What is a plain look?

She gave me a plain look. It was very easy to interpret her contempt. But not so lovely to feel it washing over me. That’s when I began running.

Is it sacrilege to smile at the priest while he is holding up the bread and wine,? Don’t answer because as long as I don’t know it’s not a sin ,although willful ignorance could be a sin but it’s a different sin from the first one

Yet even that might annoy God. But can we really believe that god is looking  at us all day long when he went through the ordeal of losing his only son on Calvary? The two things don’t seem compatible somehow.

I wonder what the people who used to make wooden confessionals the Catholic churches do to make their living now because I don’t think many people ever go to the confessional on a Saturday night and say they will never sin again. If it was changed to Sunday night they will do better in terms of numbers at least

Extract from an experiment in leisure by Mario Milner

the artist can regain what Yeats calls ‘the old nonchalance of the hand.’ For Milner, as for her contemporary T.S. Eliot, ‘The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.’

The end of the line

Come down,oh Blog divine.

Clean this light mind of mine,

And Kindle it with thine own Amazon password.

O Holy Spirit,draw real near;

Make all my strains disappear.

And subscribe me to all the intriguing and wonderful Websites I’ve never heard of.

Come down like summer rain

Wash off our 

Lsuffering and our pain

Kindle us with spirits whole

Tell us what the prophets foretold

Gather us into your heart red

Sleep well on your divine bed

Oh, gentle Light

I ‘ll try to get it right for one more time
You did not converse with me in words
You were simply present in your Light

Nowhere did I feel your power and might
You were no eagle, but a little bird
I ‘ll try to get it right just one more time.

Who made our language with its subtle rhymes?
The ancient people had their well trained Scribes
You were always there,oh gentle Light

You gave me warmth, you changed my too fixed sight
A comforter , a Spirit, how describe?
I ‘ll try to get it right a final time.

The agony inside me lost its bite
I wanted to go on, to be alive
You do not always show your golden Light

We do not know when we at last arrive
We do not reach this meeting place by strife
I ‘ve tried to get it right this final time
I never saw such Gold until that night

It makes no sense to me

I went to church on Sunday with a mole

From MI5, I tried to save his soul.

If God can’t make a saint of every man

Why the Dickens do I think I can?

What other mysteries can my body  know?

Thank God,I  only signed for Pay and Go

Underneath the silence there is peace

I pray the  silent music  brings relief

Poem

Silence in the centre of our soul

Silence in the  love that makes us whole

O Godly worm that of  my flesh might eat
Let my very self  become your meat 

One day we will die and that is sure

Let death be named the illness with no cure.

As Shakespeare said we we have no teeth, no sight

But the old can still be happy in the night

Although arthritis makes the body ache

I still have got my appetite for steak.

My joints are bust, my toes are cold and bent

Where is my mother now, for I am spent

Bring me frankincense and myrrh, bring me some tea.

I want a wise  man now,well are you he?

The grammar is the best thing in thr book

It makes no sense to me, come take a look.

I think I’ll go to Ireland when I’m old.

Take me to the fire for I am cold

Satan in Cromer: the true story and the storm

http://www.edp24.co.uk/news/photo_gallery_people_rescued_from_cromer_pier_as_spectacular_waves_smash_into_seafront_1_3081997

Alfred and Dora Smith, who had just taken possession of a solid gold powder compact,  bought from  dear old Stan  on the beach  ,went down to Cromer so  Dora could go to Boots, She wanted a new and more suitable shade of pressed powder to put into the compact.
Satan was getting cheesed off as Dora had the compact shut away in her handbag of purple and red leather with a yellow strap.Since she otherwise dressed entirely in black the vivid colours did not seem quite so dreadful.Some might call them post modern
You may disagree, but I believe a coloured leather handbag is a definite must for any woman nowadays.Where else can one hid one’s log tables,kindle reader,tampons, set squares,kleenex,rulers,pens and other female items not to mention lipstick and other vital items?
Satan ,not being divine.did not know where Alf and Dora were off to but he was hoping that he might get a peep somewhere.Maybe in the ladies loo in some pub or other,hopefully one full of women of an intriguing type with French underwear worn as outerwear in the late style of Madonna.Little did he know of the ladies of North Norfolk
Inside Boots,Dora found the Boots Number 7 beauty counter and selected some compressed powder in  a color called vanilla rose beige.Since everything was 3 for 2 she bought some lavender mascara and some pink coral moisturised lipstick.After paying the bill,she and Alf ran outside as they felt poorly
My,it’s as hot as hell in there,Dora cried.Satan was pleased to hear that but he had no idea where they were but felt he was near home.
Alf suggested a walk down the pier to get some fresh air.

Facing directly North, Cromer pier is wide open to the pure winds from Siberia… but today a SW wind was blowing and despite a black cloud looming the day was bright and warm for winter in England
As the game, old but vital couple reached the end of the pier and turned to look at the North Norfolk coast line they regretted not wearing their Harris tweed coats.. a strange chill came over England that afternoon…. a hint of evil darkened the air with menace.David Cameron must have been up there in Burnham Market where the rich and sinful  have holiday homes.
Shall we sit down for a minute, said Alf to his stunningly made up wife.
You sit down,I am going to look at the sea.Dora said sweetly
Dora stood at the edge of the pier looking,at the waves crashing below… and above too!
She wondered how her new short hair style was standing up to the weather and on an impulse she opened her bag and took out the gold compact so she could use the mirror to check.
Holding it n her left hand she flicked it open expertly at an angle of precisely 60 degrees.
Who was more surprised…Satan,who rarely saw faithfully married,virtuous British women, or Dora who had never before seen a demons,let alone Satan,I leave to your imagination.
Dora gave a loud shriek and threw the compact overarm high above and over the metal railings.Being solid gold it sank gently to the sea bed amongst the pearls and coral and a few suicidal  people’s  remains.
Alf,Alf,she called..raucuously
What is it, my pet?
There was some fiend in that mirror.What a sight! I am afraid I have accidentally bowled it overarm it into the sea.Like you showed me  to when we were  playing cricket
You stupid twit.I paid £500 for that.I broke the bank
Did you really?You are so sweet.I wonder if we should call 999? Dora called
I doubt if they could dive into the cold sea…for a powder compact.Alf replied
How about for the poor devil inside it? she continued.
Suddenly a heavy storm,one might say a hurricane blew up and the  stout couple were almost washed away by rain and giant waves which ran into the air on either side of the pier.Clinging to each other they stumbled towards the promenade some distance back.
Let’s go and have some tea and muffins,suggested Alf  thoughtfully.
Suddenly the sea swept onto the promenade and for a moment it seemed as if the two old folk would be washed away but luckily they were both very obese and their weight anchored them to the ground as well as their heavy rubber boots
Well,it’s not quite what we expected,but somehow I am relieved.Dora said
I was nervous about owning such a luxury item.I feel I am addicted to Max Factor Pancake makeup in plastic compacts she prattled merrily as Oxbridge educated folk like to do especially if they did PPE like our Prime Minister
Alf was dozing and in his mind he saw a host of pancakes with little faces each wearing full makeup
How can I eat these,he muttered.They seem like human beings… they look quite charming.His head fell back and he began to snore loudly
Dora was happy enough watching canoes go by carrying people along the promenade and into the old town.What a dear place Cromer is,she thought,as the lifeboat passed the cafe window full of terrified people..What a dear old place to live in.Why would anyone want to live inlan

Satan is sold in Sheringham

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After Stan left the  police behind, he  drove Satan to Sheringham,There  they rented a  fidhrman’s cottage and enjoyed walking to Weybourne along the cliffs where they saw  some butterflies .Satan seemed surprised by the cheery residents.He usually dwelt in cities and dens of iniquity.Stan’s pocket bulged with the golden powder compact standing up.He liked Sheringham but usually had Mary with him for company rather than Satan.
One afternoon on the beach a man of riper years  stopped and spoke to him
I see you always carry face powder in a compact  with you.Are you a transvestite by ny chance?
I am sorry to say,I am not.Is that bad news?Stan  asked him
Well,not really.I never expected to meet one  down here.But my wife has lost her powder compact and it’s hard to get gold ones now.I’ll give you at least £500 for that.It’s lovely.
Stan pondered.He had got fond of Satan but was unsure what to do with him next and he could not remain on holiday for ever as Emile his cat didn”t like it
He thought perhaps leaving Satan  here in Sheringham might benefit humanity in the long run.
OK then.he cried and in a flash he had handed over the gold compact to the gentleman who seemed thrilled.He produced £500 pounds in notes and the deal was done.
Stan went back and informed Emile the holiday was over.We can go home now,Emile.I have got rid of Satan,at least for now.
Thank God,miaowed Emile.I miss Annie and her perfume..
That makes two of us,thought Stan as he drove towards King’s Lynn and the Ouse crossing…
But how will poor Satan feel? Will he be converted to life in a seaside home  or will he soon be heading back to Knittingham?Time will tell. Sheringham may be too small for him and probably has very few dens of iniquity.And even Cromer is probably not wicked enough for this old devil….

Stan gets away from the Police

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Stan was very worried that the police had caught him.He didn’t realize that ,with the low  sun, the mirror in his pocket was flashing out coded messages to aircraft.He got out of the car and walked over to the police on the grassy verge of the road
I’m so sorry,it’s just my wife’s solid gold powder compact.See?
Have you got your marriage certificate with you?
Well,no.I didn’t know we in the UK needed to show them to the police. demurred Stan
It may belong to your wife but you are a man.Men don’t carry them.We never saw one before.Young women never use then,
Certain men might of course..actors or politicians.I know Tony Blair wore make up.
That’s irrelevant.Give me that compact.
Stan pulled the golden compact out of his pocket,still open.
The police man stared into the mirror.His face turned pale.He handed the compact to Stan and ran back to his car asking the driver to take him to the nearest boiling Tea Shop.
Stan looked at Satan and grinned…
What did you do?
I just held up a photo I have of him in bed with a sheep….need I say more?
Did you enjoy seeing that? Stan asked thoughtlessly.
Not much.~I prefer your flame haired mistress with her perfume of Araby.She’s something else again.
So you can smell then? Stan enquired.
Oh,yes,said the devil.Sure I can.I just can’t touch or be touched.
So Stan started the car and off they went;all the lights were green and not a single police car was on duty.
Soon they reached Upper Sheringham.The people here are very long lived.I know it’s the best place to live in the UK;then they turned down the old High Street and parked by a gambolling shop full of lambs.
Now what?
Will the sea cheer up a sad old devil or make him suicidal?The cliffs are not very high.We must await the next  piece of the story with interest and patience.
Email me with ideas at
merrymaryminds@h

Stan and Satan on the coast road

After nearly being arrested for accidentally sending out messages with the car mirror. Stan got back into the car and drove around King’s Lynn and up past Sandringham.
I’ve been there,said Satan eagerly
Don’t tell me, Stan  begged.Let me keep a few illusions.Or delusions
Satan fell quiet as they  stopped in Hunstanton to see the striped cliffs before tottering along the coast towards Sheringham.
I’d like to go to  Brancaster Beach again,Stan thought, that really is  a beach.In fact he and Mary had once been trapped by the tide.North Norfolk is a dangerous place even without  Satan travelling through
Holkham Hall and beach were a  beloved place.Maybe Satan would like to go in a boat on the lake and visit the shop where paintings are on sale
Wells next the Sea was the old man’s  love.The narrow street where Mary bought a wicker bike basket.The bread shop and the butcher and the big green on the top with lovely houses round it in  a square [ squaring the circle!]
Many happy memories and the rich smell of gorse in the hot sun
When I get home,I shall see if gorse will grow in Knittingham he told Emile.Maybe the soil is wrong though
He took out his Vodafone Smart 7  or 8 and rang an old friend  in Sheringham
Is the cottage free,Fred, he asked?
Yeah, how many people?
Er, it’s just me and the cat . this time,Stan muttered idiotically.Well Satan was in the powder compact so he didn’t need a bed!
OK.I’ll leave the key at the chip shop then.See you soon.Stan.I’m just finishing my book on the Gnostic Imagination.I’ve  learned a great deal  but I’ll happy to finish it.Maybe we could meet for a drink one night
And do you know… they did!

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

Satan and the house fire

ECG
Catsby Katherine

Stan was standing on the patio behind his bijou home when a sudden heavy  downpour of water drenched him all over.
This is like a monsoon,he murmured to Emile who was also wet and drowned looking
A head  and neck appeared over the dark wooden fence.
I’m awfully sorry,old boy.A pipe has burst in Annie’s loft.I tried to fix it myself.
I don’t believe it.You are Stan Brown.It must be 50 years since I saw you.
Stan was hiding his surprise at seeing Rudolf Hairnet,his former logic tutor at an ancient foundation, in the garden of Annie,Stan’s beloved colourful mistress.
Why not pop in Rudolf,he said.I’ll leave the door open and go upstairs to change my clothes.Be with you in a moment.
Stan went upstairs and removed his clothes.His body was now as thin as when he reached his full height of 6 ft 6 inches but alas it had less muscle and more fat. nowadays.He gazed into his wife’s full length mirror.
To his surprise, he saw Satan looking out.Although he knew this was possible for Catholics he had never met Satan before.Not that he was keen to,exciting as it might be.
How do you get behind the mirror,he asked  Satan gently.
God only knows,said Satan morosely.
Why not ask him?
I’m too proud,the poor devil replied in a bleak voice.
Well,we all have our pride,Stan told him,though no doubt yours is the biggest in the universe.
Yes,indeed,Satan answered.It’s bigger than Everest
Are you here for any purpose,Stan enquired.
Yes,your home seems more intriguing than most and I like to watch you in bed with that flame haired woman… is she your paramour?
I see,said Stan,You are a voyeur par excellence
That’s one way of describing me,Satan said,No woman will come to bed with me so I am trapped here behind every mirror in the world.I can see it all but never take part.
You must be very lonely,said Stan
Yes,the dark spirit muttered painfully
Are there no she-devils about who might oblige you?Stan asked him thoughtfully.
I don’t seem to fancy them so much.They are all as bad a me,I want kindness and tenderness not just lust.After all,one might satisfy that with a vibrator… we have them in hell you know!We have many things but love and humility are not there.
Why,you are beginning to sound almost human,Stan told him.We want love too.If only you would apologise to God I am sure he would forgive you and let you come into the real world of others instead of being trapped in there
Stan heard a noise.He turned round displaying his bony frame and his  drooping organs to Rudolf.
Are you ok? I was worried that the drenching had knocked you off balance.I have out your kettle on the  fire to make you a hot drink and phoned 999 for aid.
But we don’t have a fire,Stan responded. loudly
Well,you do now said Rudolph
Oh,hell, cried Stan

Oh,Prime minister

My own art

Oh Starmer, this is not heaven 

Please beat trump at his game 

This Kingdom is dumb

Should your will be done 

Some curse, but earth is not heaven 

Give us each day our daily bread 

Forgive us our trespasses so we will forgive yours against us

For you have no power or glory 

You have a hard job and it will seem to last forever 

Why we should stop wishing we were special – and celebrate being ordinary

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2025/feb/24/why-we-should-stop-wishing-we-were-special-and-celebrate-being-ordinary?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

Edward Lear

P1000003.jpghttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/edward-lear

 

“Vivien Noakes fittingly subtitled her biography of Edward Lear The Life of a Wanderer. On a literal level the phrase refers to Lear’s constant traveling as a self-proclaimed “dirty landscape painter” from 1837 until he finally settled at his Villa Tennyson on the San Remo coast of Italy in 1880. But wandering, in that it suggests rootlessness, aimlessness, loneliness, and uncertainty, is also a metaphor for Lear’s emotional life and for the sense of melancholy that so often peeps through the playfully absurd surface of his nonsense verse.

The uncertainty began with his birth. Born 12 May 1812 in the London suburb of Holloway, Lear was the twentieth of twenty-one children (and youngest to survive) of Ann Skerrett Lear and Jeremiah Lear, a stockbroker. Many of the Lear offspring did not live beyond infancy, so Edward’s very survival had something of the fortuitous about it. Even though he lived to be seventy-five, his health was always delicate; he had poor eyesight and suffered from chronic respiratory problems. At the age of five he experienced his first epileptic seizure. For Lear this “Demon,” as he dubbed his affliction, was a mark of shame. Much of his self-imposed isolation from those he loved derived from his need to hide his condition from them.

The year before the onset of the disease had brought trauma of another sort. Jeremiah Lear underwent severe financial reverses—in later years Lear repeatedly told friends his father had gone to debtors’ prison, but no evidence substantiates this claim—and the family had to rent out their home, Bowman’s Lodge, for a time. Mrs. Lear entrusted Edward to the care of his eldest sister, twenty-five-year-old Ann, and when financial stability returned, she did not resume her maternal duties. Ann never married and devotedly acted the mother’s part to Lear as long as she lived; yet he never recovered from the hurt of his real mother’s rejection, as the ambivalence about mother figures in many of his poems indicates.

Lear received little, if any, formal education. Ann tutored him at home and encouraged a talent for drawing and painting that he had early exhibited. When Jeremiah Lear retired and moved south of London in 1828, Edward and Ann remained in the city, taking up lodgings off the Gray’s Inn Road. The sixteen-year-old Lear supported them by selling miscellaneous sketches; he soon moved on to anatomical drawings and then to illustrations for natural history books. His skill in this latter capacity led to the publication in 1832 of a volume of twelve folio lithographic prints of parrots, Illustrations of the Family of Psittacidae. This volume brought him to the attention of Edward Stanley, later thirteenth earl of Derby, who wanted an artist to draw the animals in his menagerie at Knowsley, the Derby estate in Lancashire. Lear accepted Stanley’s offer of residency at Knowsley Hall while the work was in progress; he stayed there off and on from 1832 to 1837.

The Knowsley days shaped the course of Lear’s entire subsequent career. In addition to gaining the unflagging patronage of the earl of Derby, he met and charmed many aristocrats who would later buy his paintings and provide entrée to a level of society usually unbreachable by a man of Lear’s impecunious middle-class origins. In 1837, when failing eyesight and lungs forced Lear to abandon the detailed work of natural history draftsmanship and the English winters, the earl provided funds and introductions to establish him in Rome to pursue a vocation as a painter of topographical landscapes. He remained in Rome for ten years, during which time he first established himself as a nonsense poet and formed several of the deepest of his many intimate friendships.

Lear had initially produced poems, drawings, alphabets, and menus for the entertainment of the children at Knowsley; these “nonsenses”—and Lear’s charming conversation and piano improvisations—had soon ingratiated him with the adults as well. In 1846 he gathered together some of his limericks, a verse form he had first encountered in the joke book Anecdotes and Adventures of Fifteen Gentlemen (circa 1822), and had them published with his own illustrations in A Book of Nonsenseunder the pseudonym Derry down Derry.

The Learian limerick focuses on the singular individual, an old or young “Person,” “Man,” or “Lady,” who is distinguished by unusual appearance, behavior, talents, diet, or dress. In its most typical form it announces the existence of the eccentric, notes his dwelling place, and describes his distinctive features; then it explains the consequences of his peculiarity and concludes with an apostrophe:


There was a Young Lady of Norway,

Who casually sat in a doorway;

When the door squeezed her flat, she exclaimed “What of that?”

This courageous Young Lady of Norway.

The limerick generally has a closed structure, repeating the final word of the first line at the end of the last rather than utilizing the unexpected, punch-line rhyme that characterizes the successful modern limerick.”

A great number of Lear’s limericks set the eccentric in conflict with “they,” the faceless, conformist, officious members of society at large. Many times “they” unfairly persecute the individual; at other times he provokes and deserves their hostility. But the primary theme of the limericks remains the problems anyone with the slightest idiosyncrasy has in feeling comfortable among the mass of men. Since these eccentrics often have the oversized noses and long legs Lear gave himself in deprecatory self-caricatures, as well as his affinity for all animals except dogs, the poet probably saw himself as a sharer of their misfit status.”

On a less subjective level, the limerick protagonists provided for the didactically surfeited Victorian child examples of bizarre, misbehaving adults, with no blatant moralizing attached. What intrinsic morality the verses contain is conveyed largely in terms of eating habits. Food is often a symbol in Lear’s poetry: the sharing of food indicates affection and selflessness, while gluttony denotes egotism and lack of concern for others. Gluttony also receives harsh punishment:


There was an Old Man of the South,

Who had an immoderate mouth;

But in swallowing a dish, that was quite full of fish,

He was choked, that Old Man of the South.

The year before the publication of the Book of Nonsense, Lear formed with Chichester Fortescue, later to become Lord Carlingford, one of the firmest of his many lifelong friendships. Their delightful correspondence, compiled in two volumes by Lady Strachey, is the largest collection of Lear letters published to date. Also in Italy, in 1848, Lear was befriended by another future peer, Thomas Baring, later Lord Northbrook. (Later, in 1873 and 1874, Lear journeyed to India and Ceylon as Northbrook’s guest.) Returning to England in 1849, Lear met Alfred and Emily Tennyson. Lear admired Tennyson’s poetry, setting several pieces to music and leaving a projected volume of illustrations of the laureate’s works unfinished at his death; Tennyson addressed an admiring poem “To E. L., on His Travels in Greece.” Their personal relations were nevertheless rarely more than cordial. Lear, however, adored Emily, and she gradually superseded Ann (who died in 1861) as his confidante and surrogate mother. He also formed a close friendship in 1852 with Holman Hunt, the Pre-Raphaelite painter.”

Lear’s most fervent and most painful friendship involved Franklin Lushington. He met the young barrister in Malta in 1849 and then toured southern Greece with him. Lear developed an undoubtedly homosexual passion for him that Lushington did not reciprocate. Although they remained friends for almost forty years, until Lear’s death, the disparity of their feelings for one another constantly tormented Lear.”

In 1850 Lear decided to remain in England to take the ten-year painting course at the Royal Academy Schools in order to improve his untrained technique in oils and figure drawing. He also had the first two of three illustrated journals of his travels published. But his low resistance to the English climate curtailed his stay. After three and a half years he abandoned England for the sunny Mediterranean, and in 1855 he resolved that he would never return to Britain permanently. In October of that year he established a home on Corfu, where Lushington’s government position had stationed him.”

The next years were the most hectic and unsettled of Lear’s life. He traveled incessantly throughout the Mediterranean and Near East, moved from Corfu to Rome to Corfu again and then to Cannes, and visited England eight times. He came close to marrying the one eligible woman with whom he ever maintained a long-term friendship, the Honorable Augusta “Gussie” Bethell of London, whom he had met in the early 1840s, when she was a child. But in 1866 he unwisely consulted her sister Emma about the advisability of a proposal. Emma firmly discouraged him, and he never approached Gussie, who by all accounts would have accepted. Despite his many long-distance friendships, Lear was doomed to a solitary life. His only constant companions were his manservant Giorgio Kokali from 1856 to 1883, and his cat Foss from 1871 to 1887.”

Lear did not have any new nonsense published for fifteen years following the appearance of A Book of Nonsense. In 1861, however, a new, expanded edition was brought out under his own name. Its enthusiastic reception gratified but also perplexed Lear, who always hoped to gain fame as a painter and regarded nonsense only as a source of fun and money. His success as a poet did encourage him to compose more complex nonsenses, which appeared in three volumes during the 1870s after he had settled in San Remo, Italy.”

The first, Nonsense Songs (1870), contained longer poems in which characterization is more realistic and emotions are less distanced than in the limericks. The characters are nonhuman, and the central actions frequently involve a pair or group taking off on a journey. The Owl and the Pussy-cat go to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat; the Jumblies depart in a sieve; the Duck and Kangaroo hop around the world; and even a nutcracker and some tongs, a table and a chair, go out to take the air. These first lyrics seem clearly to constitute Lear’s reflections on his own life as a wanderer. At their happiest they also describe a joyful togetherness that he never attained. The elements of this Learian epiphany–song, dance, food, the shore in the moonlight–are established in “The Owl and the Pussy-cat” and recur frequently in later poems:


They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon.

More Nonsense (1872) contained additional limericks of the earlier kind but no new songs. Several songs did appear in his last volume of verse, Laughable Lyrics (1877). The volume is misnamed, for the tone is melancholy; a majority of the poems deal with some sort of loss. The Pobble loses his toes; the pelicans lose their daughter. Most poignant are those lyrics dealing with the loss of love: “The Dong with a Luminous Nose” and “The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.” Laughable Lyrics also contains the bulk of Lear’s invented nonsense creatures such as the Dong, the Bò, the Pobble, the octopod Discobboloses, and the Quangle Wangle. Lear frequently sets these poems in his nonsense landscapes on the Hills of the Chankly Bore or the Great Gromboolian Plain. It was only by creating such unreal beings and settings that Lear could write with unrepressed emotion about his own unhappiness and sense of isolation.”

In 1886 Lear contracted a severe case of bronchitis, from which he never fully recovered. In that same year he wrote his last nonsense poem, “Incidents in the Life of My Uncle Arly.” Transparently autobiographical, it sums up in a few brief lines the essence of his life:


Close beside a leafy thicket:–

On his nose there was a Cricket,–

In his hat a Railway-Ticket,–

(But his shoes were far too tight.)

Lear was a wandering nonsense minstrel, never completely free of physical and emotional pain. His health steadily deteriorated until he died, alone except for a servant, on 29 January 1888. His last words expressed gratitude for the kindnesses of all his absent friends.”

Lear’s poetry shares many elements with the nonsense verse of Lewis CarrollThomas Hood, W. S. Gilbert, and other Victorians, particularly in the use of verbal play and other distancing devices to derive humor from cruelty, pain, and death. Like nonsense verse as a whole, it influenced such twentieth-century aesthetic movements as surrealism and the theater of the absurd. It also, however, contains themes unique to Lear’s personal experience. It is above all an expression of the inmost longings, frustrations, and wish-fulfillment dreams of a lovable and intensely loving man who, despite the fond affection of numerous relatives, friends, and readers–children and adults–was never beloved in the intimate, exclusive, constant manner he so fervently desired.

How constraints can help in writing poetry

hellebore_2019-1

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/145052/the-choice-of-constraint

EXTRACT

In constrained writing, one writes under a condition. That condition might mean not being allowed to do something—such as not using the letter e—or following a certain pattern. If this definition seems broad, it is. All formal writing operates under some kind of constraint; a traditional sonnet, for example, asks you to manage meter and a rhyme scheme in 14 lines. In this essay, we’ll look at less-familiar uses of constraint, ones that will challenge you in different ways. It may seem counterintuitive to put limitations on your writing, but you may find that a small constraint can make a big difference in soothing your fears of the blank page. It does so by taking some choices away and by demanding that you make new choices.

To illustrate this, I’d like to look at one of my favorite constraints—the abecedarian. Abecedarians are poems in which the first letter of each line or stanza follows the alphabet: A, then B, and so on. The abecedarian is an ancient form; it may be as old as the alphabet itself. You can find abecedarians in the Bible, though you’d have to see Psalm 119 in the original Hebrew to notice that each section is headed by a letter from the Hebrew alphabet (Aleph, Beth, Gimel …). Contemporary poets have used the alphabet constraint on a grand scale, creating long poems, such as Carolyn Forche’s “On Earth,” and even throughout entire books, such as Inger Christensen’s alphabetand Harryette Mullen’s Sleeping with the Dictionary.

Letters and alphabets

Agitated apples are falling all over Andover

Behave yourself or you will be banned before brewing tea

Catherine wheels coming back into crazy vashion.

Dalmatian dog darted down dead end drastically reducing is road speed

Everyone expects the end to be exciting but not when you have , Edema

Failure is not failure when you have already passed the exam via aegrotat

Growling goat goes good in grey gloom

Henry VIII had hairy hands. Oh Henry don’t harass .

Juniper tree just joined the junk outside the jail

Khaki looks good in the kitchen

Lend me your ear and your legs I can’t light the fire.

Mother makes children mad yet merry

No gnomes got eaten by gorillas or guerrillas.

Only oranges observe our outings often in a

People like peapods after praying on Sunday mornings

Quantity or quality Kwik Kwik quack

Round the rugby ball roll the rabbits

Sell silk and satin to shoppers

Toothbrushes tend to take time off to sweep the streets

When and where are we waiting? Why not

Xylophones and X rays

You looked youthful yesterday

Zebras are monochrome in the zoo zevi fed 2

I thought that I knew grief

I thought that I knew grief: I knew it not

I thought that I had walked its many roads.

But what we learn in pain we can forget

If  grief were a wild beast it’s not a pet

If it has a language there’s no code

I thought that I knew grief;I knew it not

Would I read the clues their alphabet?

If grief is just a trail,it is not broad

Yet what we learn in pain we can forget

Would I die by hanging or be shot?

On our shoulders we must bear the load

I thought that I knew grief I knew it not

See the devil gambling,shall I bet,?

What we learn in grief we can’t forge

Who inscribed our hearts with loves own laws?

Who will be the see and who the saw

I thought that I knew grief I knew it not

When it comes again I won’t forget

The meaning of modern poetry from the Telegraph

The meaning of modern poetry

Contemporary poetry is lacking something, argues Jeremy Noel-Tod

“The best contemporary poetry”, wrote TS Eliot, “can give us a feeling of excitement and a sense of fulfilment different from any sentiment aroused even by very much greater poetry of a past age.” The judges who awarded the annual TS Eliot Prize last week, for the best collection of new verse published in the UK or Ireland, will know what he meant. In awarding the prize to Jen Hadfield for her Canadian travelogue, Nigh-No-Place, they rewarded the freshness of a new voice. Only time will tell whether it will take its place alongside great poetry of the past.

Most poetry readers tend to be time travellers: browsing among anthologies and old favourites, and only occasionally setting foot in the futuristic present. This is understandable. Poetry is the richest history we have of our inner life. But the history of the present is still being written, and the excitement of the new can be bewildering: every poem about using a microwave starts to look sexier than Shakespeare’s sonnets. Eliot’s “sense of fulfilment” is less easily had. Ezra Pound, his severer friend, used to lament that “the thought of what America would be like if the classics had a wide circulation troubles my sleep”. But the thought of what the world would be like if everyone only read “Now That’s What I Call Poetry 2009” is equally worrying.

The effort that goes into widening the readership for contemporary poetry, therefore, often seems misplaced. The late Adrian Mitchell used to say that “most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people”. But the solution is not to lower the common denominator. The problem with much modern poetry is it plays down what people really like in the arts: mystery and drama. As WB Yeats discovered in his own search for the formula of “popular poetry” in the 20th century, true folk poetry delights “in rhythmical animation, in idiom, in images, in words full of far-off suggestion”. The idea of poetry that ought to be popular is the diluted elixir of a later age, which has never sold to the masses.

Children still like real poetry. A recent anthology of playground songs edited by the poet Richard Price reported this sublime lyric from Aberdeen: “Under the black bushes, / Under the trees, / Boom boom boom / Under the blue berries, / Under the sea.” There’s not much to do with that but enjoy its rhythm, its rhyme and its far-off suggestiveness. But when, as teenagers, children start to have to explain literature to pass exams, the homebrew of skipping rhymes gets left under the hedge.

When I was young and easy and doing my GCSEs, the poem I enjoyed most was Dylan Thomas’s “Fern Hill”. It is also the poem I remember learning least about, apart from the fact that – according to my teacher – Thomas would get very drunk before he wrote anything. I could believe it when I read these bubbling memories of a childhood farm: “All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay / Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys.”

Seamus Heaney, of course, ploughed the same furrow, but more soberly, and always with a moral at the end of the field. In “Fern Hill”, Thomas left his younger self in a state of tragic innocence: “Time held me green and dying / Though I sang in my chains like the sea” – an unexpected and almost inexplicable closing image. Heaney’s final metaphors came with the meaning conveniently clarified: the blackberries of boyhood went off; the poet’s pen dug up meaning like a spade; his frail old father reminded him of a child.

Now more than 40 years old, these poems are still on the GCSE syllabus as touchstones of best practice in contemporary poetry. Heaney’s evocative economies of language have earned the appreciation of readers. But as a model of poetic writing the weakest point of these early works – the patness of the meaning – has been artificially prized by a system that tests literal rather than lateral thinking.

The more recent beneficiaries of this situation have been Simon Armitage and Carol Ann Duffy. Both, again, poets whose ears are worth listening to. But in the school anthologies they tend to be represented by poems that offer a neat personal story for dissection. This template also informs the selection of poems from “Different Cultures” . Cultures can be considered different if the people they feature are poorer and more exotic than the average British schoolchild: “Island Man”, “Two Scavengers in a Truck, Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes”, “Night of the Scorpion”, “Presents from my Aunts in Pakistan”.

Segregation by identity inevitably favours poems cast in the form of relatively stable monologues. The idea that poetic language might be a way of imagining modes of being and emotions that won’t sit still has to wait outside until playtime. Then it returns in the form of popular music, the lyrical abstraction of which would look worryingly avant-garde in an exam board anthology. Even a radio-friendly couplet such as Coldplay’s “Lights will guide you home / And ignite your bones” fuses sound, feeling and sense more interestingly than the simple onomatopoeic “squelch and slap” of Heaney’s spadework.

Yet the rationalised critical model now runs right through the system, from schools to university and on to publishing and arts funding. Contemporary poetry is praised and approved, but rarely loved as much as the other arts. The American poet Frank O’Hara saw what was happening 50 years ago: “Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with dripping (tears) .” Wisely, he took the children’s side: “If they don’t need poetry bully for them. I like the movies too.”

But music and movies are no substitute for what poetry can do as an art, and that is to display the life of language with wit and intensity. Barack Obama – who promises to be more attuned to the life of language than his predecessor – chose to have the poet Elizabeth Alexander read at his inauguration. Her definition of poetry identifies the characteristic curiosity of versified words about their own power: “Poetry (here I hear myself loudest) / is the human voice, / and are we not of interest to each other?”

Unfortunately, reforming the poetic culture of Great Britain is not on Team Obama’s to-do list. But there are plenty of poems out there that would fruitfully complicate the current GCSE anthologies, and possibly even enthuse turned-off students. The late Mick Imlah’s The Lost Leader(2008), for instance, takes the Heaney-esque story about the child-poet into darker territory with “Railway Children”. Daljit Nagra, himself a secondary school teacher, included a clever satire on the “Different Cultures” section in his 2007 debut, Look We Have Coming to Dover!(“My boy, vil he tink ebry new / Barrett-home muslim hav goat blood-party / barbeque?”) And Alice Oswald’s Dart, which won the TS Eliot Prize in 2005, presents real modern voices mingling in an evocation of the Devon landscape.

All these poets, however, still work within the frame – albeit towards the edges – of the stable monologue, where words flesh out the fiction of an overheard speaker. Working beyond that frame there are poets who, like Dylan Thomas, let language run away from the everyday into unexpected meanings. Of the younger generation, Keston Sutherland’s poetry especially impresses as a passionate and satirical incantation of English now (“Some cops boo. Evidently run about pin / airbag down make a ripped off picket / stunned. If you want to change the / tick alright”).

One of the classics of early 21st-century English poetry, however, is the work of RF Langley, a retired Suffolk schoolteacher, whose Collected Poems were shortlisted for the Whitbread (now Costa) Prize in 2000. He has published a fine follow-up, The Face of It (2007). Langley’s meditations on the natural world make English strange with Shakespearean animation, jumping from rhyme to rhyme and thought to thought. As TS Eliot also said, “there is a logic of the imagination as well as a logic of concepts” – and it can follow patterns as involved as 50 swifts on a summer evening.

from Tom Thumb

We should accept the obvious facts of physics.

The world is made entirely of particles in

fields of force. Of course. Tell it to Jack. Except it

doesn’t seem to be enough tonight. Not because

he’s had his supper and the upper regions are

cerulean, as they have been each evening

since the rain. Nor just because it’s nine pm and

this is when, each evening since we came, the fifty

swifts, as passionately excited as any

particles in a forcefield, are about to end

their vesper flight by escalating with thin shrieks

to such a height that my poor sight won’t see them go.

Though I imagine instantly what it might be

to separate and, sleeping, drift so far beyond

discovery that any flicker which is left

signs with a scribble underneath the galaxy.

RF Langley

‘Tom Thumb’ appears in R?F Langley’s ‘Collected Poems’, published by Carcanet at £6.95

Railway Children

After the branch line went to Ochiltree –

I would have been fifteen – two men were shut

In the station waiting-room, and one of them

Brought out his pocket anecdote of me:

“The boy’s a splurger! – hey, when Danny Craig

Passed him a flask on the train the other day,

He gulped it, just for the sake of showing off.

And he’s a coward too, for all his face.

For after he’d taken the drink, he noised about,

And Dan, to clip his wings, made up a threat

To hang him out o’ the window by his heels –

You know Dan didn’t mean it, but the boy

Grew white at the very idea o’t – shook

Like a dog in the wet – ‘Oh!,’ he cried, and ‘Oh! –

But how would tha ground go flying past your eyes;

How quick tha wheel beside your face would buzz –

Would blind you by quickness – how tha grey slag

Would flash below ye!’ – Those were his actual words;

He seemed to see it all as if for real,

And flinched, and stopped, and stared, like a body in fits,

Till Dan was drawn to give him another drink;

‘You’d spew with dizziness,’ he said, shut

His eyes where he sat, and actually bocked himself.”

Mick Imlah

‘Railway Children’ is taken from ‘The Lost Leader’, published by Faber & Faber at £9.99

Serious art that is funny

radleylake20181https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/serious-art-thats-funny-humor-poetry

Extract

Carolyn Forché, someone who has never been accused of being a funny poet, has said “irony, paradox, surrealism . . . might well be both the answer and a restatement of [Theodor] Adorno’s often quoted and difficult contention that to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.” But what did the philosopher and critic Adorno mean by this fatuous statement? No poetry? Or just a very, very serious and earnest poetry? Because, let’s face it–earnestness is almost always bad art. Good art makes us think; it has more questions than answers. Often, but not always, satire does this too. But earnestness almost never does this–that’s not its job. Earnestness is comforting. It wants to hug us. And we want to be hugged sometimes. But sometimes we want to laugh while poking holes in self-righteousness and oppression, whether it be literal political oppression or oppression of a quieter sort – cultural and aesthetic oppression. Irony and satire are such a good antidote to oppression because oppression needs to be earnest (or at least look earnest) in order to be feared by those it seeks to cow. Oppression cannot work alongside irony because it believes in its own righteousness and a monolithic concept of truth that must be asserted to the oppressed with a straight face. Irony and satire are the tools by which the oppressed get to make fun of the oppressors without the oppressors getting it.

The the haystack was a liar

Mothers are familiar with bums

With bitten nipples colic in the tum

Was it for this they wore a wedding gown

Bore a heavy child without a frown

Fingers stained with nicotine and shit.

Now stir the dinner wash the baby kit

They did not know the nearness of their Doom

In the haystacks sunny afternoon .

Father in the coal mine black with dust

The tin bath waiting mother filled with lust.

There has to be a cat before the fire

A blackened kettle bows,it’s Lancashire.

Tea that makes your hair curl helps them on.

They stumble up the stairs to bed again

What’s satire to the rich with their plum tones

Is near the truth, the rickets in the bone

Negative capability | literature | defined or explained in Britannica

https://www.britannica.com/art/negative-capability

negative capability, a writer’s ability, “which Shakespeare possessed so enormously,” to accept “uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason,” according to English poet John Keats, who first used the term in an 1817 letter. An author possessing negative capability is objective and emotionally detached, as opposed to one who writes for didactic purposes; a literary work possessing negative capability may have beauties and depths that make conventional considerations of truth and morality irrelevant.

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This article was most recently revised and updated by J.E. Luebering.

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Czech literature

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Czech literature, the body of writing in the Czech language. Before 1918 there was no independent Czechoslovak state, and Bohemia and Moravia—the Czech-speaking regions that, with part of Silesia, now constitute the Czech Republic—were for a long time provinces of the Habsburg Holy Roman and Austrian empires. Because of this, the evolution of the Czechs’ literary language became historically linked to their efforts to maintain their ethnic identity.

Jan Hus

Jan Hus

See all mediaKey People: Milan KunderaVáclav HavelKarel ČapekIvan KlímaMiroslav HolubRelated Topics: literatureWestern literatureCzech language

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Origins and development through the 17th century

The earliest origins of literature in Czech are connected with Old Church Slavonic, which was devised by Saints Cyril and Methodius in the 9th century to counter Frankish (German) influence. Latin was established as the liturgical language of the Bohemian state in 1097, however, and its script was adopted for what would become the Czech language. The earliest preserved texts in the Czech language, mainly hymns, were written in the late 13th century at the courts of the Přemyslid kings of Bohemia.

The 14th century brought a continuous stream of Czech literary works, mostly consisting of biographies of saints (hagiography), legends, epics and chronicles, and adaptations of chivalrous romances, all in verse. The earliest secular work in the language was the epic Alexandreis, a life of Alexander the Great based on a Latin poem by the French writer Gautier de Châtillon. From about 1350, prose genres began to be cultivated, initially descriptions of the lives of saints and chronicles and then versions of popular medieval tales. From the last part of the century dated a group of verse satires and didactic poems as well as the political allegory Nová rada (“The New Council”), written by Smil Flaška to defend the rights of the Bohemian nobility against the crown.

Religious reforms begun by Jan Hus in the early 15th century set in motion the Hussite movement, which for two centuries pitted Czech reformers or Protestants against the Roman Catholic rulers of the Holy Roman Empire. The religious controversies and civil strife of this period fostered the use of Czech writing for practical and polemical purposes. Hus himself composed strong sermons in Czech and wrote various treatises, of which De ecclesia (“The Church”) was the most important. Petr Chelčický, one of his successors, wrote treatises containing radical social ideas from which sprang the Unitas Fratrum, or Bohemian Brethren, a sect and prototype of the Moravian church that became an important source of Czech literature for the next two centuries.

Czech literature in the 16th century was predominantly didactic and scholarly, reflecting the humanism of the European Renaissance. The Moravian bishop Jan Blahoslav completed an early translation of the New Testament, and the lexicographer Daniel Adam of Veleslavín further enriched the vocabulary of humanist Czech, but the most significant landmark of the period was the Unitas Fratrum scholars’ translation of the Bible into Czech, known as the Kralice Bible (1579–93). The language of this version became the model for classical Czech.

The Austrian Habsburgs defeated the Protestants of Bohemia in 1620, after which Protestantism was eradicated and Bohemia was brought under direct rule within the Austrian Habsburg domain. The (largely Protestant) Bohemian nobility was crushed and replaced by newcomers with little knowledge of Czech. Under the Habsburgs, the literary traditions of the past two centuries were proscribed, and it was only among political exiles that Czech literature survived at all. Among these exiles Jan Ámos Komenský (John Amos Comenius) was preeminent. His Latin works on education and theological problems and his works in Czech revealed him as a writer and thinker of European stature. His Labyrint světa a ráj srdce (1631; “Labyrinth of the World and Paradise of the Heart”) stands as one of Czech literature’s great achievements in prose.

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NHS facing ‘crisis of public trust’ as most people fear being failed by A&E services

I made this from a photograph using Microsoft paint on Windows vista

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2025/feb/22/three-four-people-uk-fear-failed-ae-services-nhs?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

In the past 14 months I have spent 92 hours in A&E and in a corridor or some other similar place

Now they realise we are losing our trust.

Well you don’t need to do research to know that that’s bound to happen like when a woman dies and falls on the floor with her coat covering her face. And for several hours before they find her body they assumed she has decided to go home whereas in reality she was having another serious brain hemorrhage

It could be you or me so what should we do, what can we do?

As the  autumn leaves fall so will I

As the autumn leaves fall so will I.

Even ancient trees will meet their end

And on our mother earth we all shall lie.

Every living thing must one day die

And into soil and earth we all descend

As the autumn leves fall so you and I

In the winter wind the trees will sigh

Death can’t be undone, we cannot mend

In our mother earth we all shall lie

But why do we have wars where babies die ?

Where hostages are tortured, reason bends

As the autumn leaves fly so will I

The hospitals are shelled, the wounded cry.

Oh, human sacrifice that never ends

And  in our mother earth they all will lie

Can ancient foes forgive as if they are friends?

Only in the earth where we all blend?

As the autumn leaves fall so will I

And with dead  leaves and  seeds we all shall lie

Banning ideas and authors is not a ‘culture war’ – it’s fascism

My garden gate

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2023/feb/13/african-american-studies-republican-ban-florida?CMP=ShareAndroidApp_Other

The failure to teach about structural racism will make Black children born into poverty feel that their parents and grandparents are responsible for their own impoverished position relative to white children, and so will make Black children feel “anguish or other forms of psychological distress” because of “actions … committed in the past by other members of the same race”. The “anguish” and “psychological distress” these laws forbid are only anguish felt by the dominant racial group, white Americans.

Wake me up for grammar

From my notebook

If writing had not been invented could we   have split the infinitive?

I have not been able to split the atom as yet but I’ve started by splitting the infinitive

You can split up a compound sentence into several parts as long as each part has a verb in it.

What a pity we learned to write because it means children have to learn grammar.

Does spoken speech have grammar?

Why does grammar have to be universal?

Why do sentences begin with the capital letter now that we have done away with capital punishment?

What does capital mean?

London has  long been the capital city  but not all capital punishment took place in London. Discuss, ideally with yourself.

(this is part of the entrance exam for university) Please don’t report  me to quora

Can you get irritable bowel syndrome from using too many colons and semicolons in your writing?

Language and reality, what is the connection if any?

Please don’t quote me on any of this

Write a short essay on the comma without using the comma in your essay and yet keeping the grammar correct

Quotation Marks and Direct Quotations : Quotations

This is from the University of Sussex United Kingdom

Now notice something else which is very important: a quotation is set off by quotation marks and nothing else. A sentence containing a quotation is punctuated exactly like any other sentence apart from the addition of the quotation marks. You should not insert additional punctuation marks into the sentence merely to warn the reader that a quotation is coming up: that’s what the quotation marks are for.

https://www.sussex.ac.uk/informatics/punctuation/quotes/marks

The lily pond we loved

I was drowning in the lily pond so deep

My eyes were closing I would fall asleep

I was drowning in the Lily ponds where you liked to gaze

I was tangled up in all the leaves, no light but a haze.

Then I saw the sun above shining bright so strong

I started to ask questions about where do I belong

It reminds me of Narcissus gazing in the pool

It’s always seemed  a great mistake Narcissus was a fool

But I’ve been gazing at the places where we sat

I think I looked too deeply, I’m like a drowning rat

I want to extricate myself from this lovers trap

When you’re in the water you cannot read a map.

Sometimes struggling makes things worse sometimes it’s an aid

We have to think quite deeply before the decisions made

I found some steps of pinky stone that went into the lake

I gripped the edges with my hands, I climbed up for his sake

I walked away I left to pool I don’t know where I am

I am not going to drown myself for the the death of any man.

At first I could not walk so far but now I’m getting strong

I’m back upon the living earth and that’s where I belong

The water is so tempting it’s like  a mirror bright

But there’s a darkness in that place that blocks out earthly light

Keep your eyes wide open and look out not inside.

For if you don’t you may become one of Narcissus’ brides

F’

In favour of living in our bodies

I felt very weary after visiting the hospital on Tuesday and they decided not to give me the treatment that they’ve been threatening me with.

Because if you’re not  very well  it can be dangerous.

Nevertheless it was a bit disappointing and yesterday I was feeling very low

In the late afternoon a man came to the door with a parcel from Amazon and he realised how I felt and he said to me something which if it’s said in the wrong way can make you feel worse.

Keep smiling

But the way that he said it was very sympathetic or empathetic so I knew he was not trying to make me pretend to feel better so I wouldn’t upset other people.

No he wanted me to understand that if you smile it can make you feel better.

And in one of the newspapers this morning it sounds that a trial is being carried out in some part of London to see whether watching funny movies can help depressed people more than medication might and it seems there is some evidence for this.

But what interest me is that I have received more kindness from people like this delivery man who look quite poor and do not have the best kind of winter clothing etc

I find some highly educated intellectuals are very cold and the unable to relate to other  let alone to make you feel better.

I wonder if the more abstract  and intellectual your mind becomes, the less you are able to feel the reality of other people and to convey that to them non-verbally.

It’s partly to do with living in your body and being in your body not just in your head

I discovered this when I was helping a lady of 99 with dementia. If I wasn’t present in my body I could not get any response from her at all but when I was it made a tremendous difference.

Instead of swearing at me and calling me names she eventually told me that she loved me and that meant a lot to me more than if someone else might have said it because I think it was very hard for her to say that. At one point she begged me to kill her and when I said I couldn’t she told me I was a coward

I think a lot of it was due to boredom and inactivity and lack of conversation she said to me that each day seemed like a whole year. She didn’t have reading glasses with her I don’t even know whether she had her name but all she had was a television but I don’t think she was watching it much.

I think boredom is very difficult to live with when you are unable to walk about and go out and do things and we don’t realize how hard it is not to be able to do such simple things