https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57421/war-and-peace-56d23aeecfe57
War and Peace
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57421/war-and-peace-56d23aeecfe57
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57421/war-and-peace-56d23aeecfe57
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57421/war-and-peace-56d23aeecfe57
My husband suffered from delusions for a few days but they made him very happy.I wonder if our temperament and way of life can influence us should we ever get delusions?
He was very frail.I was in the kitchen and he came to me and said
It’s so wonderful being with you.
This was not something he said very often!
I replied, but you are with me always
No, he said,I am usually with Katherine
I realised then he was seeing his mother.
Since he looked so happy I didn’t contradict him despite one of his close friends telling me I should.I have known people with odd minds and I am ok with it.
The only problem was that he began to ask questions
Where is Dad?
Why have you not remarried [ looking at me with glowing affection and admiration
Where did you go for your honeymoon?
Why did your boss have a wooden leg [I worked out it must have been WW1
Anyway for about 3 days he remained like this until the antibiotics worked
I was glad to know how much he had loved his mother.And if he was happy why should I argue?He might have suffered distress and was already very ill


Mary sat in her bijou but well-designed blue kitchen reading email on her Windows 13 laptop.She was feeling quite weak after a bout of pneumonia and cystitis despite having Dave the paramedic visit every day with chicken soup
She found a new email from her old friend who has been away
I hate you, so much, Mary, it began ominously as love and hate are closely linked
I wonder if it is something I have done, Mary thought, or is it my essential self he hates and why now after all these years?
You are always explaining things to me as if I am dumb
Oh, dear, Mary thought.The perils of being a keen mathematician and also a foolish woman are many
I have got more and more annoyed with you especially since you threw that brick through my Windows.I am not coming tonight to be with you.You can get stuffed you crackling font.And I shall never forgive you as I never do forgive anyone even if I made a mistake.I can’t bear the shame and humiliation
Does he mean I broke his new Dell Windows 10 computer, she asked herself
Or a window in his apartment?
But he lives on the second floor and at my age, I can’t even carry a brick let alone hurls one so high and so accurately
Still, he is old so someone smashing his windows would be disturbing to him and make him angry
Or is the word BRICK a metaphor? It might mean his self esteem is shattered like shop windows in riots often have been
As for his language, it reminded her that religious people tend to swear more and also commit more sexual offences, or get found out more
Mary] looked down at her once beautiful blue tweed skirt which had a few moth holes in it
Oh, well. if he is not coming to visit I can keep wearing this holey skirt.He doesn’t like older women in jeans as he prefers looking at young women’s bottoms despite his religion.So I would have had to wear my one remaining decent velvet winter skirt.I am too lazy to want to change.
Suddenly her late husband’s former mistress Annie ran in
She was wearing a magenta wool tracksuit and green stiletto heels with pink ankle socks topped by a purple velvet trench coat with matching lipstick
Good heavens, Mary cried.You look very attractive, where did you get that coat from?
I got it in a jumble sale at the church, Annie muttered.Those new people are very rich and only wear clothes twice!
I shall have to come, said Mary, look at my skirt!She burst into tears which was a rare event.
Her little cat Emile was terrified.
Don’t cry, mother he whispered
.I will sleep with you tonight if that idiot is not coming
What! Don’t tell me that Peter has broken up with you.He seems so charming,delightful and well educated and his works of art are brilliant and innovative.Still it was better than a text message
Yes, he just sent me an email calling me a crackling font
Perhaps he is mixing you up with someone else.Anyway, if he is heterosexual he should love a nice female organ or two
That’s too rational,Annie dear.Only the gynaecologist loves it.She took some photos again!
Good grief.Did she show you? asked Annie.
No, said Mary.I don’t want to see it but since I’ve been going there for 3 years it seems bigger than before.Maybe the photos to be put into a medical journal.To think my memorial will not be my face but my vulva.Someone said vulva is a rude word and I should say vagina but that makes no sense to me and it is an error anyway scientifically
She’s not done anything to make it bigger?
No, it must be all the attention it gets that makes it feel bigger in my mind
Still , without a boyfriend, it’s not even worth thinking of.
Well, you can DIY, Annie told her but for us women it’s the lying down gazing into someone’s eyes and smiling that matters more than the rest
Emile miaowed: Look into my eyes, mother.Or can’t Annie?
I’ll be getting an Electra complex, Mary told him.You don’t do erotic things with your mother nor with a lady who once slept with your dead husband while he was still alive!
Well we cats don’t know our cat mothers so we might have a good time with them unknowing
If only I were a cat, Mary muttered as she wept again clutching a box of Kleenex for Sad Women
Ring 999, Emile.Annie said.We need help now
Hello, my mum’s boyfriend has split with her by email.Can you send an ambulance for the computer, she hit it with a shoe and broke the screen
OK, will do, the lady replied courteously.Would you like some meringues too?
My goodness, since Brexit the NHS is even better.I should have asked for a steak and kidney pie as well.And mashed carrots.
And so say all of us
Can I have a disengagement ring?
Just don’t use the phone.
Do you like gold wedding rings?
What alternatives are there? Shackles?
i just agreed to a divorce
From whom?
He didn’t say but his number is on my phone.I am getting a million pounds settlement if I send him my credit card number by text
I want a stay at home mother.
Why?
So I can go out!
Hire someone
That’s ironic
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/dear-advice-columnist
Epithalamion? Not too long back
I was being ironic about “wives.”
It’s very well to say, creation thrives
on contradiction, but that’s a fast track
shifted precipitately into. Tacky,
some might say, and look mildly appalled. On
the whole, it’s one I’m likely to be called on.
Explain yourself or face the music, Hack.
No law books frame terms of this covenant.
It’s choice that’s asymptotic to a goal,
which means that we must choose, and choose, and choose
momently, daily. This moment my whole
trajectory’s toward you, and it’s not losing
momentum. Call it anything we want.

http://www.textetc.com/modernist/postmodernism.html
Extract:
Art, politics, public service, life in the great institutions — in none of these could be found any bedrock of unassailable probity. Serious shortcomings could be found in science, mathematics, linguistics, sociology, philosophy — in whatever purported to be true knowledge. All involved assumptions, cultural understandings, agreements as to what counted as important, and how that importance should be assessed. Even our language was imprecise, communal and secondhand. Where did reality stop and interpretation begin? In truth there was no essential difference between art and life: both were fictions. Was psychoanalysis a myth? Very well, so then were science and the humanities. All were self-supporting and self-referencing variably coherent systems with truths that were not transportable.
No doubt history has some ticklish problems of interpretation, but few suppose that the holocaust never happened. Even admirers of Paul de Mann were suddenly aroused from their solipsist musings when damaging evidence was found for their hero’s earlier support of Nazi ideas. No one can see how the exterior world can be unmediated by our senses and understandings, but the philosophic problems of asserting that reality is entirely created by language and intellectual concepts are formidable indeed. Science has its procedures and limitations, but its supposed “myths ” work in ways other myths do not. All disciplines have their own view of the world, but they are not equivalent or equally acceptable. Postmodernism largely overlooks how reality constrains actions, language and art.
Whence comes this desire for autonomy, for circumscribing form, for aesthetic shape? Look clearly at art and the dissonances will appear just as prominently. The New Criticism and traditional aesthetics simply left them out of account. Deviation from the expected, foregrounding, departures from the conventional are the essence of art, as Ramon Jacobson and the Russian formalists demonstrated. Art will be much stronger for being shapeless, indefinite, even incoherent. Nor need we stick rigidly to genres, or refrain from pastiche and parody. Art is the whole world, and the more that can be included the richer the artwork.
But of course,
no such essence of art was ever demonstrated. No doubt the New Critics did speak too glibly of aesthetic harmonies and tension resolution, and poems could always be read that way, given sufficient ingenuity. Yet there are limits. The differences between a competent and an outstanding work of art may be difficult to prove to a first-year student, but everyone attests to the increasing discrimination that comes with love of the subject and prolonged study. It is a common observation that art begins in selection, and that an etching or black and white photograph may possess powers in proportion to what they exclude. If that is denied — and it is denied by Postmodernist — then many contemporary artworks will have no appeal to the more traditionally-minded, which is indeed the case.

Underneath the shallow pools lies sand
Where shells are fractured by the ocean’s blows
We soon learn what being alive demands
To bare feet on sunny days beckoned
The warm wet trickles in between the toes
Underneath the shallow pools lies sand
In whose sums are human kisses kenned
Calculation, not so bleak it shows
We learn by pain, true living makes demands
God allows the abacus unchained
To sum us up as if we are unknown
Underneath the pools, are these his hands?
Who will be allowed and who detained?
Like refugees, we come to love alone
We try to be alive, despite the pain
Our hearts are fragile shells, not heavy stones
We, soft flesh, enraptured by framed bones.
Darkly on the beach we humans stand
The fretting waves cry out with love’s demands
Crunching through the pebbles on the beach
The shells and stones shine damply in the wet
They slip and slide beneath my sandalled feet
Underneath, in places we can’t reach
Live tiny creatures on which humans step
Crunching through the pebbles on the beach
Salty air like sunshine colours bleach
The neutered stones and shells are lovely yet
They slip and slide beneath my sandalled feet
We murder without knowing what we teach
Human greed, dark oceans of regret
Scrunching through the pebbles on the beach
The smallest of all creatures cannot screech
Say humans acts still shapeless are a threat
Worlds slip and slide beneath my first world feet
The blurred edge of the sea and sand’s not set
The boundaries make a space for what’s not yet
Loving are my memories of the beach
They slip and slide in wondrous retrospect
http://www.eng.fju.edu.tw/Literary_Criticism/postmodernism/pm_poetry.html
“Superior Lake” by Lorine Niedecker as an Example
| Language | Self | Modernism | Postmodernism |
| General concepts about serial & procedural forms | Serial form | Procedural form | “Lake Superior” |
Taiwanese Postmodern Poetry (an Outline in Chinese)
Postmodern poetics respond to the condition of the world. In an age of instant telecommunications and metropolitan life, the postmodern serial and procedural forms attempt to accommodate the overwhelming diversity of messages and the lapse of a grand order that is replaced by an arbitrary personal order.
I. Language
A. In postmodern poetics, there is a paradigmatic shift from the idea that language is
transparent to the disclosure of its physicality, its intimacy, its obdurate persistence, and its
paradoxical fragility. (M 43)
B. Reader¡Xpoem:
The reader’s position is contingent upon the poem and the poem¡¦s existence hinges upon
the reader and the varieties of knowledge the reader brings to the poem¡KThe adequation of
thing and sign has lapsed with the realization of the arbitrary condition of language. (M 43)
II. Self
A. Contemporary poetry:
1. Contemporary poetry positions its perspectives from a persona (who is often autobiographic) within a defined narrative structure.
2. Contemporary poetry avoids self-criticism and establishes itself as a singled unified voice. (M 48)
B. Postmodern poetry:
1. Postmodernist poetics suggests an ongoing reinterpretation of the self in the context of others. It specifically investigates the ethical-or self-critical capacity of language and its relationship to identity. (M 46)2. The critique of the privileged and entitled ¡§I¡¨ is central to postmodern poetics. While not a wholesale endorsement of many theoretic claims to he death of the author or the abandonment of intention, postmodern poetry nonetheless insists on a re-visioning of the authorial voice and its reception. (M 46)
Read the article
If the cat speaks, purr it
The King won’t get his horse to speak to you.
I nearly had kittens when the cat wanted to mate.
My nervous system is involuntary
I am introverted and good at yoga based topology
i took my final degree with a thermometer
I never could spell Schrodinger nor could I tell anyone.
I could try psycho-analysis or compromise and be a psycho.
I wanted bereavement counselling so I married a dying man.
I like reading, it’s just the words that annoy me.
My husband slept in the shed as he wanted me to get a boyfriend.Preferably bisexual.Anyway, the cat didn’t like that.He had a very yelling nature.
MATHS
I spent 9 years studying maths and I realised it’s basically notation for notions
If you estimate you can run across the road before that fast car can hit you, you are unconsciously doing calculus.The hard part is making it conscious.
Looking at the garden as a world
The overgrown becomes a rich terrain
Where myriad living forms seem uncontrolled
But make a balanced whole in shades of green
What I hear are calls from nesting birds
The sway of breeze among forsythia’s gold
The patterned snails, the slugs cannot be heard
Nor can the slow worm’s wiser words be told
The pattern is a natural life, a wood
Where Cambridge monks had ponds and trees
Ten Cedars tall were chopped till dead
But still remain their long striped bees
Small in your eyes, infinite in mine
Such marvelled worlds can’t be designed
“I get up
in the morning, torture a typewriter until it screams, then stop.” – Clarence Budington Kelland
“…I discovered that if I trusted my subconscious, or imagination, whatever you want to call it, and if I made the characters as real and honest as I could, then no matter how complex the pattern being woven, my subconscious would find ways to tie it together – often doing things far more complicated and sophisticated than I could with brute conscious effort. I would have ideas for ‘nodes,’ as I think of them – story or character details that have lots of potential connections to other such nodes – and even though I didn’t quite understand, I would plunk them in. Two hundred pages later, everything would back-fit, and I’d say, ‘Ah, that’s why I wrote that.’” – Tad Williams
“In many cases when a reader puts a story aside because it ‘got boring,’ the boredom arose because the writer grew enchanted with his powers of description and lost sight of his priority, which is to keep the ball rolling.” – Stephen King
“Writing a book is a blood sport. If it doesn’t hurt when you’re done, you’re probably doing something wrong.” – Kevis Hendrickson
“Writing is a lot like making soup. My subconscious cooks the idea, but I have to sit down at the computer to pour it out.”- Robin Wells

BBC News image
http://www.vancouverobserver.com/blogs/betweenus/writer-urges-us-reclaim-our-sleep
At issue here is our inner life. In a chapter called “The Social Divide,” Duff describes the widening gap between sleep and waking consciousness. She briefly traces the history of the marginalization of not only our own subjective experience, but also the mythologies that once provided its context.
“I was most familiar with Greek mythology,” she explained. “[The Greeks] paid a lot of attention to sleep and dreams and how that material is worked in us. I was surprised to find out how my Eastern philosophical traditions had studied sleep. Three or four thousand years [later], we think we’ve just discovered it. But there’s so much folklore and cultural life passed down from generation to generation. Everything that mothers learn from their mothers to promote sleep [like] lullabies.
“With the Enlightenment we sort of erased our awareness. Darkness became aligned with [what] we were tying to rise above—emotions, feelings. We wanted rational control, and you can’t control sleep. Sleep is one of the ways we return to nature. By responding to alternating phases of light and darkness, we return to our natural cycles, and join with all of life.”
Sleep and health
It’s no news that regular sleep is important to our overall health. In her work as a counsellor, Duff has found increasingly that a good night’s sleep is instrumental—even essential—to our emotional well-being. As part of her intake process, she routinely asks her clients how they are sleeping.
“Once they got more sleep,” she said, “their issues became more manageable. Even bipolar disorder and major depression are often preceded by six months of sleep problems.”
On the other hand, as she states in the book, the “effects of sleep disruption on mood, perception, and behavior are so strong” physicians sometimes misdiagnose patients as having psychiatric disorders when those patients “simply need better sleep.”
Along with diagnoses come medications. In a chapter on the commercialization of sleep, Duff notes: “The use of sleeping pills among adults between twenty and forty-five doubled between 2000 and 2004. In 2011, 60 million Americans filled prescriptions for sleep medications, up from 46 million in 2006.”
Statistics that I find deeply disturbing.
The problem is not so much the amount of sleep we get or how we get it, as it is our relationship with sleep.
“We want to commodify it,” said Duff. “[We want sleep to] help our days be better rather than offering its own vantage point. It’s about productivity. We keep going over the day’s events, but we process them with a different mind, much more associative, which works more by Gestalt. That’s why people will come up with solutions [when they’re asleep]. It’s non-conscious processing, which goes on when we’re awake as well. But we don’t pay attention to that either.”
Duff points out that the problem isn’t with science, but with “scientism”. She is glad that scientists are paying attention to sleep and making serious studies, but she worries about them “jumping on the bandwagon of making money—selling us machines and pills.”
She encourages us to take back our sleep, which she likens to a “n
For three years I’ve not seen the apple tree
Although it must be there, I cannot look.
It’s full of blossom in its industry
My heart has faltered, memories besiege
I cannot escape into my books
For three years I’ve not seen the apple tree
I might pray for life or be deceived
By guests who want to sample what I cook
It’s full of butter, cream and poignancy
When will my watch be over, when my plea?
I hate to read the papers.see the crooks
This year I shall see my apple tree
Can I be consoled in my deep grief
In meadows full of poppies and corn stooks?
Apple blossom shows the trees’ belief
When he died, the pillars marble shook
We bent down and kissed the Holy Book
For three years I’ve not seen the apple tree
Eve is weeping in deep mystery
Th broken lamp once lit our little night
In silent harmony, we read, or sewed and wrote
The smaller cheaper lamp now gives me light
I wish the shining lamp was in my sight
Oh, your mellow voice. I miss its notes
The broken lamp once lit our little night
God does not assist me in my plight
Nor does he send me Joseph’s coloured coat
A smaller cheaper lamp now gives me light
Remember Southwold and the river Blythe?
To Walberswick we went in that old boat
There we bought the lamp and blue bowls bright
Now memory is of teal green seas at Hythe
The burning stubble, Saxon cliffs well-wrought
My smaller world seems withered, over scythed
Joy and sorrow twined teach nothing’s bought
The sacred flame extinguished can’t be caught
The broken lamp brings sorrow to my sight
But shadowed memories of our life ignite
I wear my heart displayed upon my face. Attentive readers find their meaning there.. Where feelings thought too deep to be expressed Can shine demurely where they do not scare. As Freud observed we're never quite disguised Betrayal is our body's real motif The message comes conspicuous from the eyes.. Bright sparkles or your tears of blackest grief. The answer to a question seems to leap Yes or No is visibly revealed. The blush that spreads so fast across the cheeks Both bold and shy unable to conceal. Your face tells me you lied when Love you wrote. Yet let us sing our songs as we are poets.
The gold forsythia gleams like holy fire
Deep within its heart rest nesting birds
Sun so bright is free and not for hire
We need new Spring when human tongues turn liars
As politicians prance with gun and sword
The gold forsythia gleams like hellish fire
The natural world is breath and so inspired
But where is God and where the sacred Word?
Sun so bright is free and not for hire
Sleeping Beauty lay within deep briars
Yet silent bombs destroy the heart unheard
The gold forsythia gleams like warning fire
For the risen God, we join the choir
Singing for creation with new words
Sun delights, is free and makes no pyre
Glory in the little nesting birds
Singing blackbirds, love is everywhere
The gold forsythia gleams like undreamed fire
Sun so well endowed makes well our eyes

Orchid copyright Mike Flemming published with permission
When our skin feels vulnerable and frail
Slighter than a cobweb’s weave of silk
Then doubt may hold us back like iron rails
Fearful of bad news in our new mail
Our mood swings like a seesaw at fast tilt
Then our hearts feel vulnerable and frail
Like a frightened dog with drooping tail
Bad news strikes like a sword plunged to the hilt
Pain may hold us back like prison rails
We sentence our own souls and give no bail
Fearful of the strong, from iron built
Oh, how our hearts feel vulnerable and frail
Like a shoe encumbered with a nail
Our being harms us through our own bad will
Pain imprisons us like iron rails
Fear of judgement and our end term bill
Takes from us our goodness and goodwill
When our skin feels delicate and frail
Then doubt may trap us in our self-made jails
The sun enfolds me in its wealth of light
Caressing eyes and making love seem right
Forgot,the lonely darkness in a trance
When spring begins its equinoxal dance
Forgotten too is how the frost can bite
And how warm lethargy turns day to night
As we lie indoors like parasites
Into lighted windows, I will glance
A minor crime when brightness draws my sight
Here’s a drying rack with clothes mutant
Here’s a sill entirely filled with plants
Imagine you’re a spy and see our plight
The mirror crackles, full of long-held spite

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/69080/the-politics-of-poetry
“Many objections can be made to these assumptions, but it’s important to note first that poetry and politics are both matters of verbal persuasion—that is, both have strong connections to the art of rhetoric. Admittedly, poets and politicians are typically trying to persuade us of very different things, yet the two worlds have far more in common with each other than either does with, for instance, the world of Brazilian jujitsu. In light of that, one would think poets might get a little more respect from political speakers, and that political speakers might refrain from comparing their purely verbal existence to the decidedly non-verbal world of physical violence.
But they don’t. Instead, the relationship between American poetry and American politics is confused and confusing, with politicians sometimes describing the highest moments in political life as “poetic” (“I have a dream”), and other times offering up poetry as a symbol of empty talk. And of course, American poets are even more conflicted. Rare is the poet who doesn’t view himself as deeply invested in political life, and yet the sloppy, compromised, and frequently idiotic business of democracy—which is, for all its flaws, the way most political changes occur in this country—rarely attracts the attention of our best poets. Is this the inevitable order of things? Or are all the talkers simply talking past each other?
* * *
We might first ask: Why are they talking about each other at all? We don’t spend much time wondering what poetry has to do with neuroscience or television writing or college basketball, yet these are important areas of American life that involve assertions about truth, form, morality, and the nature of culture—all subjects regularly claimed as poetry’s turf. Yet the connection between poetry and politics interests us in ways that the arguably more obvious connection between poetry and linguistics does not. Why? ”
Read the article
Random apples
Fall silently
On unknown Newtons








The lamp here has caused me pain because I loved it.My husband fell over and broke it just before he died.It snapped off and the neck is very narrow so I can’t remove the fitting to replace it
After all this time, I have decided to keep it just as a piece of pottery to show the fragility of life
I
told the teacher I was very tense so I can’t learn puncturation,She said I might be schizophrenic so I offered her my largactil but she grows her own
You get put into a psychiatric unit if you annoy or frighten a lot of people.It’s easy to do it so how come the FB chap Zuckerman is still at large?
You have to give people what they want otherwise they put you out with the cat
For success in life , keep dreaming
My mother took me down a peg or two but my coat has no hanger up loop.
The teacher gave me some sweets and I said,I hope it’s contextual wrecks for both of us
I never resented his advances.I thought it was a disability
If men like women, why do they trespass onto them?
Forgive us our trespasses, that’s for men only
He emits sin daily
Go to Expression
What,Amass?
Can sin be mortal and where do I die after it?
Convenient sin is not as bad as Borstal
Menial sin is lowering to the pride of the sinner
Remedial sin classes on Fri 8 pm weekly
Agreeable sin list £5 this week
Undeniable sin is public
Unreliable sin is when the other person won’t join you.
You are liable for sin tax if you are of working age.
Did you know God permits sin so we can have free wills
Do not omit a sin on Sundays before Mass
Confirmation bias is worrying the Bishop
We’ll confirm you unless you use tampax,Then we will throw you out!You little bleeders
They say the Bishop is more humble than I am and after greeting him I think that is the clue
He sexually abused the mop in the kitchen as its head reminded him of women’s hair.Is it legal?
He never watches porn as he can fantasise, you see.Well, you can’t actually see it but you do understand my dreaming?
Isn’t the alphabet great? It helps us to mate daily

Collage from sketches by Katherine
I saw he had a puncture in his self esteem
She was too depressed to benefit from the gifts of depression
I saw three ladies in the hall, so I said,Is this a public convenience?
Then there was a man in the kitchen with a gas mask.I said,I don’t speak Russian so how did you get in?
Secretly I believe I am so important that I am the only person here who the government are protecting,including themselves.I will feel lonely though.
He fell into the bog and learned to swim in it
“Make friends with your inner enemy.” the best book of 2018
“How to fool yourself “is a rather silly title for a novel,
I saw a sign:Please leave the grass. [But where?]
I thought Shakespeare was a sonnet
To sum up, algebra leads to the atom bomb so what will geometry lead to?
How I married a maths-phobic and learned to love him anyway
Finally,self esteem is more easily punctured than humility