I let my entire being take you in Surround you like it were second skin I made an astral cloak to give your peace Where I could share the burden and release
How hard it is to find the words that say How we live and die afresh each day When we get a foothold on the hill We must not hurry , pressed on by our will
Every instant,every time we breathe Eternal life is here, we’re not deceived God appears and disappears ,he flames The Burning Bush, the prophet and their rage.
Enlightenment comes after we have crossed The avenues of suffering and the cost
I dreamed I rode a tricycle last night Large and painted blue without a bell Then I met my doctor,what a sight
He told me he had lately seen the light And wished to be a monk inside a cell I dreamed I rode a tricycle last night
Ted Hughes had gone out fishing for a pike The army in my head was doing drill Then I met my doctor,what a sight
I see the almond blossom, what delight My sister thinks I’ve left her in my Will I dreamed I rode a tricycle last night
Yet I am weary with my oversight I am rarely mad enough to kill Unless I met a doctor out on strike
Because of such a strike I lost my sight The Eye emergency was left too late They say that if I sue I’ll feel a chill Surgeons with knives on my window sill
Everyone wants to be normal But nobody knows what it is It must be ouside of us Or we’d feel what it was So is it that we are all God?
Why do we want to be normal Instead of being ourself? We want acceptance For sure and not by chance Not to mention we all want more wealth
Maybe there is nobody normal The median, the mean or the mode We all need to deviate From eternal love and hate See here what the Greek Gods still owed
This topic will take your mind off Brexit and help you regain a sense of awe and wonder.This cartoon has an equation on it.But some numbers are never found as the answer to such an equation.And that can be proved.And some of the proofs are quite easy.
Hermite might not have succeeded nowadays as passing exams was not easy for him.I suspect he was a person who preferred to spend his time on his own interests in Mathematics and to neglect his wider studies
I have referred in some of my Stan stories to the number “e”.Hermite was the first to prove that e is not an algebraic number.
It may surprise many people that there are different kinds of numbers ,beginning with the integers 1.2.3…… and the rational numbers [fractions like 1/2 4/5 89/54 etc.]
The Babylonians discovered the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter was fixed regardless of the size of the circle.We call it pi.It is not an integer nor a raional number.The number of integers is infinite.
“The ancient Babylonians calculated the area of a circle by taking 3 times the square of its radius, which gave a value of pi = 3. One Babylonian tablet (ca. 1900–1680 BC) indicates a value of 3.125 for pi, which is a closer approximation.” [from link below]
They used 3 as an approximation and in the Hebrew Bible 400 BCE the Temple was made using 3 as an approximation. Archimedes got closer.But. like e, pi cannot be expressed as a fraction.
Some other numbers like the square root of 2 are irrational [ that is,not fractions[ but they are algebraic.As in x squared =2
Relating to Solomon’s temple.They used pi =3.It is in the Hebrew Bible
Real numbers are all numbers from integers to the transcendental and they are uncountably infinite
Pi and e are called transcendental numbers.We don’t know many other
Yet
“The set of transcendental numbers is uncountably infinite. Since the polynomials with rational coefficients are countable, and since each such polynomial has a finite number ofzeroes, the algebraic numbers must also be countable. However, Cantor’s diagonal argument proves that the real numbers (and therefore also the complex numbers) are uncountable. Since the real numbers are the union of algebraic and transcendental numbers, they cannot both be countable. This makes the transcendental numbers uncountably infinfte
Quote from article below {Euler is usually credited with this]
:In 1706 a little-known mathematics teacher named William Jones first used a symbol to represent the platonic concept of pi, an ideal that in numerical terms can be approached, but never reached.
William Jones, mathematician from Wales, 1740
The history of the constant ratio of the circumference to the diameter of any circle is as old as man’s desire to measure; whereas the symbol for this ratio known today as π (pi) dates from the early 18th century. Before this the ratio had been awkwardly referred to in medieval Latin as: quantitas in quam cum multiflicetur diameter, proveniet circumferencia (the quantity which, when the diameter is multiplied by it, yields the circumference).
You’re looking well, the doctor said ironically as I stumbled into his office Don’t mention it,I replied,It’all Greek to me Are you drunk, he said solicitously No and I am not a tart either,I lied truthfully What a pity,I fancy an apple, he shared Doctor, keep you voice down.The patients will think you are a pervert. Well, one tart is as good as another to a dead man Is that a trope or a simile? What a pointed question. But not disappointed? Who was Adonis? Mrs Thatcher’s husband with a Lancashire accent No, it DIS I am thinking of You seem to be imitating a racist film Fancy that, without even knowing! Well, you are a real doctor,I hope No, but I am rational I’m afraid you can be counted But who could count an infinite set? It’s in theory That’s intellectuals for you.It can be done in Theory.But where is Theory? Where intellectuals hang out using their imaginations. Well, blow me down Why can’t you jump? I can only do it in theory Well, better get on with the surgery.Which head are we cutting off today?
The King’s Head! Well, it is his turn now….how will he take it?
Under his arm
Like a deodorant?
I can think of better alternatives
Not a pig’s head?
No, an apple in his mouth
See,apples again.Why not go to an Art Class and paint some?
Because my wife won’t eat them painted
How will she know?
Because I have no artist’s palate
Well, it’s never to late to grow your own
I have my own palate
How is that?
It’s like a bed before beds were invented
How come?
It is a bag of straw
But nowadays they don’t sell straw
In case it’s china?
How can one sleep on china?
Go to a Tea Service and ask the Vicar
Ooh, you are artful
You do look well today
Am I the doctor or not?
I don’t know Not
You know Nothing!
Metaphor is only one kind of trope. Trope is any rhetorical technique that describes something in non-literal ways.
For example, metonymy is a technique where one word is replaced with a phrase that is related but is literally different, such as “the law” for police.
Synecdoche is using a part to describe the whole: “Can you give me a hand?”.
Irony is the use of words with opposite meaning, such as saying “You’re looking well.” to someone who is clearly quite sick.
There are also some expressions that are not considered as fully fledged tropes but as sub-tropes.
(The latter website may explain the information you have been given: “The late-twentieth-centurywidespread reduction to one master trope, metaphor, especially under the influence of Lakoff and Johnson (1980), is the most radical (and absurd) of these projects.”
Walking to the bus stop from our door We fell into a subtle harmony Like little children dawdling on the shore
No haste, no chiding, wanting nothing more Like swimming in a balmy pale blue sea Or walking to the bus stop from our door
Who is known and which one is the knower? What is here and what is yet to be For little children dawdling on the shore?
Setting aspirations ever lower No competing, rush nor victory Just walking to the bus stop from our door
Though human who gave us creative power? Who has loved and who evoked in me The feel of dawdling on the sea, the shore?
Who hears the sorrow, plangent , of the sea Where earth and stars reflect so rhythmically Walking with you touching nevermore Oh, that I were with you on some shelled shore
We saw the cows at Easter freed from barn We were on a hill beside our lane They were running in the meadow’s fresh green charm
Renting a small cottage on a farm Dorset has its literary fame We saw the beasts at Easter freed from barn
Beasts will share their feelings and their heart Not for them the clever,wordy games But dancing in the meadow’s alien charm
These images annihilate the harm Suffered by the sick and by the lame We saw the beasts at Easter freed from barn
The green of spring, the green thoughts, the great calm Thus poverty brings us emptiness for gain Running to shelter of your arms
Was it not a right to be insane Freed from prison when the summer came? We saw the cows at Easter freed from barn They were quivering in the meadow while I yearned
There is a very strange concept now in psychoanalysis called
” the unthought known”,
I think it refers to something in the patient which they experienced and so know but they had not then learned words ,so if it was too painful it constantly bothers them yet they can’t explain it or tell anyone.This is why psychoanalysis takes so long and even then I am unsure if a therapist can supply what the mother couldn’t
Perhaps if we know that we will never understand some of our feelings and worries but can accept them even if we don’t want to. then we can live with them
When God came down , the rivers overflowed Great trees were floating ,angled and exposed The houses broke up like a loaf to crumbs The hearts of humans trembled till they hummed
The winds deceived, the gusts unmeasured stung The churchbells shuddered then untimely rang The power was cut and all our screens were dark Where were the rulers, where the saving Ark?
The women giving birth were paralysed The babies in the womb took ill and died Their cradles rocked the world, they swung so fast And in a moment all of life had passed
In the void, God started his new world Rich and strange, the grit and then the pearls
We may know what’s right and still do wrong Greed and envy run our inner world Like a crazed drunk bee we like to sting
Even as the blackbird is in song The darkness of the heart will on it fall We may know what’s right and still do wrong
We love to think we are the Queen or King Perfect in our power , oh iron the walls Yet crazed drunk bees can float on high to sting
The hurt inside the heart can last too long The self retreats , the matador has failed We know the end , the bull will kill the throng
When God came down, our spies soon had him nailed The burning bush , the little voice, the tales. We may know what’s right and do the wrong Take pleasure in our violence, kill and sting
Embraced entire , your sacred smile held me
Until we both were one deep in our souls
As still as a white dove held tenderly
For a little time so warm and free
As if your smile contained me, made me whole
Embraced and loved , your sacred smile touched me
As we cross together the dark sea
I wish this sacred love could always hold
As gently as a dove ,as tenderly
And if I felt the brilliant light touch me
My eyes would weep,my tears would turn to gold
Embraced and loved, oh sacramental tree
Would that humankind were truly free
That in the darkness, we could find our home
As dies the fragile Word on Calvary
We fear the Tempest and we hear the Storm
The still small voice will whisper , not perform
Embraced entire , your smile encompassed me
As still as a white dove, as tenderly
Did anyone believe blind rage expressed
Could benefit the agent without harm?
Did anyone read Freud and then digest?
Feelings need the heat of blacksmith’s fires Held inside until they find their form An image worthy of our right desire
As well as rage, we should mistrust love too Be backward in expression till more’s known Or risk an avalanche of cruelty.
Take care of others, they are not our fools From sacred meetings all mankind has grown We misuse folk to test our worth and tools
Holding in the inner fires our wish The blackness of the heart can turn to gold No contradiction hides such sacredness
Take your love and in your arms enfold. The future of the world is growing cold We liked to have the choice for rage and death Until we found the charred remains of bliss
Though an atheist – in that I believe we’re here only by happy accident – my sensibility is religious. I like ritual and heightened states. I like mind-altering drugs. I believe in invisible forces – radioactivity, magnetism, sound waves – and I’m more than willing to sit for an hour listening to a church organist practice, which I did just last week. And I’ll let myself shiver along with the immense chord changes. I don’t like faith but I’m fond of its trappings- the kitschy icons, the candles, the paintings, the architecture and, especially, the poetry. Though many great religious figures, from Augustine to Screwtape, have taken prose as their instrument for confessing or cajoling, when it comes to praise, poetry’s the usual choice. I’ve been reading Robert Alter’s magnificent new translations of The Book of Psalms, and “My heart is astir with a goodly word”.
The relationship between poetry, those goodly words, and religion is hard to quantify. Both involve the hidden, working at the borders of the sayable. They share an experiential dimension. Personal religion involves a private speech act (prayer), chanting (psalms), heightened states achieved by ritualised words. The Lord’s prayer is one of the first poems I learned. Leached of its import by years of mindless recital, it’s almost a Sitwellian sound poem to me.
“In “Nick and the Candlestick,” a woman walks through a dark house toward her sleeping infant, and this ordinary action becomes fused with a metaphoric descent into a ghostly otherworld. Addressed to Plath’s son, Nicholas, the poem belongs to the tradition of poems such as Coleridge’s “Frost at Midnight” and Yeats’s “A Prayer for my Daughter” that directly address a poet’s sleeping infant. “Nick and the Candlestick,” however, teems with evocations of the speaker’s pregnancy and continually merges these images with descriptions of the baby himself. Like the poem’s opening fusion of metaphor and reality, this conflation collapses the boundaries between two things: past and present, memory and experience. In the poem, pregnancy is, itself, a time when two individuals are contained in one strangely altered body. As such, pregnancy, like metaphor itself, becomes emblematic of both the tenuousness of distinctions and of the inevitability of transformation.
As in many her poems, Plath borrows language and imagery from nursery rhymes, harnessing their peculiar mixture of menace and cheerful, linguistic playfulness—a juxtaposition that mirrors the poem’s insistence that seemingly disparate emotions or states of being are often closely entwined. This poem’s title recalls an old rhyme:
Jack be nimble,
Jack be quick,
Jack jump over
The candlestick.
If Jack is not nimble, after all, he risks setting himself on fire
Mary was feeling lonely on Sunday so she decided to go to the Urgent Care Centre in a cab.There were not many people there but enough to give her 2 hours in the Waiting Room.Having signed in ,by claiming to have a UTI, she took off her red coat bought in 1992 in a Sale, and opened her phone.What to read?
Hitler’s Downfall
Quick Cakes
A few novels by Margaret Drabble
Freud the Fraud
Sex crimes in therapy
The rise of Fascism in Europe
How to care for a husband
The Second Sex
Feminism and Sexual Orders
How to enjoy your body before it is too late
Differential operators and their followers
After 2 hours Mary went to the Unisex toilets.While inside she hear her name called
I’m in here, she shouted.
Take your time
She handed the kind doctor her sample which was very pale
He went out and came in again
You have a nasty infection, he said calmly
What shall I do?
We have some antibiotics here on Sundays.The pharmacy is shut
Thank goodness
He went to see what he could find and handed her a box of pills
It wa nice to meet you doctor, thank you.No wonder I felt odd
Yes, it makes you feel confused and less smart
Indeed.I meant to go to Church but came here by accident
How lucky
Mary went outside and ordered a cab
Well, that was a blessing, she told herself until she saw Annie dressed in purple velvet running down the corridor followed by Emile on a bicycle
Well, that’s what I saw before I took those pills
If we had no language,we’d be good No communication but by sense What devil conjured up the demon word Made our dealings complex and intense?
No Tower of Babel, nothing but mud huts Caressing,kissing,kicking, real contact Boxing,wrestling,killing the unjust No law except the fist. no guilt.no wrack
No religion but a sense of awe The rising sun, the moon, the distant stars Oh,bow before the Cedar and the Oak Anything that is taller than we are
No books, no news no media,no war It makes me wonder what live words are for
Wandering roung the local brancb of Boots Shall I buy a moisturising cream Maybe Astral, or E45 ? Many choices, who can bear to dream?
Shall I wear red lipstick dye my hair Boots or shoes, a skirt or velvet shorts Trousers of black wool or sky blue tights Shall I keep the baby or abort?
Shall I take an M.Sc. in Art? What about my car,shall I replace? Which man shall I marry or repulse Will the baby now have grown its face?
Underneath the common wastes of time The real concerns are pushed out from the mind
The pebbled beach on which we walked at dawn The sun was dancing singing stone to stone The sea was pale as silk and gently ran The tide was coming in, the day began
Why is my memory so deficient here? I remember little but you near I remember Portland Bill at dusk The sea was wilder then with many thrusts
Happiness was like a golden shawl A world like Eden, man before the Fall Today they say, illusion, I say, no What matters is where this insight makes you go
The fruits of meditation are its test May we be generous, may our souls be blessed
Letting go of all my self defence As if I might touch all of you at once I opened up my body to the winds And covered you by lying skin to skin
In the cradle of my being held Like an infant needing mother’s aid I did not move to break the chysallis Both of us were melting in that space
Whose the hand and whose the mind that work Metaphors may guide and also hurt Remorseless is the process that goes on Until the new forms break this one to one
At last the work is done, the task complete Dead or living, this is no defeat
Sunday dinner. roasted spuds and meat Yorkshire puddings, gravy,pepper,salt These are what the English like to eat Though microwaves may bring it to a halt
Roly poly,syrup sponge and cream Apple dumplings,marmalade on toast Men adore hot puddings gently steamed Though who will have the time to be a host?
Now we buy sponge puddings ready made Bread and butter custard ,raisins,hot How did women manage in past days? Spotted Dick, brown sugar,that’s the lot
We seem to love the sweet yet we are rude Still like babies, ignorant and confused
I found a pair of knickers on the chair They must be mine,oh dear, that is bizarre I did not take them off,I am quite sure They make the entire room seem quite impure
Yet why are knickers thought to be like porn When they adorn the place where life is born? If you hung the washing out to dry You might see an angel in the sky
Most of us traversed the holy path We suffered pain but hope it did not last Mothers too have struggled and endured The labour and the hurt that life will cure
The simplest items, pretty, well designed Tomorrow I shall hang them on the line
I dream at nights of my old friends My husband and his loving hands I dream of all the cats we had Alfred who slept on the bed He laid his head upon my foot As I wrote a poem of love Jimmy who was small and black She bit my hand if I got up I did not wish to wet the bed She did not understand a word I said The last night here she gazed at me I think she knew she would not be Lucky was the nervous one Black and white , apartheid none He liked my husband’s shoulder dear He draped himself and lost all fear Now the cats have all gone off I am frightened by a cough My husband comes to me at night Fortunately he cannot bite He touches me with tenderness Smiles and wished me,God Bless. When I waken I feel lost So I have to wear a watch I seem to have no solid self I feel nervous of an elf I don’t mind an angel sweet He could rub my aching feet I will have no other man They are frightened of women They don’t like to lose at Chess They don’t like to wash my dress They will brush my winter coat Never ask me what I wrote I do not wish to anger men They might shout and bawl again I think maybe I will turn gay Ask a lady, what to say? They may not understand my needs Killing flowers to help the weeds Talking all the weary night On the whole they’re parasites Also they may menstruate I can’t give them seeds to take So they will leave and get a man This is where it all began
Eve and Adam,God and man
Cain and Abel, apple flan
Noah and his Ark so fine
I wish I had one in the rain
I wonder when the world will end?
I am old so be my friend
Of Genocide. who could sing or write Just silence,impossible and stark Yet was transmuted in a poet’s mind Into a dance of final light and dark
Walking to their death by Mozart’s sound Their special prayers were offered,what great trust In Cohen’s mind the source of love engraved Like Job before, he knew the sacred dust
Mysterious is the Lord with his demands Christians went to Mass, reviled the Jews Few of us will suffer, understand Past pure reason ,feeling…God help who?
Beyond that flickering candle flame called God We see the shadows lost, we see the Dead.
He got his hooks into my bleeding heart He trapped me with a stone which had no moss In Plato’s Cave I saw but shadows long I wondered why I let him be my boss
All my eggs were in one ovary I had no baskets in my abdomen More haste has made me backwards in my tasks I did not know my husband was a man
Innocence prolonged led me astray The early birds had stolen all the worms Well, let tomorrow be another day My utter foolishness has made me squirm
The time for preparation is a need Not much good has come from haste or speed.
Rubbish is just something we don’t need Or something not worth mending we believe Where nonsense may be foolish talk or jest Or English humour at its lethal best
There is no Judge, it’s people who decide Whether it is nonsense to deride The message of the media online Which like the Consecration, is divine
Awesome now means medium at best That is, you have barely passed the test What a lot of stupid people say Appears on someone’s T shirt the same day
Nonsense can give pleasure,make us loose Sometimes it can make us feel confused.
To write nonsense one must think it first Then translate thought into a little verse But what is nonsense in the modern age? The more I hear, the more I feel enraged.
Yet Lewis Carrol made a lot of notes Jabberwocky is a poem he wrote Where time was always brillig in his day And mimsy was the passion for the stray
And Alice went behind a looking glass She got trapped and missed the IT class When she saw the minus and the plus She said, Oh, my,I thought it merely glass
Mirrors are a vital need we have Especially when we lead a dog to bath Lacan and Winnicott each state The mother’s face will mirror and emote
So if your mood swings are too much It never helps to go inside a church Try a little dose of opprobrium The shock is less if you have got a chum
I wonder why the head is so attacked Electric shocks, brain surgery from quacks When massage with essential oil of rose Curies hysteria and warms the running nose?
I hate the doctors and their ignorance I really ought to learn to love a dance For it’s the entire body that needs aid It is for this that many people prayed
What is nonsense but a better world Where babies laugh and little girls have curls?
Yet Justin’s concern was not really with Jews. It was with his fellow Christians. At a time when the distinction between Judaism and Christianity was still blurred and rival sects competed for adherents, he was striving to prevent gentile converts to Christianity from observing the Torah, lest they go over wholly to Judaism.
Vilifying Jews was a central part of Justin’s rhetorical strategy. He alleged that they were guilty of persecuting Christians and had done so ever since they “had killed the Christ”. It was an ugly charge, soon levelled again in the works of other Church Fathers, such as Tertullian (c.160-225AD) who referred to the “synagogues of the Jews” as “fountains of persecution”.
The objective of using such invective was to settle internal debates within Christian congregations. The “Jews” in these writings were symbolic. The allegations did not reflect the actual behaviour or beliefs of Jews. When Tertullian attempted to refute the dualist teachings of the Christian heretic Marcion (c.144AD), he needed to demonstrate that the vengeful God of the Old Testament was indeed the same merciful and compassionate God of the Christian New Testament. He achieved this by presenting the Jews as especially wicked and especially deserving of righteous anger; it was thus, Tertullian argued, that Jewish behaviours and Jewish sins explained the contrast between the Old and the New Testament.
To demonstrate this peculiar malevolence, Tertullian portrayed Jews as denying the prophets, rejecting Jesus, persecuting Christians and as rebels against God. These stereotypes shaped Christian attitudes towards Jews from late antiquity into the medieval period, leaving Jewish communities vulnerable to periodic outbreaks of persecution. These ranged from massacres, such as York in 1190, to “ethnic cleansing”, as seen in the expulsions from England in 1290, France in 1306 and Spain in 1492.
Mary was feeling lonely on Sunday so she decided to go to the Urgent Care Centre in a cab.There were not many people there but enough to give her 2 hours in the Waiting Room.Having signed in ,by claiming to have a UTI, she took off her red coat bought in 1992 in a Sale, and opened her phone.What to read?
