Author: Katherine

Poetry writer and author

The sun in North Norfolk

In Wells North Norfolk looking to the east

I saw the sun rise like a ball of fire

I loved its glory on this holy day

 Yet we’re endangered it may be our pyre

In the evening looking to the west

The sun was falling to its bed,the sea.

From Dawn to Twilight, we could see its path.

And to all the world  its vision’s free.

We were in the attic looking out

The sea was hot,love is a noun

The unplanned lanes, the hollyhocks, The birds

Seeking new perspectives of this town.

We saw the sun roll east to west that day.

I would like to kneel, what do I say?

He changed his name to Sid

All religion meant nothing to her.
She had never heard of God, so she shared
She spoke Dutch and thought the priest said Sod
Swearing is as common as iPads

So Sod help us with Brexit or make jokes
Does this Sod enjoy a little smoke?
Dear Sod, the very mountains seem asleep
BTW I think you are a creep

Later he had changed his name to Sid
And he always shared his sacred blood
He had so much it fed the whole wide world
Believe me now, compassion’s not absurd.

Do not do to others what harms you
Sid lives in your soul and he gets blue

Emile weeps

IMG_0007 (1)
Stan was sweeping the garden path.He had a stiff broom with a small head that was useful for cleaning the edges of the steps.Emile, his beautiful cat was sitting in the old apple tree gazing down on Stan.
“Is it time for coffee yet,”Stan asked himself.He had forgotten to put on his watch.
Suddenly he heard a shriek.He peered through a hole in the fence.His neighbour Annie was lying on her back in some mud.
“Hang on,I’ll come round!” he called.
There was a gate in the old fence which was rarely locked
since Annie loved to drop in on Stan.
“Oh,Annie,how are you feeling?” he asked her anxiously.
“Bloody annoyed.I’ve only just bought these,”Not your daughter’s jeans” and now I’ve torn them,” she replied politely.
“But you don’t have a daughter!” he informed her loudly.
“I know that.It’s just they are better cut for the mature figure.”
“Your figure is not mature.You are quite slender.my dear,” he murmured lovingly.
“Well,I never feel happy with it!” she said mutinously.
“Whereas I am very happy feeling it,” he responded romantically.
Tears came into her green eyes lined with purple eye shadow.Alas,it was not waterproof and purple rivulets ran down her cheeks across the peach blusher with which she had valiantly decorated herself earlier.
“Can you get up?” he asked tenderly.
“Yes, but it would be nice if you picked me up.”
He leaned over her and licked the purple streams of tears off her cheeks.
“I hope it’s not poisonous,” she murmured.
Then with the aid of Emile,he lifted her to her feet and helped her into her large trendy kitchen.
The kettle switched itself on as they entered and a robotic voice asked if they’d like coffee.
“God in heaven,what the hell is that?” he cried confusedly.
“It’s my new computerised hot drink maker.After that fall I think a double espresso would be good.”
Emile ran in and asked for coffee too.
“Emile,you usually have milk,”Stan reminded him softly.
“Well,coffee is a new taste for me but I like a little.”
the cat whispered sweetly.
“I’ll give you some of mine in a saucer,” Stan replied.
Emile began to sob.
“Why Emile,whatever is wrong?”
“I want a cup and saucer just like you” the cat howled.
But you have no hands,Emile,” Stan reminded him.
The poor cat was crying loudly now.So Stan rang 999.
“Can you please send the emergency ambulance round.the cat’s crying and all his hankies are in the wash.”#
Soon Dave,the transvestite paramedic appeared.
“I love your light teal  and cream kitchen,” he informed Annie,
“And your eyes look like two deep pools in a coal mine.”
She slapped his cheek naughtily.
“Have a look at Emile” she ordered him sweetly.
He turned to the cat who was sitting on the dark pine table.
“Here,Emile,I got you some Kleenex for Cats in Sainsburys.” he said gaily.
“I want a real hanky,”cried Emile.Dave took a clean hanky from his own pocket and dried the cats tears.
“What made you cry.Are you feeling bad.”
“Yes,I want to go to Cafe Nero,” Emile mioawed.
“Who told you about that?”
“Another cat down the road has been and he said it’s lovely for people watching.”
“The town is not safe for cats like you,Emile.”
Dave urbanely replied,
“But when summer come I’ll take you to the out of town
Marks and Spencers.They have a cat’s coffee corner upstairs.”
“Wow,isn’t it amazing,”Stan wondered out loud.
So Dave poured out the coffee and they all sat down and
discussed Ray Monk’s Life of Wittgenstein.
Ray has discovered that Wittgenstein liked cats but as he moved around quite a bit,he never owned his own though Elizabeth Anscombe let him play with her three cats now and then.
We may all be different but most of us value the love of a good cat.Even boiling their hankies and ironing them is very nice.We all have this problem though.
Where can a cat carry his own hanky?
Do cats need shoulder bags?
What would Wittgenstein say?

Well,not a  lot because his mind was on initially mathematics and logic and later on games like Scrabble,Dabble and Monotony.
(When he was dying he said
It’s been a wonderful life even though he was often suicidal .Two or three of his brothers did kill themselves as the father was over-dominating.And they were sensitive.)

Yet with your eyes you made a final call

 

The pattern of your speech is in my ear
Although I do not hear  you speak  out loud
Shall I say ear or is it heart that bears
The form   that  made  your speech have its right sound?

Wherever in myself I find your trace
I long to keep it even when I grieve.
As though, because I do not see your face,
I never wish by sound to be deceived.

And at the end you did not speak at all
Like the baby  while inside its  nest.
Yet with your eyes you made a final call
As contented as a baby   joined to breast.

And so you went, but left your patterns here.
So with  fine prosody, I feel you near

Symbols in literature

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http://www.thehypertexts.com/Best%20Symbols%20in%20Poetry%20and%20Literature.htm
Excerpts from “More Poems”
by A. E. Housman

XXIII

Crossing alone the nighted ferry
With the one coin for fee,
Whom, on the wharf of Lethe waiting,
Count you to find? Not me.

The brisk fond lackey to fetch and carry,
The true, sick-hearted slave,
Expect him not in the just city
And free land of the grave.

Charon’s ferry symbolizes the transition from life to death, or dying. The “one coin” is the obulus, which symbolizes death: the ultimate cost of mortal life. The river Lethe symbolizes forgetfulness, oblivion and concealment, as the dead are concealed from the living, and vice versa. The grave is also symbolic of death. In this poem the river Styx symbolizes death; although it is not explicitly named, we can infer it. In Greek mythology, Charon’s ferry carried the newly dead from the land of the living across the River Styx to Hades, the realm of the dead. It may interest Christians to know that Hades was not “hell,” as Hades incorporated heavenly regions such as the Elysian Fields and the Blessed Isles. Y

 
Sonnet 147
by William Shakespeare

My love is as a fever, longing still [1]
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest.
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are, [11]
At random from the truth vainly expressed,
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as Hell, as dark as night. [14]

This is one of Shakespeare’s famous “Dark Lady” sonnets. It employs simile, a type of metaphor in which comparisons are introduced by “like” or “as” (please refer to lines one, eleven and fourteen).

My heart and mind are blank

The face imprinted on my heart is gone.

It faded slowly so I did not know

My heart is blank amd nothing lies thereon

The face imprinted on my Heart is gone

I do not feel the love of anyone.

This common loss affects us like a blow.

A metaphor,a simile,a pun.

My mind is blank its images have gone.

My heart is mine alone the love of none

Like a candle flame my love burnt low.

My mind is faded. Now I know no sun

Underneath the rivers silver flow

I’ll never regret following my mum’s best-ever advice: ‘If you’re going to say something nice, say it in writing’ | Family | The Guardian

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2023/jan/28/ill-never-regret-following-my-mums-best-ever-advice-if-youre-going-to-say-something-nice-say-it-in-writing

The Diameter Of The Bomb by Yehuda Amichai

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won’t even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making a circle with no end and no God.

The quick of human flesh was dragged and torn

The death of God implies he did exist
And of his sayings many were possessed
The still, small voice, the burning bush, its fire
The prophets ,Moses ,Jesus, Jeremiah

On God, a  snail without a shell , we trod
On his face of love,  we  left much blood
The quick of human flesh was dragged and torn,
Oh, tortured people, God lived in your forms

Tear your finger nail side,see it bleed
Imagine pain both dreadful and unseen
Where was God’s own dwelling place, we cry
To the lowly, he was in the sky.

God was buried live in  earth  which shrieked
My people,where are they, ah can  none speak?

 

A number of Jews who survived the death camps went to their old homes in Eastern Europe.I am not saying which country
They were buried live.The earth heaved for hours

One in three UK retirees will have to rely solely on state pension

https://www.theguardian.com/money/2017/oct/21/uk-retirees-state-pension-financial-future?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

Meanwhile, over at the DWP, Sir Robert Devereaux – the man responsible for raising the retirement age to 67 – will retire at 61 with a £1.8million pension pot, giving him an immediate lump sum of £245,000 with a further £85,000 following every year.

11 benefits of being curious – Rest Less

Art by Katherine

https://restless.co.uk/health/healthy-mind/benefits-of-being-curious/

Curiosity stop your brain from decreasing in its powers as you get older. But be aware of this is still illegal to look through people’s bedroom windows when they are getting undressed. And I don’t have to tell you all the other things that are illegal because there are plenty of things that are legal and interesting and fascinating and you can start a journal and the first line is 3 things I am curious about do not include any of the royal family, the British or any other nationality.I.t’s got to be something worthwhile. Like having fantasies about blowing up the House of Commons and why did Guy Fawkes fail and then how you would do it and this might come in useful but it will be interesting anyway

If I don’t post on my blog tomorrow it will be because I’ve been arrested for sedition.

Whatever sedition is as Prince Charles might have said

Mary and the curtains

Mary was admiring her curtains :;what a wonderful sense of colour this woman had. It was the one thing which her mother had praised her for . She had not been praised for becoming top of the class at the convent school not for getting a degree. No Mary realised that her mother has a sense of colour because it will be useful when Mary got married and had to make her own curtains.

What a nuisance Mary was no good with the sewing machine. In fact she was afraid of it. That’s one sure way of getting out of a task. Be afraid of the sewing machine clumsy with the knitting needles and when asked to make a cake always put the oven at the wrong temperature so this is either burnt or it is not ready when the visitors come.

And if people know you’re good at making cakes you will get more and more visitors and you won’t have time to read the Oxford dictionary of abstract words or the Oxford dictionary of new words. It is be very hard if we had to spend all the time making cakes and not being allowed to read a book.

Mary was no good at making her own clothes. She had to get a science degree so she could earn her own money. She was terrified of being on the dole and did not want to go on the game as ehe was a virgin. That’s her version of it

When Mary got married to Stan she told him that she did not make cakes and she did not make curtains. Fortunately they could afford to choose the fabric and then get someone else to make it into curtains,

It’s very important to learn about colour unless you go to art school it’s not often discussed in school. Colourcan help you to recover from illness…….

Wait for the next episode

There is no order

An act of war when no war is declared

 Makes war a problem of the entire world

Now we see    a plane burn  in the air

Was this just an accident bizarre?

No land is  safe,  all  meadows killing fields

We all are soldiers, none of us have shields

We must pretend  for how else can we live

To make   the children safe, what must we give?

Once we had  imperatives,now gone

There is no order,  ethics are undone

War is undeclared , we now shall  share

The fate  so many suffer unprepared

Global  markets lead to global war

The essence of the incident lies bare

What makes you write poetry? | The Economist

https://www.economist.com/prospero/2012/03/05/what-makes-you-write-poetry

O

HAS been a good year for John Burnside. He scooped up both the Forward prize and the T.S. Eliot prize for his 12th collection of poems, “Black Cat Bone”, having been shortlisted for both twice before. Writing strange, luminous and short poems, he revels in the obscurity of the everyday. His poetry frequently captures that in-between state, “the fit between sleep and waking”.

Alongside writing poetry, he has published a novel and two memoirs (“A Lie About My Father” and “Waking Up In Toytown”). The first describes his gruelling childhood growing up in the early 1960s with a hard-drinking, abusive father in a Catholic household in sectarian Scotland; the second considers his own descent into psychosis through drugs and alcohol, before he started to write.

What makes you write poetry, and when did you start?

I started quite late in writing poetry as a serious pursuit, as opposed to playing a mildly diverting game. It seems a long time though. What makes me write is the rhythm of the world around me—the rhythms of the language, of course, but also of the land, the wind, the sky, other lives. Before the words comes the rhythm—that seems to me to be of the essence.

Are you considered too old to write poetry?

https://www.happenstancepress.com/index.php/blog/entry/too-old-to-start-writing-poetry

Keats was dead at 25, Shelley at 29, Dylan Thomas at  39, Sylvia Plath at 30. Chatterton didn’t even make it to 18.

But Fergus Allen, who reads at this year’s Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, didn’t start the poetry business seriously until after retirement. His first book-length collection was published when he was 72.  There have been three others since, and now, at ninety, he  will be conversation with Peter Blegvad about all of this in November.

How to start writing poetry when you are 50+

https://www.silverandsmart.com/how-to-start-writing-poetry-after-age-50/

What Are Some Reasons to Write Poetry?

Writing poetry is primarily a way to express your feelings and thoughts. Whether it’s about a person, place, or thing, poetry allows you to communicate what you feel uniquely. But that’s not the only reason. Other reasons to consider poetry include:

  1. You can write poetry about anything you want, including your life experiences or things you’ve always wanted to say but haven’t had the opportunity to say before.
  2. It’s a good way to keep your mind active and engaged as you age; this can help with memory retention and even prevent Alzheimer’s disease in later years.
  3. You don’t have to be an expert in art or literature to write well; it’s all about using your imagination.
  4. There are no rules when writing poetry—so feel free to experiment with different styles and techniques if you’re stuck.

What Are Different Types of Poetry to Consider?

The truth is that different poems appeal to different people, old or young. Some poems will resonate more with you in writing, while others will not. The reason for this can be structure, form, or style. If you’re thinking about the best types of poetry to try out for a start, the following should do it:

  1. Freeverse: Free verse is poetry without rhyming words, syllable counts, or line breaks. It’s about letting your thoughts flow freely and expressing yourself through verse in a natural and unforced way. Examples of free verse poems are ‘America‘ by Walt Whitman and ‘Lady Lazarus‘ by Sylvia Plath.
  2. Sonnets: A sonnet is …………,

Between the lines, the eyes

The sexual smile the birth and death of kings,

The Plathian axe, the tree, and how it rings

The horse unsaddled throws  its mistress off

The ending of a life, the voice that scoffs.

Even the saddest man can tell good lies

How a woman’s beauty hurt men’s eyes.

The hint of promise paralysed his smile

The sexual smile the enemy,the child

1939:Last train out of Warsaw

Photo by Josh Hild on Pexels.com

Elena,a baby wrapped in woollen clothes.
On the last train,Warsaw to Moscow,
[ change Niegoreloje.]
1939.Father,mother,brother
You passed through the Arctic Wastes of life.
Still as if travelling on a train
To an impossibly far destination.
As you left the German Army crashed into Warsaw
Lost,your aunts
Your cousins.
Your culture.
How does God select the damned?
You had your own baby,here in England,
Not lost like all those others.
Your father died by his own hand,
The hand of history;
The fingers twitching,
Not sure where to point.
Then settling into frozen grief
A sculpture only your mother saw.
You saw too,Elena.
You always saw,though you can’t remember;
The long journey, your mother’s breast,
Your father’s silence.
Only the dead know that silence.
Only the dead weep
With the rocks and stones .
And the ice in each eye
Fell like snow down your cheeks
As you held your own infant.
Warsaw to Moscow,
Moscow to Jerusalem.
Always journeying
Looking for what they can never find:
The home they left behind
The presence of the dead
Lying in gaunt heaps
Like rubbish
Your aunts, Elena.
Your cousins.
You never knew them.
But there’s a hole in your mind
Through which the Polish wind forever blow

I lost all my illusions, and then I lost some more

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Photo by Katherine 2016

 

When I saw you  in that cafe I  knew you would be mine.
You were handsome, smiling,funny..you were specially designed.
You looked like men I’d only dreamed about in all those years before.
I’m so broke up,so broke up;we’re not lovers  anymore.

I saw you on the station as I came from out the train.
You wore an old green parka to protect you from the rain.
I wanted to be one with you,to make a Love entire;
What you did was give me pain I  should not have endured

You walked away so quickly,I could not see you long.
I wish I had a big guitar to draw you back with song.
I looked at where you disappeared;what love has loss revealed?
I wish I could just lay down on this floor and keep my face concealed.

Railway stations sadden me, for I know we’ll never meet .
I won’t cry more ,the tears are running to my feet.
I walk fast looking straight ahead past that entrance gate,
I pretend that you have missed your train,that work was running late.

I count from one and  two to a thousand and many more–
But I know for sure it’s far too late; you have closed that heavy door.
You are hiding in a dungeon
You are covered with white steel
But I know you had a heart and you must surely feel.

I lost all my illusions, and then I lost some more.
I wish I could lay down and die, right here on this floor

The one change that didn’t work: I pounded through exercise classes – until my doctor prescribed rest

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2023/jan/26/the-one-change-that-didnt-work-i-exercised-obsessively-to-wipe-out-my-grief-but-my-body-rebelled?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

The one change that didn’t work: I decluttered my house – then began buying back my belongings

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2023/jan/25/the-one-change-that-didnt-work-my-radical-decluttering-turned-into-terrible-regret?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

His face endures

The face that was familiar is no more

 Though in my dreaming mind his face endures

My heart is not beloved as before.

All alone I’m weary and I’m sore.

I throw myself to earth, the widow’s cure

Would I were a witch. I’d light the fire.

And end my life upon a widow’s pyre

I have no child, my empty womb is bare.

In my dreams he lives, I am a liar

The one change that didn’t work: I started baking sourdough – and discovered my obsessive side

https://www.theguardian.com/food/2023/jan/25/the-one-change-that-didnt-work-sourdough-baking-left-me-frustrated-obsessive-and-covered-in-flour?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

Clingfilmology

By Katherine copyright

Cartology,,…….how to manage a horse and cart.

Cynicism,,… cultivating cynics.

Pointillism,,….. giving meaning to even very small things.

Logisticalist,,…..imitating logic.

Impressionism,……looking better than you ought to

Premodernism,…,a forward looking philosophy

Fictionalology,,,. The science of invention

Maternalism,….the love of people of all kinds

If I am sent to Heaven will I feel like Hell?

I’m feeling very lonely,I’m feeling very sad
The cat has scratched my ankles ; I think I have gone mad.

I have to face reality,I have to see it all.
I must not use denial,I have no bloody gall
I must not yet re-marry,I must not go to bed
Apparently ,it’s sinful,though my old man is dead.
There seem to be some rules,though they are all unsaid
Who will keep on watching me and see what books I’ve read.
I can’t read about doctors,I can’t watch Casualty
I can’t bear hearing sirens,I wonder where to flee.
I can’t read no real fiction and I can’t draw no art
I only took the oil paint to spread it on my heart.
I’m going to ask the doctor if I can have it out
It’s made me feel so dreadful, he cannot have a doubt.
Surely some new batteries would serve me in its stead.
Hearts are such a problem even when you’re dead.
Some folk have them pickled and some have them in jars
I’ll keep it on the Printer or in my sister’s car.
No-one will offend me for I will never feel
Just one tiny problem,will I still be real?
If I am sent to Heaven will I feel like Hell?
What a bloody nuisance, nobody will tell.

I