scheme.

Where are the boats.the anchor chains?

We stopped outside the gates of the small park
A pool had grown from  heavy  Pennine  rain
A danger to the old  when nights are dark

I leaned on the  old push-chair ,aching heart
My other sister ran around blocked drains
We stayed outside the gates of the small park

She asked, is this the sea, or just a  part?
I said, where are the boats.the anchor chains?
A danger to the old  when nights are dark

She saw a vision  coming from her  heart
She saw Dad cross the ocean leaving wains
I looked  right through the gates of that small park

Oh,Daddy, do not leave us all forlorn
We heard an angel sounding the ram’s horn
We wept  quite near the gates of the small park
The  pool  showed our reflections, they were stark

 

Yes, but it is not sufficient

“2012-05-12-10-31-13-1 (1)

Wonderful drawing by Katherine 2006

Photons have mass ? I didn’t even know they were Catholics.

When cats prey can dogs meditate?

Is humour necessary to become a mystic? Yes,but it is not sufficient.

Life is good if and only if we realise we have a choice  What it is no-one knows

Quantum mechanics wanted to saveI cat.Good pay if and only if it is  still alive
 
Do cats sin? It’s inhuman of them!

Why does no-one mention Purgatory,except me? Please come with me.Tell a lie

When I grow up I want to be a positive integer.But you are irrational!

Numbers dance behind my  eyelids.Why?

 

I saw cats and dogs but no giraffes

The intensity of flowersFlowers and trees in April

I found my first phone in the drawer by chance
 C  1 -01,  a Nokia  coloured pink
Memories  of  my flower photographs

We look but we don’t see,oh,happenstance
Now I shall pour out the tea and drink
I found my first phone in the drawer by chance

There were cats and dogs but no giraffes
Now I might just shut y eyes to think
Of memories  and my flower photographs

We walked around those gardens holding hands
Saw the iris and the rose.oh God  I thank
I found my first phone in the drawer by chance

You preferred the sea shore.edge of sands
The waves ran on our feet, the fishes winked
Oh memories ,oh all our photographs

Like the fish, you also sent a wink
Just before you died, a smile , cheeks pink
I thought you looked  much better,but no chance
Blessed memories  of  our lives in photographs

 

I found your neckties  haunting as I mourned

I find your neckties moving round  our home
One was in the bathroom just today
They  share  your   dear proclivity to roam

I may get paranoia, I am lame
But now I like to be  a  child and play
Are these your neckties flying round  our home

Oh, all the voices I  heard knew my name
They love me very much , they need not say.
We all  your  sweet activities declaim.

 

Which ancient people  got the gift  of rhyme?
Did song  come first  and then the need for prayer?
Are  your neckties  going   on to Rome?

 

Whatever art we   make has inbuilt time
How  tenderly  he  brushed my  rippling hair
Till craft had become art in this  our home

 

Last of all  you smiled and   soared away
Like a  small wild bird, oh  song of care
I found your neckties  haunting as I mourned
Whether new or old, pressed flat or torn

 

We must be happy or we’ll go to jail

We must be happy or we’ll go to jail
No holy Contemplation  nor deep peace
No ethics,love nor comforting  the frail

Sadness must be hidden from email
Confession disallowed, no humble priest
We must be happy or we’ll go to jail

We must be jovial even when we fail
Who needs to get a First, or a dance in  Grease
No ethics,love nor comforting the frail

Like a slug, we leave a joyous trail
Who needs a decent job or trouser crease?
We must be happy or we’ll go to jail

Yet humans ,even babies,need to wail
From far away  we see the foretold Beast
No ethics,love just save us a four big nails

Why did the Magi come here from the East?
Why drink the wine superior at the Feast?
We must be happy or we’ll go to jail
No ethics,love,no Mother  turning pale

 

 

 

Our own point of view

Why do  some people find it easy to stick to their own point of view whereas others are like chameleons who change to fit in with whoever they are with?I don’t know the full answer.It may depend on their background and in some countries women have to be subservient to men.Some people are just being diplomatic and some are wishing to avoid an argument to find our unique viewpoint and not go along with the crowd.i am not advocating breaking the law by doing/saying offensive things for pleasure.I believe  sometimes I have been lazy and not given thought to a topic and so I agree with another person whom I respect but really that is wrong.Since each of us is unique I believe we need to express our point of  view the best things about artists is that they  look or hear   at the world differently and help us to see the validity of different ways of seeing or listening

 

 

.But when a new artist or composer appears people often believe they are mad at first.This is what happened to Igor Stravinsky at the first performance of some of his music.Yet compared to composers who followed he was quite similar to  those  preceded him.Mahler wrote this music  a  year before the Stravinsky was composed and it is very different

 

 

 

And words come in a rush.

My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across this page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,
And words come in a rush.

             Enchanting   through the hand that writes .
Bewitched by art,beauty alights.
The script is like a music score
     Through which we step as through a door,
Imagination’s home.
As,mysteriously, to you, to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed ,
By rhythms of pen,of brush, of mind,
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round

Fire joined hand and heart.

The pen slows down,the hand grows still,
And just as dreams at daybreak will
They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone,
I nearly caught that one!

Virtue

 

 

 

Blackcap2014https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/virtue

 

Definition of virtue

1a: conformity to a standard of right : MORALITY
b: a particular moral excellence
2: a beneficial quality or power of a thing
3: manly strength or courage : VALOR
4: a commendable quality or trait : MERIT
5: a capacity to act : POTENCY

I thought  I’d write the end before I start

I thought  I’d write the end before I start
The intimations come from my own heart
And also from the words   of loving friends
Who help me on my journey to the end

Our minds grow  from the words of loving friends
Or from their letters if we are apart
They travel with us till we reach the end

Friendships can go wrong, let’s make amends
A word, a look, they  let the process start
Our minds grow  from the words of loving friends

I feel it is  danger to pretend
For then we are at risk of breaking hearts
They cannot travel with us to the end

At  times fine grace and joy  may each descend
Never try to make a map or chart
Our minds grow  from the words of loving friends

Do not end your life with loud lament
Every cell is of  the whole a part
We are one despite the  great torment

 

 

In the road, we played our ancient games

The summer heat made cobblestones like stoves
The Coronation happened, I know now
We played with melted tar, industrial bairns.

My mother’s hands were black and much beloved
The coal and coke had tattooed her, we sa
The summer heat made cobbles hot as stoves.

In the road, we played our ancient games
The older children passed the knowledge down
We played with melted tar, industrial wains.

The bully boys were cruel , did not heed love
A little boy had tried to be a clown
In summer heat, they beat him on the stones.

We were  quiet they flaunted power again;
But in our hearts, we knew we’d let him down
We threw warn melted tar, industrial wains

And in our fantasy, he was alone.
No-one knew who threw the vicious stone
The summer heat made cobbles feel like flames
We played with melted tar, Christ  died again

For we resemble,love, the annual flower

The red leaves of the tree are its last fling
Pretending to vitality and  power
Yet soon  the tree  is bared by  autumn winds

Winter waits, the blackbirds do not sing
The sunset is now earlier by the hour
The red leaves of the tree are its last fling

The tree will grow new leaves in sunny Spring
Showing  death and rebirth  in the bower
Despite   the tree  now stripped by the  strong wind

Like  the red leaves we   must never cling
For we resemble,love, the  annual flower
The red leaves of the tree  oh,let it fling

We fear the darkness,fear  demonic power
We falter  as we age , yet will not cower
The red leaves of the tree are its last fling
For soon  the tree  is undressed by the wind

 

Am I wicked?

Why did Jesus spend 40 days in the wilderness?
God only knows

Why did Jesus come down here?
That’s what  he was thinking

Why did Jesus have no wife?
He had no home on earth so he was unable to provide

Why does God not kill the wicked?
Why did he make them in the first place?

Am I wicked?
We all are potentially.Can’t you judge yourself? 

Why are so many people ill?
Why are some not ill?

Should we  pray before meals?
It depends  who makes them

Why do we eat chickens?
We are bigger otherwise they might eat us!

When my voice trembles  

 

When words no longer work

wonder

wish

want

When words won’t come

compensate

contrive

When my voice breaks

snaps

sunders

strains

When I want to talk

touch

tenderly

towards

But you are not able

about

abandoned

absent

You are no longer

listening

live

longing

When I need to find a meaning

In the shape

form

structure

But I ‘m stranded

Stuck

Sucked under

Swallowed

Then I reach out to you

I want your touch

tenderness

tranquillity

temerity

Sometimes words don’t seem enough

endless

empty

emotive

ejaculatory

Yet words can console

conjure

quilt

charm

captivate

cover.

Stretch out your hand

across the emptiness

and touch me with your fingers

friendship

faithfulness

forgiveness

frailty

fever

touch my heart with words

and I will hope

expect

await

be grateful

grave

garbed in joy

When words don’t feel enough

When all we want is touch

Or to see

sigh

sob

sing

Words can be shaped

changed

contorted

controlled

challenged

Words are all we have

To make us love

To make us live

To make us alive

To make us sing

To make us stand up

To console,words may be

Enough

Don’t let them due you

A Conservative MP was  suspended for using the phrase “The nigger in the woodpile”.

As a  child I heard people say when going shopping, Don’t let them dew you.I didn’t realise they meant “Jew.” I don’t know if adults did but I am ashamed to say it was used very frequently.As a woman, I know all who are not white  anglo saxon men are considered defective is some way and even men don’t have it easy if they are poor, shy or nervous.
As a teenager my brothers refused to let me read the Sunday paper as ” women shouldn’t need to read about politics”, they refuse to let me put a record on  the hi fi as
” I would probably damage it”.I had to iron their clothes while I was doing exams at school.Of course an adult could have intervened but they didn’t and it does have a bad effect.I was 25 before I could afford a  gramophone and play my own 2 records!

While we did homework in the front room one of my brothers played Wagner all the time very loud. I’ve hated it ever since.I was glad to  be able to go to college where I was treated well by everybody.It was wonderful.
And it’s not as bad as what some go through but we don’t reflect enough.

Learn to be alone

img_20190620_180938https://aeon.co/ideas/before-you-can-be-with-others-first-learn-to-be-alone?utm_source=Aeon+Newsletter&utm_campaign=a9f773068f-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2019_11_04_05_04&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_411a82e59d-a9f773068f-70520193

Extract:

In the 20th century, the idea of solitude formed the centre of Hannah Arendt’s thought. A German-Jewish émigré who fled Nazism and found refuge in the United States, Arendt spent much of her life studying the relationship between the individual and the polis. For her, freedom was tethered to both the private sphere – the vita contemplativa – and the public, political sphere – the vita activa. She understood that freedom entailed more than the human capacity to act spontaneously and creatively in public. It also entailed the capacity to think and to judge in private, where solitude empowers the individual to contemplate her actions and develop her conscience, to escape the cacophony of the crowd – to finally hear herself think.

Do sell me gore

bottles-in-art-class-21
Made from a watercolour of bottles by Katherine

I want  much floor from you
I want you to spell  the youth 
Please say what’s  on your  behind
I want to get to ignore  clues better
I’d   cup of sea  and a   dice of  snake  home slaked
Can we have a  Sunday sinner  after  owing the gas?
Where  did blue shrink?
I know nothing but  do descend.
She  destroys me
I’d like to be harried again
Where is my Cartier?
Am I a rule?
Do fell me now.
Please don’t grow yet