Yet this has given rise to a new dualism, one in which the body and the brain are seen as separate entities. This is what Costandi – a science writer who trained as a neuroscientist – seeks to correct in his illuminating and detailed investigation into how our understanding of the brain and its role in shaping our sense of self has evolved across the last 200 years, and what today’s research in neuroscience, psychiatry and psychology tells us about the
I wake up warm from dreams, yet all alone
Every night you’re with me. wanting home
The shattering loss made splinters of my bones
Bandaged like a mummy, am I born?
In the dream, you hold my hand and run
I wake up from these anxious themes alone
I’ve still got your dear ashes and the urn,
Where are you and what have you become?
Your shattering loss astounded all my bones
Now I sleep and rest with turned off phones
I cannot bear impingements, I ache sore.
I wake up from the anxious dreams alone
Inside my soul, from Other love, I’m torn
Afflicted, disconnected, from my core
The shattering of my heart makes me forlorn
I think I hear your footstep by the door
My breast with a sharp dagger is then gored
I wake up slow from dreams still one alone.
The sadness has unsettled my heart’s home.
Accidentally tread on someone’s face
As you run for president again
Make sure all their features are erased
Knowingly tread on the human face
It’s not evil, it is just bad taste
The devil is a clown, we feel no strain
Incidentally tread on someone’s face
As you run for president again
Stan had eaten too much pizza because he was extremely ravenous from doing the washing. and hanging it up on the mulberry trees in his long garden Now he felt lazy and other worldly and liable to have visions..Now and then he saw an angel whom he called Yael in his home.But having looked up Yael on a website he realised she was not a very nice woman unlike his dear wife Mary.So he was planning a new name for the angel with her permission
Do you mind if I change your name,he enquired gently when Yael came in through the French window.
Well,what to? Yael asked him familiarly
How about Ysabel? Stan offered.It’s got just an extra b and s.
Or how about,Sybael?
You seem fond of b and s, the angel answered in confusion.
It was just mere chance,said Stan somewhat defensively.
Ok I’ll take Sybael,the angel said loudly .
I want to change my name too, said Emile the cat.
How about Mebiles or Melibes or Eimbles….
I don’t know, pouted the cat haughtily.
How about Semile,said Stan.Though it has no letter b in it, he brooded
They all pondered quietly as the sun shone in through the window and made a lovely lacy pattern on the wall.
In came Mary,Stan’s sweet and aged wife and his computer aided extension into the bargain.
You are very quiet,she murmured.What’s going on here ?
We are trying to find a new name for Emile,Stan told her as Sybael waved her wings about.
It seems very draughty in here,Mary said.And Emile can’t change his name because it will change his personality.
I didn’t know I had a personality,the little cat purred noisily.
It is what is most characteristic of you.For example, if you always hurt those you love then you have a cruel personality or you have got diabetes.Some people want love but they are too harsh and demanding.
So true,Stan added pensively as he thought back over his life.
Anyway,I have some awful news,Mary went on.
You just won’t believe this but Dorothy Grey who lives at the bottom of the hill has just had a heart attack.
How come,Stan asked?
She had an online love relationship with a rather peculiar but intriguing and clever elderly man who turned out to be a sadist in disguise.So when she ended it he flew over and attacked her with an air gun and some cat’s claws which he had bought from a cat market
Is he a wizard,asked Emile.
No, he flew on a stolen magic carpet from Persia.
Persian carpets,I’d love one here said the cat greedily as he imagined sticking his claws into it and milking it.
Actually it’s a kind of plane,said Stan. knowledgeably
How boring ,said Mary feebly
Anyway Dorothy was so shocked her arteries spasmed and she is in A and E now on morphine,she added.
What a shame that she got that instead of a spasm elsewhere….Stan muttered thinking of Freud and fountain pens.
But who’d have sex with such a horrible old man? Mary asked in puzzlement.
An equally horrible old woman,maybe? Stan riposted laughing.
Any way it all goes to show the dangers of online love, he informed the room.
It’s not real love,is it, because in real love the other person is as important to you as yourself.Mary said theologically.
Well. now Eros is a kind of love,too.But many old men just want their washing done and a companion.Eros has departed from their world.
Sybael smiled and then flew out of the window.
What was that noise, said Mary anxiously.
Just an angel’s wings,said Stan quietly
If only Dorothy had seen an angel instead of that harsh old man she might be much better now.Mary mused.
But not everyone can see them.Their world seems full of horrible old men and beautiful young women
Emile winked at Stan and then ran out to chase a butterfly amongst the scented tulips.. there were lots of angels there every day but only he knew that.
Angels don’t like big modern cities but they like old abbeys and cathedrals,moorlands and mountains; places where such things used to be before post modernist architecture took over.
And cat’s claws are not meant for scratching your loved ones either.And online dating should be avoided except with atheists and agnostics.They are less judgemental about women’s place and roles.It’s strange how harsh many religious people are.Harsh and unforgiving.Very strange it is,thought Stan as he boiled the teapot on the fire to sterilise it
Let’s all have a nice cup of tea,he murmured.
And we’ll pray for the living and the dead
And so say all of us.Amen
Pass the apple pie.Thanks
I can feel the inside of my body it’s darkness and its depths
I can’t explain it with these words except to say Jesus wept.
It seems quite clear that maths should take the blame
As quantity and quality. are not the same
The Hebrew temple used the number pi.
And pi is not a quantity, I say.
So pi is not as a measurable as 10.
It’s decimal expansion never ends
There is no pattern, how God condescends.
Don’t think about this funny stuff it drives you round the bend
by Mike Flemming copyright
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.
Enchanted by 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 heart and hand
The pen slows down,the hand grows still,
And ,just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone
Like dew dies in hot sun
https://www.musicalmum.com/the-relationship-between-music-and-poetry/
DWhether it’s the silences in between musical notes, their timing or the spaces in between words when reciting a poem
The face that was familiar is no more
Yet in my dreams he is alive again
Thus his image lives inside my store
In our sleep we find the open door
We see the precious faces of those gone
The face that was familiar is no more
A nightmare,anxious, running as before
To find our car, to bring home my dear man
Now his image lives within my store
His voice to me sounds muffled by great doors
He wonders how I manage all alone
The love that was so potent is no more
An anger at the doctors made me roar
A dying man ignored by every one
Now his love lives on in my deep core
Death will capture all but is that fair?
We live then die at last of all good bare.
The face that was familiar is no more
Yet his sweet love still haunts my deepest core
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/25/style/journaling-benefits.html
On the other hand, Dr. Pennebaker’s research has found that journaling about traumatic or disturbing experiences specifically has the most measurable impact on our overall well-being.
How can learning poetry by heart help us to be more grounded, happy, calm people? “Let me count the ways,” says Rachel Kelly, who has suffered from anxiety. Whenever she’s feeling wobbly, she finds reciting lines of poetry is grounding, validating and connects her to others who have felt as she is feeling in this moment. And it’s something we can all do: poetry we’ve learned to recite means we have another voice inside us that’s always there, a kind of on-board first responder in times of psychological need.
There’s also a certainty and stability about being able to conjure those words:
Mathematicians don’t need to touch.
There’s no blood in the subject although it does have its own beauty if you don’t fall down a hole on the way m
But touch is more important than mathematicsm
Few are seduced by these angels who have no children.
It’s better than schizophrenia. That is my view
On the motorway standing on the concrete how alone I feel with no one visible
It’s also something to do with size, mine and the roads m
Its like arriving at Manchester Piccadilly station on the train from Birmingham carrying a heavy suitcase and no one to help.
The best thing I decided was to have a cup of tea in the station snack bar.
The water is so good and so are the accents of the people sitting there are talking about the price of butter and the price of men m
An angel is peering through the top window as if considering a cup of tea and a bun. But they turn away for higher designs.
I want to catch a bus outside to take me to to Manchester exchange. It’s hot on the bus and people look fed up
Eventually I see the green curving landscape and the river which tells me I am home. I am me again
Sorrow bites the heart with teeth of ice.
We pay it once but would we pay it twice?
the crucifixion looms, the concrete spins.
Who will pay the price of human sins.
Love your neighbour and your enemy.
The world is much in need of charity
http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/persecution_palestinians.html
Brinda Runghsawmee introduces her poem.
I am from the island of Mauritius, near the big island Madagascar in the Indian Ocean. Just would like peace between Israel and Palestine-Gaza and terrorism will die. What we see on the media is not really the truth. There are hearts that beat behind uniforms. Brainwashed militants or numbed soldiers in solitude do think about buried precious moments from their lives: mums, a dear dog or a fragile bird.
The love birds
One bird is on shrapnel
In Israel
The other one is outside
A blasted tunnel
In Gaza
There is fear
In the eyes
She has always
Been at his side
He has always
Been at her side
The soldier about to launch
A rocket towards Gaza
Has a thought
About his mum
A tear trickles down
His grimy face
When he sees the downcast bird
All white with that lost look
His heart melts
He leaves the rocket
Picks her up
She does not struggle
He puts her inside
His bullet-proof clothes
In a large inside pocket
The Hamas militant
Aims his foreign missile
Against Israel’s border town
Full of olive trees
Swinging music in the gun-fire sky
Which cannot hide the blueness of lofty joy
Where arms do not exist
He hears little sad sounds
He turns round
Sees the white bird
With the lost look
His heart melts
He thinks of his mum
Dead-torn by an Israeli missile
He leaves gun and missile
Goes to the struggling bird
Lowers him inside his soldier’s clothes
Not far from his heart
He turns his back to war
He wants to find his love
He runs, hides towards
The southern border
Where Gaza and Israel meet
To kill
He is a wanted man
In Gaza
A target man
for Israel
The Israeli soldier
Is disturbed by the gentle movements
Inside his pocket
He has not yet fired the rocket
He wants to reunite her
With her beloved
He leaves his post
Behind the safety of olive groves
Runs where she leads him
Towards the desert
It is night
The darkness is disturbed
By war
The animals have fled
Trees and flowers
Have failed to blossom
They almost collide in each other
By the light of war
They see each other’s face
A feeling of ancient hatred
Rises within the folds of their souls
But the stirring within blasts it
The hands of war gently set them free
The lovebirds are reunited
On this desert soil
Two enemies understand
Humanity
As bombs
And shots continue
To mark the sky
With pain
And hearts
With grief
Brinda Runghsawmee
When the weather turns out wet
Emile has to wear a hat
Mary bought it in a Sale
Making sure it was for males.
Yellow with two cotton ties
It keeps the rain from Emile’s eyes
Mary has her own hat too
Bought in Orford, it is blue
Emile as he is a cat
Up a tree does love to sit
But when he’s leaping tree to tree
With his rain hat , he can’t see.
Mary said, “well stay indoors
You can help me with the chores
I’ll make a harness with a cart
You can carry soap.dear heart.”
“Otherwise go visit Anne
Eat the curry in her pan
Scratch her doormat,sniff for mice
Eat her cake and churn her rice”
I think I saw Stan on the stairs
It’s that velvet coat he wears
I may go and have a rest
I can lean upon his chest
Shall we visit him tonight?
Emile,dear, you must not bite
If he is a spirit now
You may only give a bow
Annie came in looking flushed
By the milkman she was kissed
One more man and she will die
Mary says she needs meat pie
Then the ladies make some tea
Gossip till their minds are free
Mary wants to write a book
If dear Anne will learn to cook
Stan is hiding in the coats
He is checking what they write
Then an angel flies to him
God wants enemies within
So practise love and hope and faith
Even though you have no grace
Say God is dead but do not taunt
Jesus preaching on the Mount
Be you friend or be you foe
Through a needle’s eye we go
See, you’re full of love and grace
Now go home and wash your face
. Interoception lies behind our sense of intuition – when something feels “right” or “wrong” without an explanation
As evidence,
I wanted to flee to the mountains
His image would not leave me alone
I hid in a cave as a tempest raved
The wind whistled into my bones
After the storm there was fire
The fire that burns into the soul
I stood as the flames flickered over
The Cave was fit only for ghouls
With my candle I looked at the shadows
I wandered about like a ghost
I abandoned my thoughts and my writing
He spoke to me in the deep dark
Only when all good’s been taken
When despair is too happy a word
The spirit flies over the water
On the wings of the tiniest bird
I wish i were in Woolworths Colwyn bay
A shilling in my pocket that will pay.
Mini wooden counters filled with sweets
House plants, needles children’s toys compete.
It’s pouring rain but we don’t mind alot
It’s summer but we wear our winter coats
I don’t miss the vultures in the zoo.
Chained to rocks they say for me and you.
I saw their fear and loathing in their eyes.
I cannot recollect their fearsome cries.
The North Wales mountain zoo a cruel disgrace.
Would you put a cockroach in this play?
I’d rather be in Woolworths in the rain
I can still recall the vultures’ pain
https://www.nhs.uk/every-mind-matters/coronavirus/tips-to-cope-with-anxiety-lockdown-lifting/
Even positive change can lead to anxiety, and it can take time to readjust to things we have not done for a while.
Feelings of anxiety are likely to pass with time as we get used to the “new normal” but it’s important to do what we can to take care of our mental health.
https://www.therapyroute.com/article/an-interview-with-adam-phillips-by-j-choder-goldman
You see, I think it’s more important to find out what really matters to you than to be good at something.You see, I think it’s more important to find out what really matters to you than to be good at something.
You don’t do e-mail, you don’t have a cell phone, or anything related to the world of technology?
AP: Because I want less communication, not more. And because I feel like I don’t want to be in easy contact with lots of people I don’t know. I’m not boasting about this but I’m not excited by the World Wide Web, if you see what I mean. I don’t feel like I want many, many more contacts
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/may/17/poetry-human-therapy-mental-health
Although Stan was 102, he still rode his bike locally in the summer time.He was out in the garden pumping up the tires before going off to the Library.Suddenly his neighbour Annie appeared at the gate, without him hearing her feet tapping on the path of red brick;she was bedecked in finest Scottish tweed with a long pendant on a solid 22 carat gold chain swinging nonchalantly from her neck, with a matching ring attached mysteriously to her upper lip.
“Who’re you, the Lady Mayoress” he joked.
Where’s Mary?” she pointedly whispered.
”She’s with her widowed sister Joan up in Scotland ” Stan admitted nervously, unsure of her reactions.
”Joan, that’s not a very Scottish name!” Annie joked.” Anyway how about we sit down here on this bench for a moment”.She pulled him vigorously towards her.
Stan responded regretfully
“I’m afraid I can’t stop.I have all these books overdue and the library shuts in 15 minutes
.”Don’t worry, sweetheart”, she cried un-contemptuously.”I’ll pay all your fines.I’ve just come into loads and loads of money.”
“Oh, how’s that.my angel” Stan murmured. “I shot Bert.If you help me to get rid of the evidence, I’ll share the loot with you.”
At the funeral, Annie was dressed in a beautiful dark brown suit with a black trim from Jaeger.She went around the room making sure everyone had enough food and drink.As she leaned over towards Stan her heavy gold locket, inside which was hidden the bullet that killed Bert, swung over and hit Stan a glancing blow on the temple.
Stan fell to the ground
.”Do you think we should ring 999?” someone asked sarcastically.Within minutes, paramedics arrived.
“So, is it that chair again?” they clamoured.
”Yes, this foolish old man fell over and the leg came off my brand new antique chair.I’ve only had it a few days and it’s not insured.”
“Did anyone ever tell you, your eyes are like deep pools in the Saragossa Sea?” Dave, the paramedic whispered into her right ear.
“Have you still not finished that Creative Writing Course?” Annie shouted.””I’m getting tired of you admiring my eyes.What about my nose?””
“Has anyone ever told you, your nose is the shortest they’ve ever seen?”
“That’s a bit boring” Annie retorted.
”Yeah, maybe I should change to Art,” he ruefully moaned.”I love the way your deep blue and turquoise eye shadow is melting around your eyes and running down the sides of your nose.”
“Hurry up and fix my chair, and while you’re about it, you may as well take Stan down to A and E for a head X-ray.”
Glancing furtively at Annie in her Jaeger suit with carefully contrasting deep coral blouse and opaque teal blue 80 denier tights with 6 inch stiletto heels to complete the outfit, not to mention her raspberry coloured bra which clashed violently with the coral blouse [which alas was more transparent than she realised], he picked up a hammer and began,excitedly,to mend the broken chair.
”This is what life is all about, my boy” he thought.One day I will be just where I should be.Right here.With her,alone!
Little did he know the true tale, that Annie had murdered her husband merely because she felt very bored.
Boredom is dangerous.If you are affected why not go out and look at some hats? Why not take up drawing. is now online
Microsoft Paint
The sea shore blue of operatic sky
Turned to navy then to darkest grey
Dark trees despise the mysteries of light
The holly has its depth unknown to eye
Hiding fragile wrens from birds of prey
The cerulean blue of soothing sky
And in my room upon my bed I try
What words would come,what humour could you say
Oh trees held in the mysteries of light?
The words won’t come,unspeakable the sigh
The weeping of the sick, the donkey’s bray
Depression of Van Gogh. the lowering sky
Oh,mother, why must newborn babies cry?
The Lord ignores, the sheep flee as I pray
The trees hold in the mysteries of light
I meet your eye,I’m feeling drawn and grey
You want my love,I fear the last mistake
In sinking blue of dawn and passive sky
The trees despise the virus and the lies
When a poet is being a poet — that is, when she is writing or thinking about writing — he cannot be concerned with anything but the making of a poem.“ — Richard Wilbur National Book Award
Source: https://quotepark.com/quotes/1922333-richard-wilbur-when-a-poet-is-being-a-poet-that-is-when-he-is/
Flat and wide the fields stretched without end
The burning stubble sent the smoke up high
The orange flames glowed brighter than the sky.
Oh holy fire could your flames heal and mend?
A
How my heart speaks 