The pleated skirts that teachers used to wear
The tight permed hair, the handbag and the pearls
The words we heard when we learned how to swear
With words we threw out what we could not bear
Then simpered by the window lips uncoiled
The fleeing minds that we dare not declare
The worst came out and everybody stared
My head was turned, inside my mind still whirled
The muck we heard when we first had to swear
Now we wear our jeggings, pleats are rare
Yet there’s elegance in skirts that swirl
Depleted teens with beauty gone awry
We did some Hardy and into Shakespeare tore
Now we read Ted Hughes and Sylvia’s pearls
The midden reeks,hate makes the goldfish swear.
The gold rimmed glasses in the mist and murk
The hairnets, the control, the constrained smirk
The worn out books, the turning of the years
The words of joy and woe, we learn our prayer
Wendy Cope: “I can’t die until I’ve sorted out the filing cabinets”
As Wendy Cope donates her archive to the British Library, is the literary world at last taking her seriously
WENDY COPE, PHOTOGRAPHED BY THE NEW STATESMAN.
“Let’s go back to this thing about there being a story,” Wendy Cope says as we sit on a bench by the canal in Ely. “There’s a story of how a depressed primary school teacher became quite a well-known poet.”
She is being characteristically understated. Cope is one of the best-known and among the bestselling British poets of recent decades. Her first collection, Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis, was full of “the kind of poems journalists enjoy”. As a result, it became, by her own admission, almost too successful. “I’ve never been more famous than I was, suddenly, in 1986,” she says. “I did find it very difficult to cope with all the demands that were being made on me.”
She quickly decided that she didn’t want to become “some sort of media personality, always on radio quiz shows”, and retreated to her study. She observes, with a touch of pride, that she is one of the few poets who don’t need to supplement their income by teaching creative writing courses.
After WWII had broken out, Kolbe and a few other priests remained in his hometown monastery where he organized a makeshift hospital. He was arrested in September 1939, briefly held for several months, and then released in December. The Germans gave him the option to sign the Deutsche Volksliste as he was half-German by birth and, could claim rights as a German under Nazi rules. However, he was very adamant he would not do so. The Germans allowed him to continue his publishing work although, on his release, he used it to begin printing anti-Nazi publications.
Kolbe set about doing more work to save his people, but this time, he did much more than establishing a hospital. He and other monks at his monastery worked to shelter refugees from the rest of Poland, and they hid as many as 2,000 Jews during the Nazi invasion.
In February 1941 the Gestapo shut down the monastery and arrested him and his fellow monks. He was sent to Pawiak Prison, before being transferred to Auschwitz.
Maximilian Kolbe first from left.
A Priest in Auschwitz
During his time in the concentration camp, Kolbe continued his role as a priest, but it caused problems for him. There were many instances where he was subjected to harassment and violence, including beatings and lashings. Once he had to be taken to the prison hospital.
In July 1941 several prisoners escaped from the camp, so the deputy commander picked ten men to be punished, to discourage others. They were placed in an underground bunker and not given food or water until they starved to death.
One of the men chosen was Franciszek Gajowniczek. He was a Polish army sergeant who had been captured in Slovakia. When learning about his fate, he reportedly cried out, “My wife! My children!” Kolbe volunteered to die in his place.
The assistant janitor at the camp later reported that Kolbe led the other prisoners who had been chosen in prayers when in the underground bunker.
Kolbe outlived the other nine prisoners. He remained calm throughout the experience and was found by his guards to be either kneeling or standing in the middle of the cell at all times. The guards eventually tired of waiting for him to die, and gave him a lethal injection of carbolic acid. He calmly took the injection, and his remains were cremated.”
Note:
At that time cremation was not allowed for Catholics so it is a double injury to deprive his family or religious order of a Requiem Mass and burial for him in a Catholic graveyard
What gives meaning to our love and pain?
Love is missing,sex is cheapened now
The values of the heart have been disdained
What a laugh, we lit eternal flames
Fascism rides again, we had no clue
What gives meaning to our love and pain?
Marriage is demoted, life’s a game
If we see, whatever shall we do?
The values of the heart have been disdained
The doctor’s here, he limps in , he is lame
He has no wisdom, no goods to endow
That which may give meaning to our pain
The still,small voice is now by actors feigned
The mighty Tempest has no eye of calm
The values of the heart have been disdained
Where are they who’s hearts can feel, can warn
Whose minds are wise, who notice with alarm?
Who gives meaning to our love and pain?
The values of right minds, we have disdained
Come back to me, my sweetheart
Don’t leave me all alone.
Come back to me, my darling
I can’t believe you’ ve gone.
I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again.
I’m crying’cos I’m falling like a stone.
Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty
And my voice forever young.
Let me tempt you with my spirit
My laughter and my songs.
I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong.
I’m crying ‘cos with you I still belong.
I thought maybe I’d follow,
To see where you have goneBut there’s a hand upon this tillerThat is not mine alone.
I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song.
I’m crying ‘cos I’ve been lonely for too long.
The hand upon my tiller
The mystery of the dark
The unknown one who lives in me
And sings like a skylark.
I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song.
I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue.
The unconscious is the home of image stark
The faces of our love and of our hate
The holy, the important and the dark
The cat that bit, the black dog with wild barks,
The bills ,the charge, the passive, irritate
The unconscious is the cave of image stark
The Northern moors the heather and the lark
Old letters torn up when they came too late
The holy, the important , the deep dark
The marvelled fire, the glowing light, the spark
The holy place immune from every State
The unconscious ,oh the home of image stark
Here too dwell envy and malicious hearts
Yet in that space we must a soul create
The holy and its candles light the dark
Time has gone, there is no day or date
We are never early or too late
The unconscious lives, the home of image stark
The holy, the divided , glossy dark
After the unusual November sunshine, Mary was happy to discover her underwear was dry. She took it into the sitting room to fold up, ready to go into the drawer.
Although by nature she was very untidy, she did try to keep a bit of order in her drawers.
As she sat musing, with the pile of knickers and bras nearby, the door bell rang.Quickly she pushed the heap of lingerie under a large cushion and opened the door optimistically with a brave laugh
There stood the Vicar with a beaming yet sultry smile, like a sun ray on Hellvellyn in winter
Do come in.I’ll make some fresh Ceylon tea, she murmured politely
She carried in a tray of tea and cake and sat on the sofa, after placing the tray on a small table nearby.
Why are you here, Father? she said anxiously as she sucked her thumb
That was what God said to Elijah on the mountain, he anwered shyly
Well,I am not God but we all wonder now and then why we are here and think we should be somewhere else , like in bed with Leonard Cohen.
That never worries me, said the Vicar.I can’t marry a Jew, Leonarda Cohen or whoever.
So if Jesus was here you would not let him marry your daughter?
Even though he was the Son of the Most High?
Definitely not.He wasn’t a Christian.And imagine what it would be like when he was never at home helping with the chores, but was fishing in the Sea of Galilee all day.And feeding hungry people.Not to mention getting killed…..
But he must have been very loving, Mary muttered nervously
God loves those who love themselves, cried the Vicar.
Er, that’s a bit narcissistic,Mary told him.I’ve never heard anyone say it before.
Well we ought to love ourselves or why should anyone else love us?
For our beauty, our mind, our kindness, our humour, our cooking or our money.
Yet some a people are sadists and some are masochists.
Well, that is unfortunate but, if they are willing, it seems acceptable to me.I won’t criticise them if they enjoy it
Suddenly Annie,Mary’s neighbour,ran into the room in her dark purple velvet trenchcoat and shiny green vinyl boots which matched her eye shadow and contrasted well with her terracotta lipstick and matching earrings.
Hi, she shouted.I’m here.Well, they all knew that.
Where is that lipstick from,Mary quizzed her pensively
It’s by Lambscombe of Wigan and Ilkley. Annie revealed furtively
I didn’t know they made lipstick,Mary answered.It’s an unusual colour
Is it made from old bricks?
I don’t know, Annie cried petulantly.She started to snivel and felt under the cushion in case Mary had left a hanky or tissue there.
Her hand reappeared clutching a pair of bright blue lace knickers
It was hard to decide who looked more embarrassed ,Mary or the Vicar
What’s going on in here, Annie demanded
I’ve never seen them before, the Vicar told her manfully
Surely your wife must wear them, Annie said knowingly
My wife wears underpants.
Well, it takes all sorts,Mary mused.Is your wife a man ?
I don’t know.We live a life of utter chastity.We have therefore had no children.We could have adopted I guess.
What a waste,Annie whispered.
You are a very charming and delightful person.~
I can’t believe you are innocent.You persuaded Mary to take off her knickers so you could play Mummies and Daddies but I came in at the wrong moment.
Mary fainted silently onto the rug
Emile mewed loudly and rang 999 on his Nokia1
In ran Dave, the fluid gendered, transsexual and well dressed paramedic.
What’s wrong ?Why has Mary fainted and why are there knickers on the floor? Is this an orgy? Why have you called me?
The Vicar went bright red with embarrassment and shock.
No, it seems Mary keeps a pair of knickers near her in case she runs out of tissues.
Dave made some Ceylon tea in the bijou violet and emerald green kitchen and used Mary’s art deco mugs to serve it along with some chocolate biscuits he found under the sink
Mary rose up from the carpet and asked where she was.
Still here,in the EU….until Scotland goes independent and Ireland gets more Troubles and how about Wales getting big idea?
Oh, for goodness sake, shut up.I am sick of Brexit cried Emile.
Where is my tea? Where are my sardines in olive oil?Where is my pudding?
And so ask all of us.
Even being mathematician did not make me think I had to wear trousers like most mathematicians did as they were men
I have no objection to trousers but I like pretty things and I love colour.Yet a woman friend demanded recently to know why I was wearing a skirt.I should have said that my husband forced me to do!
Now another friend went shopping for a nightdress in a her local town.Some of the shop assistants didn’t know what she meant and asked of she meant an evening dress.She likes the beautiful Victorian style.But where are they?
Marks and Spencers still have a few but they are often man made fibres.
Is it a bad sign when women think they have to dress like men to be equal? I don’t find trousers warm unless they are tweed.And tweed is hard to wash.Probably you can’t wash them.
Since the moth invasion I’ve been looking for a woollen skirt and succeeded in getting one in a kind of heathery mix which reminds me of the heather on the moors in the North.I expect it might look old fashioned but why worry about that? If we look at history a lot of people in politics were superior to our present politicians.So don;t tell me I have to wear trousers.Let me have a choice.Thank you.
Similarly why must black women straighten their hair for success?
” ‘Everyone thought economic expansion meant China would become increasingly like the west, but that has been a catastrophic miscalculation’ … the novelist Ma Jian. Photograph: Linda Nylind for the Guardian
In an era of growing political impunity, when dissidents are murdered on foreign soil and even the head of Interpol is not immune from being “disappeared”, Ma Jian seems almost recklessly brave. Could there be a more provocative title than that given by the exiled novelist to his latest satirical onslaught on the country of his birth? For, with China Dream, he co-opts the rhetoric of the Chinese leader Xi Jinping to tell the story of a politician who is driven mad by memories of his own corruption.
Xi first used the phrase shortly after becoming general secretary of the Communist party in 2012, and Ma has responded “in a rush of rage” with a short, ferocious novel about the way turbo-capitalism and authoritarianism have combined to inform a Chinese dream that excludes all but a chosen few. “I wanted to give myself the challenge of encapsulating everything in as few words as possible,” he says, wryly adding that it will be interesting to see how the Chinese authorities react to the novel, given that they’ve outlawed so many “key words” online – “even the name Winnie-the-Pooh is banned because people joked that Xi Jinping resembled him”.
A momentary silence falls as we consider the surreal possibility of the “paramount leader” being forced to ban his own slogan. But the reality, Ma acknowledges, is that censorship is now so all-encompassing that the novel will very probably not be allowed to exist in Chinese, even in Hong Kong, which has historically provided a toehold for work by dissident authors banned on the mainland.”
I had an experience I have seen written about. in magazines for women
I decided to go out as I am on a vitamin D supplement [ huge] and sunlight helps.I went into a coffee shop/bistro I’ ve been in many times.There were 2 people at a table for 4 but they said were waiting for friends.I moved to an empty table further inside.I was then told it was a table for 6 though it looked like 4 to me.
The waitress then put a very tiny table and an old chair near the toilet doors facing a blank wall and asked me to sit there.It was very noisy which was worse there, being further away from the door
So after a few minutes I walked out.I am not paying to sit and watch people visit the toilet as I drink coffee.The people at the first table were still alone, no friends had come
I went to one called the Art Cafe further from the bus stop and found the place much better
Then I recalled reading articles about lone women being treated like that
Really it was a horrible experience to sit there.I shan’t goagain.I can sit by the toilet at home free.
I did enjoy going into Waterstones bookshop though.And accidentally knocking their tables of books over.
Looking in. we miss the outer world
The blossom hanging from the vicarage wall
An old man’s hat which by the breeze is whirled
The toddlers skipping in the Shopping Mall.
Now coffee shops are where we socialise
No more to labour over stove and sink.
And listening, hear what would not meet our eyes.
When for one small moment they both blinked.
And yet we long for time to be alone
To breathe more freely, play within our mind
For being far less solid than a stone
Impingements to our boundary we find
As we balance on this old seesaw
We know no thing is static. life is raw.
If you are not a Muslim, you may be dressing in the style of Muslim women.For example they often wear trousers under dresses and so do we now—- leggings? So to make your classic or old fashioned clothes look different:
Under your pure wool knife pleated check skirt wear some black leggings and coloured trainers
Or how about a denim shirt with a Mondrian patterned tie? Topped by a huge puffa jacket
A headscarf or nun’s veil on your head? Or a chrystal headband
Thigh boots?
Wacky earrings or pierced nose
A modern colour block sweater and shiney white vinyl coat?
Some evenings,the sky turned pink
We were happy,lying in the grass
Watching the sun set.
Arms around each other.
Seemed like eternal life had come
Earlier than forecast.
Those weathermen are always wrong!
They need new training
In that timeless moment
In between two raindrops,
In between two tears.
May linger on for several painful days. The life force is as strong as is a lion; And infants too are subject to its sway. A tree cut down when full of summer leaves Will struggle on and take a month to die. And so it is with friendship which is scorned; Our grief takes time to dissipate and fly. Bereft of love and child and human touch, Be careful when you slip from human grasp. The knife that pierced the heart will cause no gain; And should we live we feel a bitter pain. Though cunning wiles and tricks may give the lie, When you use them,your own heart too will die.
Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake,
Out in the trench with three hours’ watch to take,
I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then
Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men
Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light.
Hark! There’s the big bombardment on our right
Rumbling and bumping; and the dark’s a glare
Of flickering horror in the sectors where
We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled,
Or crawling on their bellies through the wire.
“What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?”
Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire:
Why did he do it?… Starlight overhead—
Blank stars. I’m wide-awake; and some chap’s dead.
Play, Father,it is 29 years since my last decision.
What was that?
Not to practice my Faith
Who is Faith?
I mean, like Hope and Charity
So why are you here?
Only God knows
But there are so many of us.Will he want to know?
Probably not but he has to know
Surely we can’t decide what he should do
So if he forgets us, then what will happen?
Just watch the News tonight
Fox News or the BBC
Do foxes have news?How wonderful
No, it’s a right wing place.
Oh,my.I like the Independent.
They want ad blockers turned off
No-one is totally independent
You can say that again
I refuse.
Be like that.
Have you any sins you want to confess?
Adultery, lies and envy.
Be more specific
I fell in love with a beautiful woman
Your wife?
No, it would not be adultery with her!
Oh,dear,Can’t you pretend?
I never thought of that.
What a shame,How many adulteries have you done?
Probably about 12 a year
You look old too
That’s why.
Are they demanding?
In a way.Why should I do it though?
What do you mean? Surely you should not do it.
Well, they won’t leave me alone.
What is it that draws them in?
My eyes,I suspect.They are like magnets
Yes,I have noticed.
So I am tired with all these women and my wife as well
If you got divorced that would cut it down
But who would make my dinner?
You could eat out or get your lover to cook
I don’t know.My wife is a wonderful cook and also writes novels
What about?
Unfaithful men and their secret lives
How amazing.Is that why you decided to be unfaithful?
I can’t remember.But after the first time it seems to matter less
So why bother?
I have no hobbies
Well, for your penance go to Art Classes.
I can’t draw.
Once you could not commit adultery
That’s true.
Are you penitent?
We didn’t do Latin.
Are you sorry
No,I didn’t like French
I mean for your sins?
The trembling leaves hid sparrows as they sang
We were silent,drowning in the sun
Reminding me of Cartmel and Grange sands
I turned the phone off. so no idler rang
In winter, we forget that bright light comes
The shining leaves hid sparrows as they sang
My parents had no garden and no land
But, judging by fertility, some fun.
I wish we were all down on Grange’s sands
I remember holding Dad’s thin hand
He sat me on his shoulders and we ran
He knew the words to ancient Irish songs
He was tall, and made of smoke a friend
Then he went away to be God’s son
I wish we still were playing on the sands
In theology ,I have no hand
Do we need to know where God has gone?
Can even experts hear what angels sing?
The theologians meanly note their ends
Bishops in their robes are tried and found
The pure white flowers are scented as birds sing
Haunting me with childhood,Grange O’ Sands
“There is at least one kind of utility that a poem can embody: ambiguity. Ambiguity is not what school or society wants to instill. You don’t want an ambiguous answer as to which side of the road you should drive on, or whether or not pilots should put down the flaps before take-off. That said, day-to-day living—unlike sentence-to-sentence reading—is filled with ambiguity: Does she love me enough to marry? Should I fuck him one more time before I dump him?
But such observations still don’t tell us much about what a poem really is. Try crowd-sourcing for an answer. If you search Wikipedia for “poem,” it redirects to “poetry”: “a form of literary art which uses aesthetic and rhythmic qualities of language—such as phonoaesthetics, sound symbolism, etc.” Fine English-professor speak, but it belies the origins of the word. “Poem” comes from the Greek poíēma, meaning a “thing made,” and a poet is defined in ancient terms as “a maker of things.” So if a poem is a thing made, what kind of thing is it?
I’ve heard other poets define poems in organic terms: wild animals—natural, untamable, unpredictable, raw. But the metaphor quickly falls apart. Such animals live on their own, utterly unconcerned with the names humans put upon them. In inorganic terms, the poet William Carlos Williams called poems “little machines,” as he treated them as mechanical, human-engineered, and precise. But here too, the metaphor breaks down. A worn-out part on an automobile can be switched out with a nearly identical part and run as it did before. In a poem, a word exchanged for another word (even a close synonym) can alter the entire functioning of the poem.”
How my heart speaks 