We left the  old Road Atlas in a box

London is bewildered by its roads
The Circular, the North,the South,  the Codes
The Morse  and the  Enigma Turing broke
So now we have new bicycles with spokes

Once we had the A to Z  in hand
Turn it upside down and you’ll be grand
New technology has  made  great strides
Carrying us to Eden ,what a ride

The motorways are  empty  for  tonight
God decided  we had too much Light
He  taught the bare cheeked Moon   on Jesus’ mount
To turn the other side when love’s about

I liked to use a compass and a map
But now, my dear,  most everything’s on tap
I crouch  beneath my sister as she drives
In the dark on the M 25

But if it’s closed, we are completely foxed
We left the  old Road Atlas in  a box
Along with all my ex’s underpants
And naturally  his principles of Kant

We may be in Watford  or in Bucks
I  often wonder what will rhyme with luck
We may be near St Alban’s, we can’t see
The car ran up the trunk of this oak tree

We rang 999  and they are here
A fire engine filled  up with Kentish beer
A ladder  for the ladies to climb down
Now they are just women on the town

London won’t exist ,destroyed by cars
Angry men who cannot find a bar

The raspberry canes, the honesty know more

The empty canes of raspberries  hang low
Red maple leaves are mashed up in the mud
 Nature  seems to  hover by death’s door 

Animals and humans drained as whores
No feeling ,no  green sap,no  flowing blood
The crackling canes of raspberries hang low

What can we say un-cliched, metaphored?
At dawn the sun will  burn despite the Flood
Nature  did not force us through death’s door 

Can the death  of God    mean this and more,
Though love and hate are fractured, life is good?
The chuckling canes  the berries sang below

Can  a life  with heart not be restored?
End  retaliation,   understand
Nature  did not wave us through  the door 

At the edge of Europe  are no hordes
Jesus is  more small  than any  bud
The crackling canes stored laughter in their cores

The remnants of the foxgloves in the wood
Wave politely . even seem to nod
The raspberry canes, the honesty know more
Nature ,light and darkness, affect stored

 

Why write poetry?

Clematis_urophylla-2019.jpg

 

 

3 Reasons You Should Write Poetry Today

Extract

The greatest reason to write poetry is because it will make all of your writing better. I promise you.

Poetry gives you a deeper understanding of the language and it allows you to see your writing differently. Poetry enables you to express yourself and your ideas better.

Take Shakespeare for example.

Shakespeare began his career as an actor and a playwright. In the middle of his career, in 1593 & 1594, the theaters were closed due to the plague. During that time, Shakespeare began to publish poetry.

After these two years, Shakespeare went back to writing plays again, but something had changed.

Previously, Shakespeare had written mainly comedies and histories. After taking the time to write poetry, he wrote dramas and tragedies, like Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth. These later works are considered some of the finest works in the English language.

All heart

The slanted beauty of the winter light
On people walking by , their shadows long
The day of beauty and the deep, dark night

The gift of gladness and of our  own sight
Be your weakness, then you  might be strong
The slanted beauty of the winter light

Do not let your mouth with sarcasm bite
Pause before you act or write or fling
On days of beauty and their still, dark nights

Free like colour runs  when wet  yet bright 
Translucence of  love’s  eye can make one sing
Of slanted beauty  in  the winter light

 This  is just one day, and yet  Good might
Be here and now, eternal in our songs
On days of beauty and their too dark nights

The one we love must speak in their own tongue
Truth  will stand and with it we belong
Oh slanted beauty and your winter light
You make the day  all heart, bring long sweet nights

 

 

 

A dinghy holds the Saviour

Snow clouds hang  like   canopies forlorn,
Tinged with grey from lack of proper care,
While from the Channel sing the dread foghorns

Sailors in  the night  long for  new  dawn
Fear  boats of refugees may still sail there
Snow clouds hang  like   canopies well torn

A dinghy  holds the Saviour  lately born
There is no space on earth safe  from  great fear
From the Channel sigh the  families   drowned

From maternal’ space, Jesu  is torn
His father holds his arms  around  those dear
Snow clouds hang, are  lacy wings  no more

The hearts of  British ” natives”  have turned sour
Into Jesu’s side we thrust  our spears
Tune the channel.Requiems need scores

All  lives now, and all of time is here
Do not  mistake the song of silent choirs.
Snow clouds hang  like   canopies forlorn,
While in the Channel,  stuttering are the horns

 

The crows caw at half mast

We drove across the Pennines  East to West
Hoping to extend our  holiday
Snow fell down till once black  crags were dressed

Imagination should foresee such tests
Fierce as polar storms ,as mad as prayer
w drove  across the Pennines East to West

We passed through Bakewell did not stop to rest
Buxton was far worse with snow like may
Snow fell strongly ,oh wild crags were dressed

See these visions, travel if you must
See the sea freeze .see ice in Lyme Bay
We drove  across Great Britain East to West

Now it’s North to South as Brexit asked
Hear the people swear and curse and bray
Snow fell till the people  lost all zest

Now my love has gone, the car’s not here
Crushed to a flat metal I can’t steer
We drove across the Pennines  and we laughed
The sheep stared out, the crows cawed at half mast

 

 

 

 

 

No purpose, no desire

How can I judge you when I do not know
The river of your heart, it’s undertow
Forgetting  the wide looking that we need
Too attentive  to the goals of speed

I may   compare you to another friend
And in comparison, our love   might end
I may not take you in as one  true whole
How little do we look,  ensnared by goals?

When attention lapses and we  dream
We may see our soul and  its true themes
Too sharp a focus makes our mind compress
Our narrowed eyes  untrue to second guess

With my whole body I  perceive the  true
No purpose , no desire,  nothing  but you.

Without  our love  we give  but our own weeds

How do we know what topic will intrigue,
That draws the mind away from mundane tasks
 What will be fertile like a bursting seed?

What kind of  poetry do folk want to read ?
Must it tell or do  they have to ask?
How do we know what subjects will intrigue?

Emotions  run like water,with no heed
Floods of feeling  overwhelm defence;
Destroy  the berries and the bursting seeds

Strength is  torment, Stalingrad besieged
Rare will we find love without  these risks
We  already know what sense intrigues

The walls break down, the colder water  leads
Who foresaw the Flood and   its dark past?
This drives all away  both raw and seed

The  hand of God, the might, the holy fist
Kneel  before the  the humble,give them rest
We must know while   learning might intrigue
Without  our love  we give  but our own weeds

He’ll see you in your grave

 


The doctor says  he’ll see you in   your grave.
Will he bring binoculars and stare
God,help us all,I hope that no-one waves


They’ll say just what they want,  and how suave
He and the new trainee are a  pair
The doctor says  he’ll see you in   your grave.

Did he mean in ,to, I’m quasi dazed
I think his treatment of  my lip unfair
God,help us all,I hope that  that ghosts won’t wave

Well we’ll have to  do whatever will erase
The memories of Britain  when she dared
The doctor says  he’ll see you in   your grave.

I’ll go to  visit Plato in a  cave 
The people here will find out  how they’ll fare
God,help us all,I hope that  that ghosts don’t wave

In England it is very rude to stir
The poison of our words  till hate is bared
The doctor says  he’ll see you in   your grave.
God,help us all,I hope that he won’t wave

The radio was wireless

I listened to  no Carols on TV
The radio was wireless I believe
I  ate no Christmas Pudding but drank tea

I’d love to walk on shingle by the sea
Then eat a meal while deep in reverie
I listened to  no Carols on TV

I love only people who love me
Wherever have such notions been conceived ?
I  ate no Christmas Pudding but drank tea

I’d like a man of war to conquer me
We’d  go to bed where  love can be believed
I listened to  no Carols on TV

I must confess I have a Xmas tree
I want my husband’s ghost to relieve me
I  ate no Christmas Pudding but drank tea

I cannot be unfaithful to  green leaves
However much sweet flowers have achieved
I listened to  no Carols on TV
I  ate no Christmas Pudding, God bless thee

 

Grave the undertones  

I ran behind you but the hills were steep
I was frightened, left  behind alone
Now you go ahead into your sleep

Can’t you ever wait, so we could meet
Without you teasing me with  broken bones?
 I ran behind you but the hills were steep

Not held back  by fog or  frost  or sleet
Now you are a husk, where is your home?
 Oh,  must you  go ahead into dark sleep?

You were King , the girls and  boys all leaped
You would not let me use the gramophone
 I  tried  to  meet you,fear and love I keep.

The green sap rose, adventure was the key
Now we’re old so grave the undertones
 Might I murmur while you sink to  sleep?

Let  your hands stretch backward as you go
Before you’re in the earth so bitter,cold
I  passed you as I entered into speech
Yet still you  go ahead  my words can’t reach

 

 

 

 

Meet a few pals

 

img_20190911_142645

 

He kept his tongue in his cheek too long so he couldn’t eat
Starved to death

She  had her head screwed on the wrong way
Lack of light

He  had a cat which slept on the stairs
Fell over it and hit his head on a pile of wood
Killed by kindness and poor housekeeping

He wouldn’t wear his glasses so fell down a well
Unconscious suicide or vanity led to error

She wore shoes that were too small and died of untreated corns
Died of  trivial errors

His brain got stuck on the underground as his head fell off his body.
The glueless disease

She wore a yellow bikini on the beach which attracted a lot of wasps
Need I say more?
Died fighting as men wept

She was baking bread but got into the oven and was roasted with a potato
Bad luck.Only do one thing at a time
Died of hyperactivity and lack of concentration

He was writing a blog post and got sad as it seemed too poor
Then he drowned his sorrows [ and himself]
Moral: meet a few pals on their blogs

Day shall come again

When red sun  drops and  cooling night  rolls in
Darkness masks both danger and our vision
Ancient minds fear day won’t come again
Courage for the  delicate   seems thin
We  wrestle  with  our indecision
When  sun  drops  low and darkest night  rolls in
But now , new stricken by   a dread of sin
Who shall aid  the soul’s   derision?
Our  ancient minds fear   day won’t come again
When  we sleep we’e entertained within
Deft dreams squander all   illusion
When  sun  drops  low and dreaming night  rolls in
In reverie we’re loved  and  so  begin
Our  fancy turns to full communion
While ancient minds fear   day won’t come again
And so  it was that our own life began
When sperm leaped up in  proud confusion.
When  deep sun  dropped and  a   new night  rolled in
When  ancient  folk cried  “Day  shall come again”

The world is full of buds of love,respect

The world is full of buds, all interact
Gently touching with  our tender hands
Choosing,using, never going back

Without a choice,  we would not know our lack
Would not know how colours feel and blend
The world is full of buds, we interact

No single answer can be called correct
Uncountable,continuous, are the sands?
Choosing,losing, never looking back

Where we stand determines what are facts
See the children and their  wistful  hands
The world is full of buds, these hands react

Perspective is   a metaphor with tact
Less so  for  soldiers marching to their end
Choosing,losing, never coming back

When the birds cry out we must attend
They see more than we might understand
The world is full of buds of  love,respect
Choosing,opening,  sacredness unpacked

 

 

A sense of rumour

 

They say I have a great sense of rumour.
And I am extremely dutiful.
My hair is like spun mould or moss
My eyes are like two isobars.
My nose is ironic like the poet’s wits
All in all I am a site to be ribald.
My cooking is extra-ordinary ,indeed it is plain.
My figure is probably zero writ on a barge.
I am a very rude housekeeper and all the furniture is witless.
My husband buys me furniture polish for Xmas made from bees wax.This is true.
Do bees ever wane?I know they can buzz.
My doctor said I was the second cleverest person she ever met and she should know as there were ten patients signed on there.I still don’t know which one was the cleverest but I don’t believe in IQ anymore.You see mine is 200… and look at my life… then you will wonder whether I have no EQ..none at all..you don’t need it to do theoretical physics.
My therapist admired my dreams as she was in most of then rowing me out to sea.
She wanted to show me a new perspective on life
but we had to call the lifeboat out… should i stop the therapy and have swimming lessons instead ?
I think if one has to keep calling out the lifeboat it is not a good omen and I could save the money and buy more wool to make an Arran sweater.

The mind needs just a hint to see the whole

The vital line was drawn with one brush stroke
The way the back leant curving into space
The dance and danger both are thus evoked

Like a play, a drama, fire and smoke
A dance performed so swiftly and with grace
The vital line was drawn with one brush stroke

The heavy bull is pounding,is provoked.
A threat, a man,  intrudes into his space
The dance and danger both are still evoked

See, the  matador throws out his cloak
A   dash of black, and here we see his face
The vital line was drawn with one brush stroke
The mind needs just a hint to  see the whole
We fill the present with our past distaste
The dance and danger, mirroring dark smoke
 Acting both dramatic and displaced 
The artist may still love what she forsakes 
The vital line was drawn with one brush stroke 
he dance and danger ,life and death evoked

 

I find I am

lighter tree

Shimmering light
The lily pond
The music of your eye
The touch of your arm
Your always honey smell.
I love.

Rustling trees in a row,
A wide green lawn;
People stoop to see small flowers.

A snail on the path.
The perfection of the shell.
I believe

Unusually tall dandelions
at the edge of this wood
Wave in the warm west wind.
We smile.

Sitting pen in hand
I wonder what I would have written
In all the letters I’ve not sent you.

Far away on the Ridgeway,
Cars, like ants,
Rush towards the motorway.
They make us laugh.
How green the meadows
How fresh the old trees.

I gaze at you.
I find I am.
It’s mutual.
They call it Love

Continue reading “I find I am”

Dimensions

 

 

https://science.howstuffworks.com/science-vs-myth/everyday-myths/dimension.htm

Extract

But the fact that we can’t move through a fourth spatial dimension or perceive one doesn’t necessarily rule out its existence. In 1919, mathematician Theodor Kaluza theorized that a fourth spatial dimension might link general relativity and electromagnetic theory [source: Groleau]. But where would it go? Theoretical physicist Oskar Klein later revised the theory, proposing that the fourth dimension was merely curled up, while the other three spatial dimensions are extended. In other words, the fourth dimension is there, only it’s rolled up and unseen, a little like a fully retracted tape measure. Furthermore, it would mean that every point in our three-dimensional world would have an additional fourth spatial dimension rolled away inside it.

String theorists, however, need a slightly more complicated vision to empower their superstring theories about the cosmos. In fact, it’s quite easy to assume they’re showing off a bit in proposing 10 or 11 dimensions including time.

Wait, don’t let that blow your mind just yet. One way of envisioning this is to imagine that each point of our 3-D world contains not a retracted tape measure, but a curled-up, six-dimensional geometric shape. One such example is a Calabi-Yau shape, which looks a bit like a cross between a mollusk, an M.C. Escher drawing and a “Star Trek” holiday ornament [source: Bryant].

Think of it this way: A concrete wall looks solid and firm from a distance. Move in closer, however, and you’ll see the dimples and holes that mark its surface. Move in even closer, and you’d see that it’s made up of molecules and atoms. Or consider a cable: From a distance it appears to be a single, thick strand. Get right next to it, and you’ll find that it’s woven from countless strands. There’s always greater complexity than meets the eye, and this hidden complexity may well conceal all those tiny, rolled-up dimensions.

Yet, we can only remain certain of our three spatial dimensions and one of time. If other dimensions await us, they’re beyond our limited perception — for now.

 

Being shot by a big game hunter

 

applewe
Art by Katherine

When you think of all the accidents that happen every day
Falling off ladders
Being crushed by man falling onto you
from a ladder
Forgetting to turn off the gas so inadvertently killing ten people
Then killing yourself in regret
Being  crushed by  a heavy partner in bed and calling 999  who don’t answer
Pans of boiling water being knocked onto the cat, the baby, your new shoes
Eating poisoned food
Falling down a manhole
Being killed by a slate blown off a  roof
Falling off a cruise ship in the middle of the night
Being shot by a big game hunter
Having a wall fall down on you
Getting double pneumonia
Again

Why did nothing happen to Hitler?

No money taken.Cards holy new year

skippe8

 

Don’t miss your chance to win a  Virgin
[media]
Thank you for topping the Leader.
Who stings the Howl
Your debit is not to your credit
Your account is under threat in the dictionary
Why not borrow me?
I am free in the library
Next week the topic is algebraic escapology with charts and diaphragms
No tips allowed.Finger room  by Bar.
No money taken.Cards holy
No  trainers  can be worn  here ; you will be persecuted
I don’t wear my trainer.
Where have all the  flowers run?
Your credit is 0.2p. Top up or the decimals will freak out the bank
I liked the shillings and the florins.Where  has all the history gone?
Your coffee is £2/17/6.Once I bought shoes for  that much
Do you remember 69/11 was really a lot to pay, It’s 85 pence now,Not even a cup of tea,
What  has all the logic done?

 

The War’s not over when the fighting stops

IMG_0276

 

We sense the sacred in these peaceful walls
Yet men have died in places that appal
Women too and children then unborn
Fell  into  cold dark earth in lands forlorn

As our weapons grow, our hearts are hard
The people live in Gaza behind bars
The water all polluted as taps drip
Is this  war  or is it vengeance  fit?

In Britain, it’s the poor who lose the war
As it was  when Jesus Mary bore
Yet here are clerics blessing marching bands
A military show for all the land

The genocide in Europe of  the Jews
The self destructive actions of the proud
The fields of France filled  sick with blood and bone
Who are we to cast  judgemental stones?

The War’s not over when the fighting stops
The soldiers and the  tortured suffer  shock
The widows and the parents all bereaved.
The  unborn children  hover in unease

We let the prisoners out from  camps of death
But who would take them in  or take their path?
The injuries will travel down the years
As still we fight and  still we live in fear

It’s Europe’s  grasp and greed which was the cause
Of death in Gaza, Syria,  in long wars
Yet we  judge we are more civilised
As we self defend with careful lies

A dark lilac November sky

Old man,bending over,
arched like a fallen moon
in a dark lilac November sky.
joy and pain wrestle my heart across the emptiness
and toss it up like a damp rocket
to fall in a hidden corner where mice live.
Would that not be a good ending,to be dust
to these little creatures nesting
in my chewed green twine and my tartan basket?
They have eyes and shiver in my hand when I rescue them
from the cat…
as any heart might.
Now night falls on the newspaper basket
where the damp Times and the Guardian mix into glue
and tomorrow the sun will rise
and it will just be the garbage
with no poetic undertones nor deathly hushes..
Heather and a silver light
you stand on a hill top like a god
looking over his domain.
Strong and now weak
it’s the humane condition
Everlasting life is too dangerous for humans.
Silent,motionless,home of beetles
bit by bit we fall away
into the mother soil
with cracked jugs and dropped coins
for a future academic to dig into.
Transparent hand touches me.
Whose might it be but yours?

 

Sylvia Plath and Art

Sylvia Plath: The Dialogue Between Poetry and Painting

Extract

While Plath is traditionally categorized as a confessional poet, critics like Howe and Davison fail to recognize the ekphrastic quality of many of Plath’s poems. As defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, ekphrasis is “a literary device in which a painting, sculpture, or other work of visual art is described in detail.” Each poem in which Plath comments on or discusses a work of visual art can be defined as an ekphrastic poem. Ekphrastic works are interactive and draw clear links between writers and artists. By writing an ekphrastic poem, one enters a pre-existing conversation; one work could not exist without the other. In essence, many of Plath’s works are dependent on works of others, showing her deep veneration for the painters whose works she incorporates in her own.

Doomchin 1

THE DREAM, HENRI ROUSSEAU, 1910.

“Yadwigha, On a Red Couch, Among Lilies,” Plath’s 1958 poem, was written in response to Henri Rousseau’s The Dream, painted forty-eight years prior in 1910. The painting, Rousseau’s last and largest work, places a young nude female reclining on a red sofa in the middle of a lush jungle, full of vibrant foliage and lively animals. According to the Bulletin of the Art Institute of Chicago, “Though the public was thoroughly perplexed, the artists rightly hailed The Dream as one of the milestones of modern art” (“The Henri Rousseau Exhibition,” 20). Plath, in her poem, points to the perplexed reaction of the public, choosing to address Rousseau about his painting by discussing their questions.

Plath responds to the structure of Rousseau’s painting in a compelling way. The painting appears to have a random composition; elephants, lions, birds, monkeys, and other animals seem to be randomly strewn about the canvas, interlaced with overwhelming amounts of greenery and lilies; mysterious snake charmer is shown emerging out from some trees, and the nude figure, Yadwigha, is arbitrarily thrown onto the canvas lounging on a sofa. There is no clear order to how Rousseau arranges things. Additionally, the subject depicted, a nude on a couch in the jungle, is incredibly random and perplexing. However, Plath contrasts this randomness by approaching her poem in a methodical way. She chose to write her poem in sestina form; a sestina is “a poem of six six-line stanzas (with an envoy) in which the line-endings of the first stanza are repeated, but in different order, in the other five” (Oxford English Dictionary). The form is structured, complicated and deliberate. Plath clearly put a lot of thought into how the poem was arranged.

For the sestina’s six line-endings she repeats, Plath picks the painting’s most pertinent images and concepts: “you,” “couch,” “eye,” “moon,” “green,” and “lilies.” “Lilies,” “green,” “couch,” and “moon” are all visuals that stand out in Rousseau’s work. The repetition of the painting’s pertinent images allows the reader to envision the painting through her words and points to her astute attention to detail and respect for the painting. Her use of “you” underlines that this is a poem in which she is talking both to Rousseau and Yadwigha (depending on the stanza) because she wants to interact with both the artist and the subject. “Eye” represents the “eyes” of different aspects of the painting [“under the eye/Of uncaged tigers and a tropical moon,” (4–5), “Dreamed yourself away in the moon’s eye” (28)]; Rousseau’s vision [“But to a friend, in private, Rousseau confessed his eye” (35), “To feed his eye with red” (38)]; and the eyes of critics and museum patrons [“It seems the constant critics wanted you… To turn you luminous, without the eye” (8, 12), “The couch glared out at the prosaic eye” (20)]. This emphasis allows Plath to differentiate between artistic vision and critical response, recognizing that there is merit to both points of view. She notes that art is meant to be created and commented on. Plath features the imperative relationship between artist and critic, taking on the role as critic by writing her poem. In turn, her poem is a piece of art—she is aware that it will be criticized, just as Rousseau’s painting was. This recognition through mentioning critics directly in the work signals a parallel Plath draws between Rousseau and herself, making her connected to the art of the past. She is clearly mindful of “the presence of anyone but herself,” unlike what Howe asserts.

As  economic   theories act like guns

Can a land  be holy when it’s split
When hatred is projected  like a bomb
However many candles are now lit?

Allah and Jehova , what a pitch
Can we ask if either  loves their Son
Can a land  be holy when it’s split

Past ills and errors drag us to the pits
The athletes of the  heart may start to run
However many candles are now lit

Neither thinks the other has their wits
Who owns a website palestine.com?
Can a land  be holy when it’s split

Yet here we fight, we too have had  our fits
As  economics   theories act like guns
And paranoia  enters   step by step

The expert mind, the vertical has gone
We lie horizontal,have we won?
Can a land  breed danger when it’s split
However  can we link up all  the  bits?

 

 

 

 

Painted by the rain




photo0224-rty-rtyu88-1-1-1
Made by Katherine

Like watercolour pictures  in the rain
Our colours mingle  yet the originals  remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet both of us are there.
Our colors blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colors intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolour painted by the rain,
We shall go, but our Watercolor Love remains