We walked in rhythm as if life were our dance Holding hands, we smiled whilst on our way Exchanging too a soft and loving glance We walked in rhythm as if love were a dance Showing both the strength and the nuance I wish my love were still with me at play We walked in rhythm, our life a home made dance Holding hands, we smiled whilst on our way
The little words invented as we loved Now have no other speaker but myself. Lost, unique, the husband, so beloved, These little words expressed our private love. In my speech, these words no longer live I cannot use those words, our loving wealth. The chosen words invented as we loved Now have no other listener but myself.
I sense a feel of panic in the air As if the Ark is not quite waterproof I wonder if we’d welcome Tony Blair
To the poor this life was rarely fair But now it seems unreal, is it a spoof? I sense a piece of Putin in the air
I am looking in the mirror at my hair It looks like Boris Johnson’s but more louche I wonder if we’d dye old Tony Blair’s
The Russian wolf is licking his rich fur He’s happy Britain’s weakened with fake truth I feel a sense of monsters near, oh dear.
Putin won his Trump with that strange hair Now it’s cyber warfare on the hoof Will he soon take Leave from Tony Blair?
The Russians in Crimea are still there The Ukraine weeps because we did not care I sense a feel of Russia in the air
I wonder if they’ll fragment us and tear.
Fifty years since I became your bride My old age unthinkable back then No longer are you happy by my side
Now I feel like drift wood on the tide Going where I do not know or when Fifty years since I became your bride
How to be alone, and how decide? Grateful am I to the words I pen No longer are you smiling by my side
With no map or path, I roamed plains wide Wandered like a lunatic with pain Fifty years since I became your bride
At least I am alive and here reside Wandering is no life for those disdained No longer are you sitting by my side
I think of history and the years you spanned The worst World War, your mother, life began Fifty years since I became your bride No longer are you here;oh,love , you died.
Autumn time in Essex where we drove When farmers burned the stubble of the corn The earth itself was fiery like young love The smokey air rose like a cloud new born
The Kentish landlocked cliffs are wide and steep The farmers grow their grain on land beneath And there too we have seen the holy fire The flames and smoke arrest me with desire
The earth and soil, the harvest we find there Give me joy both full of wheat or bare Why did burning stubble make me glow? These images affect the heart’s deep core
Now fires are banned., they damage our pure air And I did not like the murder of the hare
Roman roads connected in straight lines The cities they had built in wealthy times The remains of one goes past my garden gate Do ghosts of Roman legions pass at night?
I like to see connections,maps and roads Others love old cities ,walls and moats My road ran to Lincoln near the Wash Migrating birds and swans go there to rest
Going South, there is the Pilgrim’s Way Canterbury, Becket,murder, prayer Julius Caesar, Deal, the Roman hordes Boudicea, and her fighting Lords
Layers of history, meaning,love and death Still we argue what should be our path
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 gigantic 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 her A fire engine filled 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
Women can’t wear frocks and aprons now We have to look like men but well endowed No man would wear a cardigan so long Behind his wardrobe it would soon be flung
Shorts are hot in summer, I shall sigh Why do women have to have a fly? If you need to pee while in a wood A skirt provides some cover for the flood
I’d like a dress like mother used to wear. As we walked to Grandad’s, she had flair She knitted lacy jumpers for the heat Even knitted wool socks for my feet
We look like alien creatures from elsewhere I’m going to wear my sundress, I don’t care.
One single tear expresses love and loss Dramatic storms excess may make folk pause Who will notice one tear and its cost?
A little stone near water may grow moss But only mountains bring a sense of awe One single tear expresses love and loss
Grief must not wallowed in, like baths Philosophers not hurt their minds uncaused Who then will observe the tear, the cost?
To an ant, a pebble is quite gross To a widow, death has hungry jaws One single tear may show how she is lost
The entire self is tear-filled like a marsh We weep till love itself becomes remorse Let one tear out and hide its anguished cost
The heart’s affections use poetic laws Holy circulation, blood that draws One single tear falls down like bladed grass Who will care for this tear, bear its cost?
What to me may seem a worthless weed Bears its little flowers to create seeds Thus it spreads itself as Love requires Humble speedwell,hear of our desires.
In the pavements cracks were home to grass The sidestep slabs were broken like thick glass When heavy frost came, rain formed frozen pools I trod in them as I tore up to school
The crackling ice, the mist dropped on the park Our ginger cat, the trees, the dog that barked Our mother in the kitchen making tea The oven by the fire, the big door key
Little signs spark tender memories The future fiction, gone the past abyss
Limestone’s softness lets its cracks appear Wildflowers,daisies,foxgloves love to grow While little rivers to the South Tyne veer
Alston on the hill to me is dear The main street in the winter’s under snow Limestone’s softness lets its cracks appear
Granite hard as marble seems to jeer Limestone lets the seeds and grass stay, While little rivers to the South Tyne veer
The savage Pennines can cause panic fear Their shadow in the sun, a fearsome layer Limestone’s softness lets its cracks appear
Do we shift our vision far and near? The panorama of the Lakes is fair The little rivers to the South Tyne veer
Limestone,like a woman, let’s love grow Thus it is creative ,heart and Art Limestone’s softness lets broad cracks appear Thus streams, well filled with seeds, are made home there
I used to know you loved me by your eyes Not the eyes of judgement cruel and dark Yet I need to learn to say goodbye
Every day deserted lovers cry Our eyes grow dim, they lose their living spark I used to know you loved me by your eyes
You were full of humour, I can’t sigh Remember swans, the frozen lake, the park? Now I need to want to say goodbye
Like a lark, your soul flew to the sky Near Studland Bay, where small birds seem to talk I used to know you loved me by your eyes
My tears fell like a curtain from each eye I could only see you in the dark Now I need the will to say goodbye
Though not violent, you have made your mark We got into that rhythm when we walked I used to know you’d love me till I died Even after death, I feel you by.
It is impossible that any Russian poem should survive, undamaged, magically transported into the English language. The simplest Russian word has no exact equivalent in English. A table is a different table. The food on it is different. The life around it is different. Its image, its behaviour as a word is different; rectangular and immutable in English, possibly round and probably inflected in Russian. Better to admit defeat at the outset. It will be a different poem. All the more important, therefore, to try and preserve whatever you can. Not only the sense, but the spirit of the thing conveyed through the rhyme, the rhythm, the music of the original. If you are not a poet when you start to translate poetry, you will be by the time you are finished. It becomes so natural a means of expression that you find yourself writing your own stuff.
Some translators, of course, were poets before they began. Great writers have translated other great writers. But you have only to compare the original with the translation to hear the persistence of the poet-translator’s creative voice, even while submitting himself to the discipline of faithfully following someone else’s ideas, someone else’s choice of the form in which they are to be expressed.
Since the thing, then, is inherently impossible, why try? Why do it at all? There are, of course, some advantages for the English reader. He can satisfy his curiosity. For instance, why all the fuss about Griboedov? What is this wonderful verse-comedy of his? What characters did he create, what views did he hold, what feelings did he express? Why is he so great? This last, alas, is a question which no translation will answer. No, the true beneficiary of any translation is the translator. There is no better way of valuing a work, getting under the skin of it, sucking the juice out of every last line of it, than trying to translate it.
I encountered Gore ot uma during my first year at London University, studying Russian language and literature. And here I must mention my only advantage over you Russians; I didn’t ‘do’ Gore ot uma at school. (Imagine reading it for the first time at sixty-two.) One of our professors gave a lecture on the literature of the early 19th Century. ‘There is this brilliant verse-comedy by Aleksandr Griboedov’, he said, ‘but it is completely untranslatable.’ The challenge was irresistible. I went to the library after the lecture, took out the play and started at once.
The problems were numerous. How to preserve Griboedov’s laconic style, compressed sometimes to the point of obscurity? What to do, for instance, with that reference to Tolstoi Amerikanets? Short of a footnote, how is the English reader to guess at that disastrous voyage of his? How to convey the irony implicit in Griboedov’s double game, in which Chatskii shows us the flaws in Moscow while Griboedov shows us the flaws in Chatskii? In the attempt to convey a sense of Griboedov’s masterpiece, one is required to joke like an ambitious bureaucrat, think like a revolutionary, feel like a Moscow socialite or a young man in love – in short, to jettision one’s own view of the world, and share, briefly, for the space of a play, the author’s – or his characters’ – experience of it. the problems are varied; the challenge is always the same. How to preserve the spirit of the original.
How the sky tried to turn black but the cloud thinned Leaving a dull yellow ochre, lightening slowly To cream A black cat leaped onto the fence I think he’s sleeping here But he never shows me his face He runs as if a banger has gone off behind him As if he’s going to take off like an aeroplane He hides in the dark green shade The honeysuckle chuckles, wishes to see more The wrens ignore him from their holly tree
Too prickly for domestic cats
Please lie down.Tell me what brings you here
Not literally? [ could be autistic]
No, you are always here in a sense.
Well, you know English is not my first language [ excuses]
No, you were here before language.How hard to imagine.
I have come here because of my guilt [ trying to be human ]
I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury, said cunning old fury
Very adroit [Shows off his skills]
What’s that?
The opposite of maladroit
Why did you send the Flood over the earth\~
I pressed the wrong button. [Teases me]
That is absurd. There were no buttons then
Not even on coats? [Pretends to be ignorant]
Well you should know
I don’t like little details in my creatiity [ Thinks he is superior]
Come on, tell me whatever comes to mind
I like playing with water and fire as well [ Melanie Klein come here]
You tell me
It’s such fun [ emotionally stunted]
Like War?
It was not so bad to start with { always an excuse…. lacking in adult responsibility]
What, even Cain and Abel?
Very sad but it’s just a story [ Derrida,Levinas, Enid Blyton]
Don’t tell me you are a post modernist
I can be what I want , for fun you know [ repeats himself]
I didn’t know God has fun
Well you do now [ Humour]
Right that is £120
What, you think I should pay? [ feels superior]
I have to live,Lord.I have a family [ childish plea]
So did I once [Sarcasm and grief]
Coming in, the whispers of your breath Float into avid ears, there is no death Your honey smell, your eyes so sharp and kind Evoke your image in the deeps of mind
I see your shadow swiftly move away There is no tomorrow, just today And you are here, your smile remains yet fades Deep in the woods of feeling there are glades
You do not hide, you exercise your tact You knew people’s faces, not the facts You said you felt so tender when we lay And smiled when we enjoyed ourselves at play
You hide inside the air,I breathe you in I let you go, I see you float again.
The humid air of Summer makes us sweat No time for kissing lovers on the lawn Too much movement constitutes a threat
Behind the rose bush hides our old black cat Wanting to take rest, his coat untorn. The humid air of Summer makes us sweat
Few lovers want to risk sharp heart attacks Better to go out in cool, white dawn Too much movement is then less a threat
In Van Gogh’s night, the stars look almost black Here is his lost ear, alas, it’s torn The humid air of Summer makes us sweat
Genius knows much more than what we lack The motley objects and the chosen form Too much sorrow constitutes a threat
If we start to work, we are new born Resisting weather and the sunlit barn The humid air of Summer makes us sweat Too much movement constitutes a threat
I once became interested in virtue and perception.It began when I read a little Aristotle about virtue being a habit.That was quite recent.Before that for many years I believed virtuous acts would follow from being able to perceive well.But when we are fraught our minds and eyes tighten up and so we perceive only what may be a danger to us.To perceive others well we need to be in a position to trust others and we need to feel secure.How is this possible?
From my studies I read that our ability to trust begins with a trusted caregiver in infancy,[See” atttachment and loss “by John Bowlby reference to come] We may be able to become more secure later by good fortune,friendship and love.
If not,I seem to get the idea that if we are insecure and nervous we cannot truly perceive others and they may be in the same position.If we are very afraid then virtuous acts may be hard to accomplish. The reason is obvious… when. we are concerned with mere survival as a person , in that state what we do to others may be impossible for us to consider.We cannot truly see them and so we cannot act well towards them except by good luck.
Or if we are able to tolerate great anxiety,we may see better…. if not we are incapable…. Those whom we cannot see properly we cannot truly consider with feeling and act on this feeling.We see them partly or mainly in terms of the fearful fantasies in our minds and cannot see them as other and interesting.When we make a friend online we may feel safer but in fact we are more likely to misperceive them.
When we are from a sad a or difficut background it may help greatly if we have some friends who might point out our errors if we trust enough to tell them.Or we may pretend to be hard and tough.Neither leads to virtue.
If we trust God it may help but I believe we see God through the lens of our parents.. which is not good…depending on the parents. When we live in fear,we cannot see what is there before us.We cannot let go.We cannot accept grace and love nor give it.We will try to live by will power.Ironically people who are fearful inside can develop a shell of toughness and pride and so are not seen as vulnerable and/or lovable.Tbey may seem frightening to others. This account may help to explain why politics is the way it is and also we see that arguing is not persuasive when the other is not able to open up and see things more broadly.Arguing makes us tighten up and see less well.And it can be frightening too though some cultures find it more acceptable than others.
Circular the building and the fire A ring of stones wherein the fire was set An eye hole high for smoke, a height for gyre
The wind might whistle. might bring chill, bleak, dire The fire burned hot and red, the cats there sat Circular the building and the fire
Warm when hunters came in from the mire Meat was roasted ,everyone ate that An eye-hole for the smoke, a height for gyre
Families slept in heaps, as cats desire The fire must keep, the embers not go black Circular the building and the fire
The wind looks in and tries to cool the fire God sees through our eye, we eye him back An hole above for smoke, a height for gyre
In each living heart there is a crack The light and fire get in to fill our lack Circular the building and the fire The eye is God’s , the wind itself inspires
His face was black, he fell against my breast Dying in an armchair by his bed While nurses gossiped,he was alone left
The doctor said it would be for the best The rehab is not meant for those near death His face was black, he fell against my breast
I asked him,dearest, do you feel depressed? He nodded with a gravity like lead While nurses gossiped,he was lonely left
Then I realised my wifely task I was even asked to lift him to his bed No longer as my bridegroom at the feast
The loss of dignity, the face unread The blindness of the staff, the broken head His face was black, he fell against my breast While nurses gossiped,he was fading fast
“The eye is a region of mostly calm weather at the center of strong tropical cyclones. The eye of a storm is a roughly circular area, typically 30–65 kilometers (19–40 miles) in diameter. It is surrounded by the eyewall, a ring of towering thunderstorms where the most severe weather and highest winds occur. The cyclone’s lowest barometric pressure occurs in the eye and can be as much as 15 percent lower than the pressure outside the storm.[1]”
Lately I have been loaned by providence a graceful beautiful cat.Early on he was a shrinking, hunched and nervous creature who slept by the back door on the daily newspaper.He ate hungrily and drank water with a drop of milk.
He was reluctant for a couple of weeks to venture further but as the tranquil peaceful time went by he began to sleep on a towel by the hall radiator and eventually on my knee.
The most striking change was in his size.As he ate more and was petted more he relaxed so that when stretched by the fire ,more of his body was in contact with the floor and he looked larger all over.He was loosened up and comfortable.
If he were human I might say he had a good mother.He is affectionate and initially I feared his demands might be excessive.When he came onro my bed I was concerned.But after five minutes of being stroked he went off to his own place again.
Sometimes when he’s been out in the garden he reappears with an air of humorous triumph as if he has worked a miracle to enter through his door.Another time when I was reading in a different room from the usual one he appeared mid morning with a face full of more expression than I can easily put into words.
He was anxious and relieved,puzzled and afraid,happy and a touch angry with me.How can you do this to me? was his query.Suppose you had gone altogether?Oh,the insecurity of being a tame cat.
I wonder why cats do not miss their own species.Or maybe they meet them outside.Often though they fight to defend their territory but fortunately they have no WMD as yet.I like to read and stroke him as I muse over my book,
When we got married we could only afford a single bed
Did we
a] take turns on the floor b] use double sheets and blankets c] sell the bed and sleep on a rug d] lose weight so we fitted onto the bed e] fall out of bed while consummating our marriage f] get a divorce g]. none of the above
I wanted an elliptical dining table but we had not got enough money Did my husband
a’] buy a round one and saw some parts off b] tell me a rectangular one was better c] ignore me and buy a comic section d] just not listen e] tell me it was better to make love in a wood and forget about this table f] none of the above?
An ancient one roomed building was once home Lit and warmed by fire,heat upward flowed The smoke escaped through one small hole or “eye” The winter wind would fight to get inside.
Like a human eye, it was a breach The bones of head and face allow this reach We must see out and not live all within Wolves, those metaphors. might bite our skin
Enclosed spaces need selected gaps Few would enjoy choking in a trap. We need a way to breath, to see, to touch Sophisticated means, this eye to watch
Sitting round the fire we hear Wind howl
Through the eye, we see the moon,our jewel
We hear now of more and more ways of living healthy lives.But I think it’s important to live a life of worth.What does it mean,to be of worth ? We must live first of all in a way that suits our nature and since we are part of a whole we must also live in ways that do not harm others and hopefully helps some of them.One problem is increasing in the affluent West and the USA and similar countries.This is the well known fact that more and more of us suffer from stress,worry and depression.Maybe the more serious psychic disturbances are also increasing.This can lead to violence
I have heard my friends say that writing poetry or keeping a journal is therapeutic.But is it not true that some forms of talking or conversing are therapeutic and some are harmful or maybe just pointless? A good friend whom we trust is a person with whom conversing may be beneficial,whereas “dumping” your problems on someone may give only momentary relief.I feel real friend listens and may comment,may even criticize.Someone you know less well may react badly.You must not blame them for you are ignorant of their personal life and difficulties.
Conversation of course has the advantage that you are with the person to whom you talk and can stop or adapt your talking in the light of their nonverbal responses.To a lesser extent it is also true on the phone if you know someone well.
Just as gazing into the lighted front window of a large home filled with people and pictures and lovely furniture may make you envious so may your fantasied views of others around you.And yet it is likely they feel pain just like you ;we operate often from a view of life which is a poor fit with reality [whatever that is]
Since conversation may be good,bad or meaningless so it is with writing.
Writing comes from .your experience but must convey it in a manner by which others can feel the truth of what you are saying.As with music, poetry can say certain things not possible in other ways.And as in music there are forms developed down the centuries in which others have expressed their feelings. I have read that writing poetry in a structured form is therapeutic,But writing in free verse may not be.In either case poetry can stir up deep feelings.
Fiona Sampson, author of,The Expert Guide to writing poetry, advises that you keep the phone number of the Samaritans near when writing poetry but prose may be less stirring
I read about the value of structured writing in an article about Sylvia Plath.I am sorry I cannot find the reference as yet.Some people say writing prolonged her life,others that the kind of writing she got into at the end may have precipitated her suicide.We cannot know the answer but we should be aware that it may not be “letting it all out” that helps but the shaping and sculpting of the material into a form which pleases us and others
Alternatively writing about Nature ,other people,love, may turn our minds in a new direction away from our mind’s idle chatter
Fifty years since I became your bride
“What is true love which alters when it perspiration finds?”
de.Often though they fight to defend their territory but fortunately they have no WMD as yet.I like to read and stroke him as I muse over my book,
