About the golden light what can I say
Love is near and we don’t need to pray
Enter into darkness without fear
Another hand will guide help us steer
I had lost my faith I was bereft
I could not speak, and sinking was my craft
Then a the soft bright cloud embraced me whole.
I felt a presence and I saw the light
Why should I be helped when many die?
The mystery ,of God the soul destroyed
https://tseliot.com/prose/rudyard-kipling I
We expect to have to defend a poet against the charge of obscurity; we have to defend Kipling against the charge of excessive lucidity. We expect a poet to be reproached for lack of respect for the intelligence of the common man, or even for deliberately flouting the intelligence of the common man: we have to defend Kipling against the charge of being a ‘journalist’ appealing only to the commonest collective emotions. We expect a poet to be ridiculed because his verse does not appear to scan: we must defend Kipling against the charge of writing jingles.
Hail Attlee, mind of grace
Blessed are you amongst men
And blessed is the fruit of your mind, the NHS
Holy Attlee,Father of Starmer
Pray for us now and save us from Tory errors
Now and forever I beg
Amen
There was a young lady from Truro
Who hated to polish the bureau
So she stripped the wood bare
At least once a year
Then she lunched on some buttered escargots
There was a young lady from Barnes
Who never did anyone harm
When she went up to heaven
God said we’re in Devon.
You’re welcome perfectly welcome dear maam
Our Father,Aneurin Bevan,
Exploded is thy game;
Why,Kingdom come,
Before thy will be done.
Gone N.H.S.Gone Heaven.
Give us fair pay,our daily bread;
Don’t leave us on piece rates,
As we confront those who legislate against us.
And feed us not with deprivation,
But deliver us from Weasels.
For thine was the Fair Game,the Hour and the Story
Maybe once but ever again?
Please accept our creepiest symphony.
With sweetest tympani.
Please accept with previous company.
Loss is always a tradein
I’m so sorry that your husband lied.
We live in hope of an insurrection
When will the geeks inherit this laugh?
I’m so sorry to hear about your blister. She should not have gone astray.
When is the humeral to be belled?
He left me his new router
He left his cheapest empathy
I am sad that you are so lonely with your thief.
If she believed in Devon, she kept it riot.
I will always remember that a dog shook hands with my husband in heartlands in Devon
I haven’t had time to make a world so could I buy one?
I found his last bill and pissed lament
I said I wanted to see Jesus I didn’t mean that I wanted to lie
If you die I’ll be very angry and I really screamed that. But it was too fake. You never relieved me.
Do you think that God is working for us when we lie ?
Does God dismember everything?
He said he was working for the still small voice I didn’t really believe that but I am deaf. God should shout not whimper
When you are dead you have blood that will not percolate anymore.
Who is the person who makes our blood flow around our bodies?
Rhythmic poetry echoes our own rhythms
The way the heart beats and the flow of blood.
Music is biology at play
The joy of being alive is well and good
There is no no need for willpower and its strains
Does the River have to push itself?
Does the tide need training who could tell?
Imitating these is poetrys stealth.
Overwork is easy but it’s wrong.
Distracks us from the pain of life and death
Both can come together in a song
Let your mind be vacant till you find
The evidence that there is another mind
I’m sad without you here, the air is still
I’m sad without you here the pain’s not sharp
I’m sad without you here my love my dear
It breaks my heart
I miss you in the morning when we wake
I miss you in the evening when we sleep
I miss you and our little cat so black
It makes me weep.
I dream of you at night I loved you so
I dream of you when you were strong and sure.
I dream of you I think of you, but you are gone
Can I endure?
Human life is very short, we learn.
We leave the dance of joy we’ve had our turn
Loss can be losing a friend who was journeying with you through life.
It can also be the loss of the path,the signposts, the structure
It can be like the loss of the map that we have carefully constructed and which is now wrong.
It’s frightening to lose the structure, even part of the structure.
It’s frightening to realise the map you are using is no use.
There’s a lot of fear in grief or alongside grief.
Grief itself can also feel like fear.
Is it worse than the first day school for the child?
It’s hard to know the answer to that
Even love is subject to finance.
Children need their food, their little bed
When we’re cold and hungry we can’t dance
Hoping for real love by happenstance?
Children may be born but are they bred?;
Even love is subject to finance
Do we need the lightness of romance?
Be like little children, one man said
When we’re cold and hungry, there’s no chance
But money by itself lacks elegance.
Tell us more about what some man said
Children’s hands reach out,as if entranced.
Be a slave to love but not finance.
The heart is wise, but reason writhes,is dead
I follow links but somehow lose the thread
Love itself has died on bloody sands
Why should the wounded fearful try to dance?
Unstable weather suits unstable times.
The mood of the electorat e unwinds
People stagger like the risen dead.
Are we all teborn,has noone said?
Boris threw some parties. How do you do?
Just keep telling lies until you’re through
Even rain and wind attack our minds.
Is it not the summer,are we blind?
Everything is shifting changing shape.
Are these the doors of hell, the devil’s lame
Can we withstand dictators, can we hold?
The slouching beast from Bethlehem grows bold.
Which way shall we move, what shall we think?
Consternation rises as we blink
Trivial thinking makes a waste of life;
Like polishing your shoes as Jesus dies.
Yet academics often create strife,
With philosophers more intellingent than wise
Perceptions sharp as nail bombs to the eyes
Are diverted onto other paths and lives.
Who will be the one who can surprise?
With which mind may such perception strive?
Who will listen to the chosen one?
Not the men whose faces are unlined.
Who sees truly what we have become?
In whose imagination is the true refined?
Such a furnace is this blacksmith’s yard
Refinement comes by fire and burning hard.
The plural have a certaim advantage which is that there are not afraid of losing all their money if there is a collapse of the banks
But it’s not good to be poor especially when you live in a .rich society
Unfortunately we cannot live like the wildflowers or the lidlers of the field.
Can we do it for part of the time?
Love
When first I saw your soulful face,
Then wished I most to you embrace.
I wished as well to clothe you in
The sacred images within.
To find a home for love without;
To fold my dreams all round about
Your loving body and your face
Were covered in such joy and grace.
But now my dreams are cast aside
The world of meaning denied life.
What seemed most precious now is fled…
And I lie sleepless in my bed.
What is the world when unadorned
With all that in my heart I’ve formed?
There is no meaning I can trace.
As in a mother’s empty face.
On these grey rocks my path is hard.
From paradise, my self is barred.
To struggle or to grief succumb
When this dark day of mourning’s done?
Into His dazzling darkness dart
My dreams and love like dying sparks.
Into His Mystery now so fair
I’ll cast both hope and my despair.
Thus my dreams will be transformed
To show themselves in other forms.
What feels a loss may foretell growth.
On my hope,I’ll take an oath
That nothing in my life is waste,
That I have not for phantasms chased.
And you are human,as am I.
Let’s live again until we die
Signs and symbols guide the route.
Love gives the soul her appetite.
Though the night is black and starless,
The inner guide is never careless.
The notes are struck,the tune is played,
Plain melodies are overlaid.
In this chant and benediction,
Healing comes for desolation.
Though the passage way is narrow,
This pathway is the one to follow.
Struggling through the mud and mire,
We see in darkness tongues of fire.
The sacred centre of our life
Is never found without some strife.
Just then the dark and light combine,
To create a symbol for our mind.s
The thorn trees bring to mind the death of God
Jesus Mary Joseph they have fled.
Where is ritual, where the precious blood?
Where is Aaron with the iron rod?
The thorn trees bring to mind the death of God
Where is Noah in these days of flood?
Where can Jesus rest his sacred head?
Once he had a manger for a bed
Where is ritual whose the precious blood?
Herod killed the infants so it’s said
The Arctic wastes of life have done their⁷ job
The thorn trees bring to mind the death of God.
The armies fight, the headless ghosts take lead
Here’s the reaper with the scythe and hood
Rituals left behind,no more is said
There are no battle lines the war is shared
There is no water wine no precious blood
The middle east explodes, the devil smiles
The thorn trees crackle singing god is dead
Signs and symbols guide the route.
Though the night is black and starless,
The inner guide is never careless.
The notes are struck,the tune is played,
Plain melodies are overlaid.
In this chant and benediction,
Healing comes for desolation.
Though the passage way is narrow,
This road is the one to follow.
Struggling through the mud and mire,
We see,in darkness, tongues of fire.
The sacred centre of our life
Is never found without some strife.
Just then, the dark and light combine.
To create a symbol for the mind
http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20170109-the-mystical-poet-who-can-help-you-lead-a-better-life
Shams-ud-din Muhammad Hafiz (c. 1320-1389) is one of the most beloved poets of the Persians, and is considered by many – from different cultures – to be one of the seven literary wonders of the world. Ralph Waldo Emerson and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe both agreed. As Emerson said of Hafiz: “He fears nothing. He sees too far, he sees throughout; such is the only man I wish to see or be.” And Emerson gave Hafiz that grand and famous compliment, “Hafiz is a poet for poets.”
Hafiz has no peer – Goethe
Both Goethe and Emerson translated Hafiz. And after Geothe’s deep study of him, simply – though remarkably – stated, “Hafiz has no peer.”
Hafiz poems were also admired by such diverse notables as Nietzsche and Arthur Conan Doyle, whose wonderful character Sherlock Holmes quotes Hafiz. Garcia Lorca praised the Sufi poet. Johannes Brahms was so touched by his verse he used several in his compositions. And even Queen Victoria was said to have consulted Hafiz in times of need – which has been a custom in the Middle East for centuries. The Fal-e Hafiz, is an ancient tradition in which a reader asks Hafiz for advice when facing a difficulty or at an important juncture in their life – treating his books as an oracle and opening them with a deep wish from their soul for guidance.
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
When we self defend with bitter lies
Are you worried that you’ll suffer starvation?
Are you one of the poor of our nation?
There is pi in the sky
God only knows why
Mathematics is no good for emotion.
At the end of the month we were short
Our money had got very taut
Instead of a roast
We tried baked frogs on toast
Now we’re both feeling stunned and remote
I can’t say I love a red pepper
And my husband prefers unsmoked kippers
But we all have to eat
Try cows heels or their feet
And just keep your lip a bit stiffer.
I am glad I can pay income tax
When I have paid it I love to relax.
So I must go out to work
I’m an MP, see me smirk
I won’t up your tax that’s a fact
We do know what we ought to do
The words of the prophets are true
But we cannot comply
So others will die
Like the old lady w they shot in a shoe
What is the purpose of poverty
It’s not universal like gravity
Is it to make as afraid
So we work and don’t play?
Every adage has got some veracity
Shoplifting is hard to resist
A few dozen eggs won’t be missed
A bottle of brandy
Wil come in very handy
Steal it for it’s not on request!
The times are a changing Bob Dylan
The women are no longer so willing
Chastity’s in
As our libidos dim
The jobless get kicked for just living
I saw you struggling with your walking frame
Guessed that you must suffer too much pain
I smiled because you caught my sidewards glance
Then your face too by smiling was enhanced
So often older people are ignored
Lost and lonely hidden at the core
Once this man fought in a major war
I hope by some fine friend he was restored
I saw him disappearing down the road
His posture more erect, his back less bowed
And in my heart I felt the smiling too
Enchanted by the essence , by the cue.
I got on a bus, ignored my phone,
Smiling still I pushed the door key home
After dinner, Mary and Stan often went for a longish walk.They liked to go to a road where the richer people of Britain lived.,where there were some Georgian houses and one Tudor house.
At dusk, they would stroll by looking into the lighted windows to see how the rooms were decorated.And if the front garden was large sometimes they crept in to see more
One beautiful house they liked from the outside was spoiled for Mary by the garish tartan wall paper.
What sort of people would live there, she asked Emile who was in her handbag.with his head peeping out
Well,they have a cat called Percy,he mewed softly.
Why Percy?It is a noble name from the British past of course, she answered…
Earls of Percy were involved in affairs of state.
Well.Percy is Chinese, Emile said to her wittily.
He ought to be called Hu Ar U then, Mary joked ,or tried to as her sense of humor was somewhat lacking or maybe just odd.Still she looked lovely despite her moth eaten clothes bought in Sales in colors nobody else wanted like purple and lilac and bottle green.
She and Stan crept slowly up the garden path and peered nervously into the empty sitting room trying to identify the paintings on the walls.
All of a sudden, a woman who was completely naked came into the room and lay modishly on a sofa as if she were a trained dancer.She was a sight for sore male eyes.
Are they about to have a drawing class, Stan whispered.
She must be a model for a Life Class or an abstract woman with cat ,if Percy gets into the frame, Mary mused
Percy might scratch her then.Stan muttered.She could scream.
Suddenly a loud voice was booming at them.
What the hell are you doing in my garden?
There stood a big man in plus fours and an oversized red jumper with matching cheeks
We were admiring your wall paper, Mary said.I think it is very unusual.
He smiled in gratification.
I chose it, he cried.All by my self.
But why is there a nude lady on the sofa, Stan enquired?
I am so annoyed, the man told them.My fiancee likes to walk around nude but she forgets to draw the curtains first.
Does she want to make an exhibition of herself, Stan enquired hopefully.
We wondered if it was for a life class, you know, students learning to draw and become artists of note.
Well, that’s a good idea said Arthur thoughtfully.
The woman got up and came over.She opened the window.To their astonishment, she was Annie, their neighbour and Stan’s mistress too.Stan might have known but he had kept his face immobile after years of practice.
Fancy seeing you here, Annie whispered creatively in her sweet little voice
I am trying to seduce Arthur but with no success so far except a marriage proposal.
You need to be more discreet and indirect, said Stan.
If you act like this he will think you are an artist’s model and likely to be featured in the Tate Modern Annual Show of Infamy Now, would a man like this marry or even sleep with such a woman as you appear to be walking around like Eve before she ate the apple?
I don’t know said Annie but my clothes are all in the tumble dryer, anyhow.
Did you wet yourself? Mary asked her kindly
It’s nothing to be ashamed of.We all do it now and then especially since public conveniences were shut down across the UK.And now ,even coats are machine washable.
Well,I knocked over some lemon barley water in a big jug and so I decided to wash all my clothes. while I was here as Arthur as a tumble dryer
That’s a very strange tale Arthur told her.You look ravishing hanging out of the window with your nipples pointing up.Let me take a photo of
you.Say, Cheese
But will you put it on Twitter, Annie asked anxiously.
No, dear.I am not so cruel.Why don’t you get your clothes and make us all some tea/
I can’t make tea, she yelled and without pausing she dialled 999.
What is it Fire or Ambulance the lady receptionist asked politely?
It’s a kettle.
Is it on fire?
No , it won’t boil.Can you send Dave the paramedic
please, as he makes good tea.
We are quite busy so it may be two hours or more she was told.
I thought this was an emergency service, Annie said.
But who defines what an emergency is? the lady asked her philosophically.
I will die without this tea, Annie informed her in a ringing tone
Ok, hang up and I will send the ambulance now.
Arthur seemed a little surprised
I have private medical insurance, he cried.But they don’t make tea not even for old people.
Well, in the UK tea has always been essential to the National Health
But it will soon be drying up and we shall get flasks from the dustmen on Sundays instead.
I just don’t believe it, Arthur said and he then passed out on the rug which stood in front of a bookcase full of leather bound volumes of poetry.
Will he live?Read more tomorrow and pay the price… a few minutes of fun and gaiety.
Elijah had hidden in a cave
Fearful of Queen Jezebel’s rage
God was polite
He would whisper in the night
Religion is a support not a cage.
I wish I could hear that small voice
That whispered in my ear was a choice.
After the wind and the rain
The fire was no pain
Did God whisper because he was hoarse?
This world has got depths we can’t see
As the butterfly said to the tree
He dove into a flower
sipped nectar for an hour
As the fish swam down deep in the sea
How my heart sings 