Autumn time in Essex where we drove When farmers burned the stubble of the corn The earth itself was fiery like young love The smokey air rose like a cloud new born
The Kentish landlocked cliffs are wide and steep The farmers grow their grain on land beneath And there too we have seen the holy fire The flames and smoke arrest me with desire
The earth and soil, the harvest we find there Give me joy both full of wheat or bare Why did burning stubble make me glow? These images affect the heart’s deep core
Now fires are banned., they damage our pure air And I did not like the murder of the hare
When there is already a high level of moisture in the air, it is difficult for the air to absorb the moisture from our skin. This can eventually lead to a loss of body fluid and dehydration. Joint cartilage and the discs in our spine have high water content, and dehydration can decrease the concentration of fluid, agitating any arthritis that may be present. Dehydration in the heat can also cause more serious conditions like heat exhaustion and heatstroke.”
Leaving Elham driving South to Hythe Driving by the stubble through the smoke As if the very earth was all aflame The Saxon cliffs provide a steep old road
By the shore the sea was teal and glowed The hinterland was barley, sun and light The crops up in the North were never rich For us Northern people , such a sight
Now the Channel Tunnel is nearby Motorways with lorries either way Yet I remember Dover,Deal, and Hythe The little woods were children used to play
The Saxon cliffs are wayback from the sea The Saxons would be startled, could they see
So you are gone who once declared your love For that phantasm conjured in your mind For onto me you brought down from above A torment bitter and strabgn words unkind.
Used to friendship from within your books You did not understand that I was real Irritation grew as you did look; You threw your poisoned arrows at my heel.
What once you loved then you began to hate If not perfect intolerable I must be And then you cursed me with this sorry fate Our child was born and him you’ll never see.
Illegitimate and born in desert grey. I carried him alone from death’s dark way
My polyester trench coat looks real swell But inside it, I feel as hot as hell. And when the storm hit, I found out It is no raincoat, I have no more doubts.
Which of us desires to dress for war This is what the trench coat was made for. British soldiers on the battlefields Died in mud locked trenches for what yield?
Do we want to know the Middle East Was divided by the conquerors at their feast France and Britain split the old Empire We see from that the rise of Herr Hitler.
The war to end all wars is on stage yet. Go hang these trench coats round the scapegoat’s neck
I don’t want your polyester dress I don’t want your high rise skinny jeans I don’t want to sweat and turn to mud
Fleas would love to live upon my chest Polyester, nylon, nightmare scenes I don’t want your polyester dress
I don’t want the corset, you suggest Viscose,pleated, monsterous Red Queen I don’t want to sweat and feel like mud
I like cotton jersey, cotton’s best Wool is cosy, I can wash ir clean I don’t want your polyester dress
Whatever next, I wonder what it means Paying hundreds for a dress that screams I don’t want your polyester dress I don’t want to sweat, it might be blood
I have walked the silent paths of grief Despite it was my choice to care for him I have slept on beds of cold dead leaves.
I do not want claim that death’s thief Although my heart’s dear light and joy have gone .I have never felt I was deceived.
I have learned that human life’s too brief. I have learned by sorrow we’re undone. I have sifted earth and what’s beneath
.I too felt my dark emotions seethe While I have been mocked by brilliant sun. I have learned the geography of grief.
I wait on earth for senseless life to cease Or will a fluttering wing make chaos come, Change my heart and give me a fresh lease?
Catastrophic grief will make us dumb Into our hearts we drag the ice that numbs I have walked the silent paths of grief I have lain on beds of cold dark leaves
I saw the sun rise over the North Sea Accentuating coloured fishing boats. The beauty of the dawn gave hope to me A restful pleasure made my soft eyes dote.
The peace of this small town has caught my heart. Scenes from ancient times come close again The gulls swoop down and sketch their flying charts Remote as ever from the realm of man
The shingle beach,the Church where Britten lies The in and out of tides of salty sea; An exact match of houses,hill and skies The amber shop, the bookshop,the oak tree,
In my mind I walk in love again; Though of the two, a single one remains
In today’s society, many of us go through our whole lives without ever working with our hands; we live, we work, we eat, we buy, we repeat. Everything is made and delivered at a blistering rate, from fast food to fast fashion and, although this may keep the economy buoyant, it’s not necessarily good for our mental health, or for our planet.
But during the past year of lockdown, we have been forced to stay still. The hamster wheel has stopped, and for some of us – without young children to keep entertained – this has provided a unique moment of quiet contemplation. We have suddenly found ourselves with time to spare; time to tackle those half-finished projects and abandoned hobbies – and an increasing desire to be creative, and make things with our hands.
There has been a wealth of online craft workshops popping up on everything from crochet, collage, charcoal drawing and flower-arranging to spoon-carving. On TV, programmes such as Grayson’s Art Club have encouraged everyone to paint, draw or sculpt their view from a window with whatever materials they have at han
In the safety of our own homes, we have been able to try knitting for the first time, to have a go at oil pastels or attempt a pinch pot – without a teacher but also without the judgment of a teacher. The possibility of experimentation in the solitary environment of our own homes has spawned a new confidence in “having a go”, the prerequisite for learning. Mastery, after all, starts with dabbling. The freedom to create on our own has offered an effective therapy for uncertain times.
Like many of us during lockdown, my work was forced to go virtual. I am both an illustrator and textile repairer, specialising in delicate fabrics and traditional hand-sewing techniques. For the past few years, I have worked in collaboration with Toast, teaching customers how to care for and mend their garments, so that they might keep for longer. Normally, I would travel to their various stores around the country with a bag of cloth, needles and thread, to host workshops: four to five customers around a table practising their stitchwork over tea and conversation. It’s an intimate affair. So, when I began teaching online via Zoom, I was unsure if this new set-up would work, but I was happily surprised to find a surge of interest from all corners of the world – from Italy, Iceland, Portugal, Lithuania, India and the USA.
During the workshops everyone is given the chance to work on a stitch sampler, before tackling a repair. Taking inspiration from traditional techniques, such as Japanese sashiko and Indian kantha, tears are backed from the underside with a patch of cloth; then small rows of stabbing stitches form a rectangle of closely stacked rows of stitchwork, securing the tear and reinforcing the surrounding cloth, creating a pleasing mend that can be either visible or invisible, depending on the colour match.
What a lovely enragement ring you have on your finger It looks like a knucle buster
When were you married? During the ceremony
Do you have joint account? Only arthritis
Does he give you house creeping money? He says I can do it in bare feet
Who buys the food? What makes you think we buy it? You have cooked your goose now! But one tyres off it
I see your mind is addled Like eggs are coddled? They break when cuddled Let’s be more hard boiled. I can’t face boiling water How do you make tea? Behind me How dangerous! I might need medication that’s not been invented yet With this Government so will we all
You can see Calais from Deal Are you trying to change the topic? No, just the light bulb The Dutch had to eat bulbs in 1944/45 Surely not light bulbs? Swallowed whole, they take away that gnawing hunger Then you die. Well, yes,I guess you are right Audrey Hepburn was Dutch She ate tulip bulbs,I think At least she survived She was always slender Shall we go ona bender? Take the transcender That’s a mistake Did you think it should be gender? Sex and gender confuse the agenda Who are the Agenda? The police,you pretender A special brigade Maybe it’s trade
Do you sell a morning before pill? No, you’ll have to wait till tomorrow But I shan’t see him till the weekend Seeing some one won’t make you pregnant but if it goes further buy a thermometer He’s not that hot! It’s for the safe period That’s a full stop Till you get married What has punctuation got to do with sex? Do you put a full stop after Ms? I’ll think about it Fantasy is safer than reality But I might go crazy That’s the drawback Oh, for God’s sake give me some barrier cream Why,do you wash up a lot? How do you make a living when you won’t sell me anything? That’s a good point
“The proposed legislation intends to make it a criminal offence to knowingly arrive in the UK without permission, with the maximum sentence for those entering the country unlawfully rising from six months’ imprisonment to four years.”
The Independent
That wll cost as much as 4 years at Eton and may mean conditions in prison willl get worse. Seems mad to me
On summer days the cliff at Weybourne sang Of finest grass entwined with tiny flowers The butterflies were floating on the wind
We walked along contented, hand in hand In Sheringham we saw no faces dour On summer days, the cliffs at Weybourne sang
We met no wasps nor any life that stings The footpath was kept clear, no weeds to sour The butterflies were sleeping on the wind
I look at bluebells,insects hear their ring So we passed with pleasure our free hours On summer days, the cliffs at Weybourne sang
For this perfection Adam rightly sinned No human joy is with us very long The butterflies were resting on the wind
In winter Norfolk winds will make beasts cower No need for ventilation,faces glower On summer days the air at Weybourne sang The butterflies float through my mind, bright, winged.
Winter,summer,spring and fall Corduroy will do for all Needlecord in yellow fine Makes me feel my life’s sublime Jacket navy, large and tough Big pockets where we keep our stuff Woollen tights will help in frost Naked legs in summer lost All we need are T shirts soft Slogans dancing on the breast Shoes or boots and sandals bright Winter,summer,love the light Get a bag from TK Maxx Leather, suede, a tote, a sack. Keep your old school woollen vest It will soothe your back and chest When the moths destroy your clothes Go out dancing in the snow Keep in mind we don’t need much As our talents keep us rich
A man climbed up the gantry on the track Electric wires for signals and for power The trains can’t run unless they get him back
I hope his mind has not begun to crack Britain is in tension at this hour This bloke climbed up the gantry on the track
We have sensed since Brexit our great lack Alienation and its black, doomed flowers The trains can’t run unless this loon comes back
Communal feelings are ignored or are attacked Divided, by the lies of media showered This chap is up the gantry on the track
The government is sheltered from the flak Comes what man and comes what bloody hour? The trains can’t run unless this bloke comes back
At the edge of order, people cower. Ignored and fearful, out they seem to glower. Seems one is up the gantry on the track The trains won’t run unless we get him back
I see the train is standing in wait You are here ; I can’t find you I peer through windows Is there a corridor? I still can’t see you Now it begins to move So I run,fast, as fast as the train I must catch it I’m nearly there But there’s a wall at the end of the platform I can’t get through It’s twelve feet high I’m blocked The train runs on I see the last compartment as It disappears up the track You’ve gone
Michaël de Saint Cheron’s Conversations with Emmanuel Levinas, 1983-1994 (hereafter Conversations), is a somewhat misleadingly titled new publication from Duquesne University Press. The book’s title makes it sound as though it is a collection of interviews between Levinas and Saint Cheron, a scholar who has published works on Augustin Malroux and Elie Wiesel and who participated in Levinas’s lessons at the École normal israélite orientale from 1983 onward. However, Saint Cheron’s interviews compose only a small part of the book, which also contains four essays on Levinas and an extended essay on Yom Kippur, atonement, and forgiveness. The fact that these interviews constitute a small part of the book will be a disappointment for some. However, Conversations has several qualities to recommend it, both as a study of Levinas’s philosophy as well as a work of Jewish philosophy in its own right.
Let me get my main criticism of this book out of the way. My main concern has less to do with its content — with any of Saint Cheron’s arguments or interpretive theses about Levinas’s philosophy — and more with how its content is presented. The book’s title makes it sound as though it is a collection of interviews, one akin to Jennifer Robbins’s Is It Righteous to Be?, with a special focus on interviews conducted in the last decade of Levinas’s life. In fact, Saint Cheron’s interviews make up only a small part of the book, roughly its first twenty-five pages, starting on page thirteen and ending on page thirty-eight.This will disappoint some readers. It has become a cliché to call attention to the obscurity of Levinas’s prose, but the fact remains that his writings are extremely challenging. He was often more direct in interviews, and they have become an invaluable tool for disambiguating claims he makes in works such as Totality and Infinity and Otherwise than Being.
The life boat crew are safely home They’ve brought the shipwrecked sailors too. The storm has passed,the wind has dropped The sea is swaying softly now.
Wrapped in night clothes,their offspring Are all in worlds of dream still lost. Their fathers safely home this time. They save wrecked ships despite the cost.
Will any lifeboat crew be there To help less blessed ones from despair, And lives, too many ,spent in care No fathers and no mothers near?
The sea we certainly must fear, But more we fear the acts of those Who try to buy our minds and wills, for votes in the election booths.
Oh hush my baby,go to sleep, It is your mammy’s job to weep. I wish I knew just what to do To empower the lives of wains like you
.Sleep well ,sleep well,my little child .The sun will rise,the air is mild. We’ll trust that when we all set sail Our love and courage will not fail.
Oh,hush my sweet one,I am near. The world’s too big for bairns to bear. We’ll do much better this time round .We’ll not let this boat run aground.
*NB Wain and bairn mean infant /child /baby used in certain parts of the British Isles
Thanks you for your catalogue.I would of bought a silk and wool vest.However it seems I am over-endewed with flesh.To wit, my bosom will not fit into your specified sizing However despite my enlarged thyroid gland,I think your scarves would do and possibly your socks As my hands are somewhat knobbly I might go for the woollen gloves despite having longed for leather ones as a young person I did find the catalogue endearing, full of things we wore in my youth. I unhappily was made to wear boy’s wool vests with 3 buttons the wrong way round.combined with Double Maths and Physics A level I became “other” myself The final humiliation was being forced to wear knickers hip 44 inch when I measured 34 inches.Was it incest or insolence in my mother’s mind? These tragedies have made my life arduous but also full of humour So on second thoughts,I may bypass your offerings and buy a Cossack Hat instead
How my heart speaks 