The Romantics, faced with a disenchanted universe, attempted to discover a new source of enchantment in the human imagination, and poetry became a metaphor for that creative, life-enhancing power. Poetry used to mean poems. Now poems began to seem like just one habitation, and far from the grandest, of the force that is poetry. Naturally, this fateful division between poetry and poems had enormous consequences for the way poems were written. After all, if poetry is ineffable and infinite, there is no reason it should be bound by the mechanical laws of meter and rhyme. In the modern age, poetry became antinomian.
How white and blue together recollect us to the summer sky and the imagined swallows darting in exquisite geometry under the great domed space of the heavens, like the Basilica in Constantinople containing and giving space. And how I held you for a moment that was infinite and then you were gone like an angel fearing enchantment into some finite boundaried world
Who did gooseberries fool?
Why do strawberries jam?
Do eggs lie on toast?
She fried her own eggs daily
She even made her own bread
We had grapefruits bigger than the grapes.
Why do sheets change?
Do pillows have good cases in law?
Why get married when you can go to prison free ?
Why have a man when you could love a cat
Why marry a wo/man when you can go fishing?
Just relax and act naturally
How do dreams get out of our unconscious into the conscious mind?
From the miles of flatness and the fens Comes the hill where this Cathedral stands Everyone can see this floodlit site When the moon is out and there is night. I saw it through the window as I turned It’ struck me down with beauty never learnt. As I lay surprised upon the stair I absorbed the beauty I saw there Should we worship beauty such as this? It strikes us with a hammer not a kiss
This made me wonder, if it were true that false thinking comes even partly from the horrible experience of being muddled, then would not one way out be to learn how to accept the experience of being muddled? I knew only too well how strong was the impulse to be certain, to lay down the law, to have things in black and white. But my mind had now driven me on to become aware of this other mood,
Originating in France, a mainly octosyllabic poem consisting of between 10 and 15 lines and three stanzas. It has only two rhymes, with the opening words used twice as an unrhyming refrain at the end of the second and third stanzas. The 10-line version rhymes ABBAABc ABBAc (where the lower-case “c” stands for the refrain). The 15-line version often rhymes AABBA AABc AABAc. Geoffrey Chaucer’s “Now welcome, summer” at the close of The Parlement of Fowls is an example of a 13-line rondeau.A rondeau redoublé consists of six quatrains using two rhymes. The first quatrain consists of four refrain lines that are used, in sequence, as the last lines of the next four quatrains, and a phrase from the first refrain is repeated as a tail at the end of the final stanza.
I see that the prime minister is asking for our opinions or ideas about what should happen to the NHS
One thing that is clear is that you only get 10 minutes when you see a primary care doctor. That is was its meant to be sometimes it may be a little bit longer
Often it’s on the phone which means they can’t see your face they can’t get a general idea of your health from your appearance
Why I think this is not good enough is that it means that you could get very ill and have to go to A&,E
It’s because you’re not being checked sufficiently by your GDP in 10 minutes
It is only when you are in hospital that you get everything checked blood tests scans everything when you’re in A&E.
So I think there is a gap in care and this may affect certain groups of people more than others
The elderly people in chronic pain or with chronic diseases and children.
Of course your GP can refer you to a consultant in the hospital but it often takes several months before you get an appointment and again you may end up in A and E when you’re conditioned becomes worse before you actually seen the consultant.
I also have heard that there is a conflict between doctors in general practice and doctors in the hospital with each trying to push work onto the other.
Whatever is the case it’s not very good for people who are ill or in severe pain chronic pain etc
So I shall be interested to see how much this consultation with the public will do
I think what I wrote above explains why we spend as many as 36 hours on trollers in the corridors of A&E because the deficits in primary care mean we’re only get fully checked when we collapse and our possibly going to die unless something is done quickly
But this is wrong and it should not be happening
It’s wrong to have either 10 minutes with the GP or 36 hours on a trolley being tested while you’re lying in the corridor
36 hours for me with no food no hot drinks unable to visit the bathroom
Oh either sighed the river lyre ol long fields of curly and of bye, That tell the told and right the wry; And though they yield, the toad runs by To its sandy, dried alloy The hallowed siege by water pulley The clean and unsheathed bread knife dally Shambled on her daughter’s lily Round about a dot. Pillows whiten, aspirins shiver. The sun-famed showers broke a willy In the stream that runneth weather By the island in the river Flowing down the Com and dot Four gay wails, and four gay hours ~Underlook a spice of dowers, And the silent isle implored The Lady of NottNott Underneath the bearded charlie, The reaper, reaping slate and silver, Fears her ever wanting cheery, Like an angel, ringing early, O’er the cells of Camelot. Beguiles the leaves in furrows hairy, Beneath the loon, the reaper teary Listening whispers, ‘ ‘Tis our Mary, Lady of NottNott’ The little isle is all entailed With hose-pants, overtly tail’d With roses: by the barge unhail’d The shallop flitteth silken sail’d, Skimming down to What is Nott A pearl garland signs her screed: She leaneth on a velvet bead, Pull loyally unapparelled, The Lady of Whats Hott.
No time hath she to court a nerd: By charmed fib she seized her bird A purse is on her, if she’ll gray Her leaving, oversight or pay, To sulk more down on Whatt is Knott She knows not what the hearse may be; Therefore she leaveth stealthily, Therefore no other bear, hath she, The Lady of TopKnott She lives with little boys who play. With her daughter, running here, The cheap cell tinkles in her ear. Before her sings a mirror clear, Reflecting hours in CamAlot. And as in the internet she whirls, She sees the surly pillage hurled, And the wed oaks of driven earls Passed to cloud from NottAlott. Sometimes a ship of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling dog, Sometimes a curly shepherd bad, Or long-hair’d rage in crimson bled, Goes by t tower’d Cameuplot: And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue The night comes guiding two by two: She hath no cool old knight it’s true, The Bath of old Shalott. But in her web she still delights Sees the mirror’s magic bytes, For often thro’ the silent fights A funeral plumed with traffic lights And loose it came to Blamelot: Or when the moon was overheard Came two young lovers lately wired; ‘I am half sick of shadows,red The Lady lost her Plot
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English style my way:make it coloured if you can.Wear a hat if bald.Wash your trousers as often as is sensible.Wash your own!It’s easy
Wash your clothes a lot but don’t iron them
Go out in only a T shirt and jeans in winter.
Old grey anoraks look good on most people,or so they seem to think
Wear skirts that show your thighs off or leggings that show everything else off or both or nothing
Do wear crop tops and low rise jeans especially when suffering from underactive thyroid disorder
Jeans with rips are perfect for old ladies.Rip it youself
Wear thick padded down coats in the summer.
Never wear a summer dress especially if you are a man
Never wear petticoats and other lingerie.Just pants and top or vest
Wear a T shirt saying:Anti-Semitic, moi? while touring Oxford looking for pubs
Wear a T shirt saying :Belgians, go back to Congo.
Wear a T shirt saying :I feel Rubbish
Wear a T shirt that says :I luv money
Wear a T shirt that says: Educated in Burton, can’t spell
Make sure your hair is exposed— both head and pubic.
I don’t understand either but they keep saying,where are you from?
I say,here,But somehow they don’t believe me.
Actually, I am mixed race.So I am only British.
Even with ethnicity we have a class system with English at the top and mixed race somewhere further down.Ancient Briton? Sorry,dear
When the windows shattered
And the splinters flew in
He just made for the back door
And left me
not knowing where to begin.
When the shards of glass hit me
And pierced my vulnerable skin
He was already going
Leaving me
feeling he was an inhuman being.
When I fell down covered in glass and bleeding,
And the storm raged on,
I didn’t look round because
I knew,I knew,I knew,
I knew he would be gone.
Suddenly peace came, the storm had quite
disappeared..
It was all over so quickly
Not as murderous as I feared.
My wounds were bad,I have to confess.
I had no bandage
Nothing with which to dress.
With an old towel I cleaned my blood
Then I lay me down to pray.
Since that day,no storms come this way.
My wounds are healing
I have just one thing to say.
When the storm was so bad
He left me all alone…
but strangely since then
all is peace and calm.
His absence has become
almost a balm.
But I hear stories of fierce storms rising up
In towns and villages
Not too far from here, where a wandering man appears.
Seems like he’s running to get away
From some storm
But he takes it with him
He gives it form.
So when the windows crashed in
glass flew at my face
he left me all alone
In what he thought
was a very dangerous place.
Did he not pick me up
and carry me outside?
No,my daughter,he left me alone;.
But since then
I lost a great burden…
And I lost a great feeling of shame.
Rise up,you women,bleeding and torn.
For on days like this,a new resolve is born.
While you live don’t accept all the blame.
Don’t live so long as I did,in fear and in shame.
Rise up and find that calm
In the eye of the storm…
On days like this
a new woman is born
They’re hunting snails In New South Wales They’re hunting bees, And shooting trees. They’re hanging worms For lengthy terms They’re on a diet And don’t we know it.
The diet of worms shall be our fare And on the bible. we shall swear. We’ll swear our oath We are not loth We’ll strangle frogs They’ll die in bogs.
We’ll always use four letter words And they shall be our hunting swords. We’ll kill the good We’ll burn the wood. We’ll shout out,fuck. We’ll burn the book
We’ll let no thin skinned people live. We’ll always take and never give We’ll use our charms To quell alarms. We’ll molest girls Cut off their curls.
As we’re human, we are mad. We kill the good ,seems love is dead We saw the babe in Bethlehem We saw him die between two men. We did not run to cut him down We said,Oh,fuck,another clown. For he spoke love And said to give. For he spoke peace; Let joy increase
Like most human,we are crazed We see it and we’re not amazed. No sunset red No welcome bed No golden dawn No welcome morn No loving arms No sacred charms No newborn king No tune to sing
Oh,we are damned We are broke We built Auschwitz Saw the smoke. And now it’s built again,again While drop the bombs In Bethlehem.
And on our knees, we women crawl To bury babies born too small. To take the swords from these mens’ hands And bury them in desert sands. To pick up scraps of humanness To hold their hands for God to bless. We did it wrong,we did it bad We never thought or we’ve been had
” The poem itself is beautifully modulated in its use of assonance and
off-rhyme. It has the delicate, brilliant and perhaps cold qualities
given to the fox, though it also has its boldness and concentration.
Thus the poem itself enacts the metaphor of the title: it is the
thought-fox.
This sort of wit and concentration is Hughes at his best. His
humour certainly gets blacker, and Crow (1972) is very like an
obscene version of the Road-Runner, but it is a very important
part of his general attitude and poetic manner. In “Pike”, for
example, the changes in tone from the neutral description of the
opening through the off-hand humour of stanza six:
With a sag belly and the grin it was born with.
And indeed they spare nobody.
73
SYDNEY STUDIES
Two, six pounds each, over two feet long,
High and dry and dead in the willow-herbto
the terrified apprehension of the last stanza:
Owls hushing the floating woods
Frail on my ear against the dream
Darkness beneath night’s darkness had freed,
That rose slowly towards me, watching.
(Selected Poems, pp. 55-56)
form a dramatic and emotional pattern that makes this perhaps
Hughes’s most disturbing poem. The humour is an integral part
of that dark world which so fascinates him. Perhaps it is one of
several things he learnt from Nietzsche.
In an interesting interview with Egbert Faas published in
London Magazine in January 1971, Hughes spoke a good deal
about his concern with “the primeval world”.l He felt that modern
man had turned away from the dark forces and “settled for the
minimum practical energy and illumination”. He attacked “the
psychological stupidity, the ineptitude, of the rigidly rationalist
outlook”, though he did not underestimate the dangerousness of
the non-rational world:
“If you refuse the energy, you are living a kind of death. If you
accept the energy, it destroys you. What is the alternative? To accept
the energy, and find methods of turning it to good, of keeping it
under control-rituals, the machinery of religion. The old method is
the only one.”
This does not mean that Hughes is a Christian, or even sympathetic
to Christianity with its ideals of self-sacrifice (his equation
of the Virgin Mary with the Great Goddess of the primitive world
is highly questionable, whatever cults survived in early Christianity).
I am not sure that it even means that his imagination is
“theological”, as Peter Porter has suggested. But it does mean that
it is religious and that it is concerned with language as magic and
with poems as rituals. “Jaguar” does contain evocations of animal
power and freedom and “The Bull Moses”, one of his greatest
poems, is an apotheosis of primitive sexual strength. This is one
of the reasons, I think, why the poems are so elaborately structured,
why the language is so forceful and compacted. They are
not attempts to express violence or to titillate us with violent
thrills, in the way that you might say Thom Gunn’s poems are,
though we are often conscious of the element of fascination that
Hughes feels. These poems have a real respect for violence and try to treat it as a religious force”
How my heart sings 