Author: Katherine

Poetry writer and author

And yet I have my doubts about its shape

This poem is written in the sonnet form,
And yet I have my doubts about its shape
Though nearly to that structure it conforms
There may be holes where nightmare faces gape.

It looks and speaks just as a sonnet would
And talks of metaphysical concerns.
Do we conclude, as poets and readers should,
That in our schizoid age we cannot learn?

For humans may be decked in clothes of owl;
And lambs be dressed with lions’ fearsome furs..
Thus sense is tricked and problems are unsolved.
Landscapes etched, yet details seem quite blurred.

It looks like one,it feels like one,it speaks;
Yet from these words, does human feeling leak?

On that  form , we hang our little words.

The bones, the shape, the structure all are one
On that  form , we hang our little words.
Destroy the shape  and all  my poem is gone

The structure gives us something to lean on
To aid  creation , to make meaning shared
The bones, the shape, the structure all are one

Inflexibility is death, not fun
We fly upon the breezes as do birds
Negate that fact  and all real life is gone

Vulnerable to pain and hunter’s gun
We must not  live as  if all change is barred
The life, the shape, the structure come to one

Here and there we  drop a hint or pun
Into the patient hand we  drop wild cards
Negate that deed  and all real life is gone

 

Whose the heart by metal  strips destroyed?
What will be the outcome  what the buoy?
The bones, the shape, the structure all are one
Destroy the shape  and all  my poem is gone

 

 

Why write in form?

947361_652413131565235_8984031616122296794_nhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/89288/why-write-in-form

EXTRACT:

In poetry, one of the best ways to practice technique is to write in traditional forms. But for many writers—and I’ve been guilty of this as well—this notion can elicit not just avoidance but also outright opposition. It’s easy enough to look at the current literary landscape and say there’s no point to practicing these old forms. Most journals don’t seem interested in publishing formal poetry, and though there are some fantastic poets working in form today, they are in the minority. Even when there is a resurgence of interest in form (such as New Formalism), it’s seen as an outlier, even reactionary.

Perhaps some of this opposition stems from a common misconception. Unlike other arts—and perhaps even other forms of writing—readers and writers alike often associate poetry with feeling, not technique. Part of this may stem from a misunderstanding of William Wordsworth’s famous definition of poetry, in which he begins, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. …” His wording encourages a reading in which poetry simply occurs and does so uncontrollably. If this is the part of the quotation that sticks with you, it’s no surprise that you might associate poetry more with emotional intensity and less with the how of its conveyance. But in the second half of that quotation, Wordsworth tempers his original statement: “… it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” Those unexpected and powerful feelings are actually being observed at a calming distance from that emotion.

Gnawed by slugs,  fragmented till unborn

I saw, while half asleep,  her face was gone
She faded, like the mist does at the dawn,
From the gallery of my most loved ones

Ungrounded by the loss, fearful, forlorn,
Skinless like a worm  picked off a lawn,
I saw, while half asleep,  her face was gone

Do not leave me, do not my love scorn
Lost and gone are my beloved ones
I  am human in both ghost and form

Heart constricted, lungs  pant out my pain
Haunted and bereft of human warmth
I saw, while half asleep,  her face was gone

I shall have no mother but that one
Now I have become a dried out corm
Lost and gone are  my beloved ones

Like a little leaf from its plant torn
Gnawed by slugs,  fragmented  till unborn
I saw, while half asleep, her face was gone
With the gallery of my lost, loved ones

For Virgil,fortune favours steadfast feet.

The journey to the heart is   made for love.
And those who need to seek obey their call.
Though virtue and her graces smile above,
We see steep paths ahead;cliffs’  sudden fall.

With willingness to cross  fields deep in mud,
To struggle through the tangled thorny wood.
Our  inner eye  perceives the latent good;
Recalls old trees astonished into bud.

As flowers spring up  to tantalize our toes
Encouragement is with much joy received;
And as we smell the fragrance of the rose,
At last we know our souls were not deceived.

For Virgil,fortune favours steadfast feet.
The journey may be long,the end is sweet.

Do not wonder now why you are here

Turn back,live again, he  asked of  me
Do not  wander in dank darkness anymore
One slight move might give death victory

We are each connected to that tree
The sunlit top, the roots hid in earth’s floor
Come back, live again,rely on me.

While we live, we’ll live with dignity
Not scrabbling for the gold in blood and gore
One more lie will give  sin victory

The kindness of the golden light was  clear
And left an image in my mind’s deep core
Come back, live this life I  gave to you.

Do not wonder  now why you are here
We’re here to live and living shall restore
What  our suffering self  has found so dear

I had never seen the Light before
Only Christ the tyger with his roar
Come back,accept this pain, he  asked of me
One right move will give love  victory

Well done

Well done, they said because I cleaned my teeth
I bought a brush,I did not use a  leaf
I swear I ironed them  while on Hampstead Heath
Where all around dead  poppies tried to breath

In the pond   the water’s  dark and bleak
Nearby  soldiers tossed in  poppied wreaths
As if dead  men could swim in English lakes
Well done?

The sun on the horizon left a streak
I wandered, looking at blue plaques
And wondering why Great Britain came to crack
But then again, we are well known as freaks
I  hear my joints as they murmur. creak
Well done, they speak
Well done

All done

Against sadness

white concrete building
Photo by Pille Kirsi on Pexels.com
 
Against  sadness:no-one here must weep
Nor lounge  about in melancholy deep
Was Van Gogh senseless to permit  his muse.
For  even masterpieces,was the price too steep?
We see the yellow chair  but not his views
Nor his  mind where technique made strange leaps.
Nor was his journey broadcast on the news.
Against sadness.


Happiness  or joy is hard to find
When we rest, the News preys on our minds
Yet some are  cold  towards the slaughtered priest
His nose a beak of bone  in old  face lined
Now Muslims go to Mass and join Christ’s feast
Against sadness.


What rages in the mind make men  kill thus?
In Syrian wars  the  innocents fare worse.
But these are our near neighbours so we weep
And wonder how to end the  frightening curse
The sins we once committed hold us deep
We   stretch our arms out, wanting to be nursed
Against sadness

Yes, the Trent flows up one side and down the other.

lake

Pray Father give me your blessing
Good grief, a real Catholic at last
Why, are there artificial ones?
No they just have terrible memories
Of trauma?
No, they don’t know what a sacrament is.
But surely how we act is more vital
I don’t know, it’s so long since I was  in the cemetery
Do you mean the cement factory?
Why would I mean that?
Don’t ask me,I’m just a   human being
I mean the seminary, of course.I remember now.
Do you know the seven deadly sins?
Not biblically
They are in the Bible… murder.envy, hatred
Yes, I was joking.I am celibate officially.
But what are you really?
I am asexual.
Do you have no desire?
I love people but I have no need to go to bed with them
No, we do it on the floor at home
Are you married?
Yes,definitely.She is a red head.
I thought you might say Red Indian
We  have very few living in Stoke on Trent.
Where is that?
On the river Trent.
But that goes through Nottingham
So?
I thought Stoke was West of the Pennines
Yes, the Trent flows up one side and down the other.
That is a lie
Thank you.
Since my last Confession I have lied twice
What was the other lie?
I am not a Catholic
So why come here?
I am lonely and it’s bad for me so I thought Saturday night Catholics go to Confession
It’s not exactly fun.Why not go to the pub and pick up a woman?
Are you really a priest?
No,I was feeling lonely too
What  a pity we are not bisexual
Well, we could learn
I thought it was genetic?
Do you mean generic
I don’t know.You mean like,buy paracetomol not panadol.
Genetic is totally different.
Am I a generic human or a  dressed up, artificial  and stunning person?
Why artificial?
I can’t act natural.
Try!
But if I try it’s not natural.
Was that my penance listening to you?
It could have been.Say a little prayer for me as well
So you do  believe?
Why not? It’s better than dying of meaninglessness
You so seem very clever
How kind.
I’ll see you next week.

The Fall

The shadow of the lamp upon my wall
That gentle light, that softness without glare
Long lost joy and   happy love  recall

We  looked into house windows when we strolled
But we were careful., did not wish to stare
Read shadows of  street lamps upon their walls

What am I when my love is not whole ?
A cracked half human being needing care
Stranger joys,lost  love, how  can I call?

The shadows move about as  sunset falls
My face is  showing signs of  lazy tears
The shadows  looks so dark upon the wall

His shadow  dear I  miss  in Spring, in Fall
But then it presaged presence on this chair
Strangers, joy, new  love,  how do we fail?

I have seen  the old gods fiery flares,
Burning wheatfields by the Saxon Shore
The shadow of burned sun upon the wall
The missing loves , the shadows deep,the Fall.

 

 

Undemocratic

5432DSC00144Network Rail is planning  to make changes to the platforms in Stations to prevent people committing suicide.Unfortunately , they can’t  do it  immediately so now is our chance.Don’t stop to think, don’t ask for help…. just do what  you  want to do.
We’ve had one Referendum

Suicide rates are high here.Donate to the Samaritans if you can

info from THE INDEPENDENT

Alternatives exist: The white cliffs of Dover  are crumbling.Why not camp on the Edge and see what  happens especially if there is a gale.You may meet Teresa May..

The trees, unmoving, shield the riots within

 

The inner coil and tangle of the wild,
Where rose run mad and holly are as one
Ensure that nature’s heart is undefiled

To these depths, the winter bird’s beguiled
Until the red dawn’s fetched by lowly sun
Through the coil and tangle of the wild.

On the path’s side, brown-green leaves are piled
A thousand beetles search for food within
A hidden space where nature’s undefiled

The cat is waiting, acting like the mild
Then dancing, hunting, acting like his kin
At ease in coil and tangle of worlds wild.

The sun is setting, and the night clouds pile
As lovers kiss, so smiles the holy one,
Living all his natures undefiled.

Now, at last, the darkness has begun
The trees unmoving shield the riots within
The inner coil and tangle make the wild,.
Is the space for soul still undefiled?

But how do you empty yourself?

SIMG_20181218_200526She’s more interested in emptying the vacuum cleaner than emptying her self
Well,if we all emptied our selves it would fill many vacuum cleaners
But how do you empty yourself?
I am inclined to leave well alone
What is a self?
We know but can’t describe
Is our self a container?
Like a biscuit tine?
Or a duvet cover,perhaps?
To be full of yourself is not good
It leaves no room for anyone else
Or ideas, grace,love
It’s a mystery

God alone is stranger than our prayers

I cannot bite the apple of despair
My teeth reject the hardness and the core
Nor  can I take a path that leads nowhere

We cannot always do what we prefer
Nor find a way to  open all closed doors
I  will not bite the apple of despair

Yet to a human we must not defer
God alone is stranger than our prayers
We cannot take a path that leads nowhere

Our sense of self is qualified,, will dare
To let the dove  fly up from  marble floors
I  will not touch the apple of despair

Human life is cruel, so dark, unfair
And differences  that hurt ,we can’t ignore
We must  not start the path that leads nowhere

Equality, sorority, where flair?
Where the chance of learning how to care
I cannot bite the apple of despair
Nor  can I take a path that leads nowhere

 

 

Here are people  who so love their kin

A lively group, then wildness slipping in
The ancient gods have come to life again
Waving phones  make video calls and sin

What is Xmas but eternal din?
Women making cakes and tickling men
A lively group with wildness slipping in

Where we cross the line and tumble in
Here we are in Bedlam  yet again
Waving phones  make video calls and sin

Here are people  who so love their kin
They make music with their sharpened pens
A lively group with wildness slipping in

Where did  this strange pattern  start, begin
Was it God who ground Spinoza’s lens?
Take the phones, the video calls, the sin

Civilising discourse  haunts again
How long  to reinvent  the fountain pen?
A lively group, the wild gods slipping in
Waving  hammers, call us, tempt to sin

Waxy flowers in the snow

Waxy flowers poking through
Snow so white
Flowers bright.
Made me think of you.

I see once more your dark,dark hair,
Soft as snow,
On pillow.
Now my bed is bleak and bare

,
Face alight,flower to sun,
I loved you.
Love so  true.
Fear by love,overcome.

Cyclamen, in  the snow,
Pink and red,
Now frozen,dead.
Love was,oh,so long ago.

But never gone from in my mind.
Thoughts so deep,
Upwards seep.
Love was gentle,love was kind
And always in my mind

Imagination’s home.

My old blue fountain pen allows 

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush. 

  Enchanted by the hand that writes, 

Bewitched   by art, beauty alights.

The script is like a music score 

Through which we pass as through a door.

Imagination’s home. 

  As, mysteriously to you, to me,  

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,

  By rhythms of pen, of brush, of mind.  

They enter vision quite unplanned,

  Like moths to flutter softly round  

Fire joined heart and hand.  

The pen slows down, the hand goes still  

And just as dreams at daybreak will,  

They shrink, they disappear, they’re gone.  

Like raindrops  on  hot stone 

 

Was Christ a Palestinian refugee?

https://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/remember-christ-palestinian-refugee-181224101728798.html

Extract:

In the Latin American context, in particular, and through the emancipatory work of liberation theologians, the figure of Christ emerges as the revolutionary leader of the wretched of the earth.

The Peruvian philosopher, theologian and Dominican priest Gustavo Gutierrez has revolutionised our contemporary understanding of Christ. In my own work on Islamic liberation theology, I have been deeply influenced by the work of Father Gutierrez, who next to the eminent Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas have brought the prophetic voices of Biblical exegesis to bear on our contemporary lives.

For years at Columbia, I have been teaching a book called Don’t Be Afraid, Gringo: A Honduran Woman Speaks from The Heart: The Story of Elvia Alvarado (1989) in which there is a splendid a chapter called: Jesus was an Organizer.

The Nazareth-born Palestinian filmmaker Elia Suleiman has a short film called, Cyber Palestine (1999), in which he presents the story of a modern-day Mary and Joseph as they attempt to cross from Gaza into Bethlehem. As a parable of the Palestinian predicament in their own homeland, “Cyber Palestine” captures the quintessence of the story of the birth of Christ under military occupation of the Romans then and the Zionists now.