FROM MUMSNET

“On another note, my dad is a pharmacist and had someone come in and complain that the Caneston pessaries weren’t working. Turned out she’d been eating them.

I wonder what she used the applicator for?

As we lay together in the night
Open to the other and their gaze
We saw the spirit and its loving light

Now I dwell alone and out of sight
I miss  the other and his different ways
Did we rest together in the night?

Where’s the spirit,  I’m alone distraught.
Can it be other to my downcast face?
We saw the spirit, now I’ve lost its light.

God is  not a fish that can be caught
May peaceful contemplation  help  to aloss erase
Did we dream together in the night?

Grace  to find one’s path as comes midnight
Dies irae, requiem  sauvage.
We saw the spirit and its loving light

What is night and where are my own days?
Can I  endure its  piercing  mental pain
As I lie alone at  dead of night
Send the spirit, enfold me in   light

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/68606/spiritual-poetry

“The root of “spirit” is the Latin spirare, to breathe. Whatever lives on the breath, then, must have its spiritual dimension— including all poems, even the most unlikely. Philip Larkin, Sylvia Plath, William Carlos Williams: all poets of spiritual life. A useful exercise of soul would be to open any doorstop-sized anthology at random a dozen times and find in each of the resulting pages its spiritual dimension. If the poems are worth the cost of their ink, it can be done.

But, no, I’ve been asked to choose, to recommend. The poems I suggest here are this moment’s choices, not “the best spiritual poems” (a phrase weighing nothing in so intimate and personal a context). The “gates” are an equally personal selection of entrance points into spiritual life. Some of the poems are well known, others less so. Each stands representative of many others. Each also, for me, plunges into the heart of the matter at hand, bearing witness in some essential way.”

GATE 1. PERMEABILITY
Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house.

Izumi Shikibu (Japan, 974?-1034?) [translated by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratani]

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

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

Do not leave me, do not my love scorn
Lost and gone are all 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 were my loved ones

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

The Nuremberg “Laws did not identify a “Jew”
as someone
with particular religious beliefs.
Instead, the first amendment
to the Nuremberg Laws defined anyone
who had three
or four~
Jewish grandparents
as a Jew,
regardless
of whether that individual
recognized himself or herself
as a Jew
or belonged to the Jewish religious community.
Many Germans
who had not practised Judaism
or who had not done so for years
found themselves caught
in the grip of Nazi terror.
Even people
with Jewish grandparents
who had converted
to Christianity
could be defined as Jews.”

*Even God himself was Jewish!* that was before he left

Today I’m quietly sorting out
Or packing neatly into boxes sensible
All the USB cords spread about

Help comes as I swig some old  black stout
Guinness can make  strife invisible
Today I’m softly sorting out.

Revolution in my mind unsought,
Cut down thoughts unprincipled
Toward our USB cords hereabouts

On bad days  I’m overcome by doubt
In suffering anguish,  clearly visible.
Yet today I’m kindly sorting it all out.

I believe they procreate without
The knowledge of their owners  quizzical;
Lord, these USB cords lounge about.

My living room was named “original.”
I’m on TV and going digital
Now I am still sorting/throwing out
The USB cords straggling hereabouts

I used to have one red box which contained all my USB cords and cables.I decided to make life easier by separating the ones with plugs on [chargers] from the ones without.Now I have two boxes which both seem full.I’d better not get 4 boxes to divide these up or by Xmas I might have 256! [2 to the power 8]
That could be catastrophic in my  living room

Horned pasties
Cornish Hasties
Dawlish lobster teas
Cream T shirts
Full English Brexit
Full British Exit.
Devon Breaks Fast
Gender-free public inconvenience offered with meals.
Creamed tea with silver teaspoon
Sliced bread and daughter.
Whips with everything.
Soft corns
Meringues in beef dripping
Bacon filled tarts.
Free waiter with dinner
Chapel cider.
Hopping beer
Scottish caught bread.
Kindle mint rake.
Handel mind flakes
Dashing chips
Kosher food on buttered toast with cream and minced ham.
Cutlery is usually accompanied by food
Would you like to risk it while we have our tea?

I have come to the conclusion that when we are in a bad mood,feeling sad  or just tired we give off negative vibrations which repel our possessions especially the ones we like best like a special ring, the pen grandad gave you just before he died etc

And when your mood alters suddenly you begin to find them.In some cases. it almost seems as if you see the object drop out of thin air onto your bed.As if attracted like iron is to a magnet.

And the upside of searching is you find other things you gave up on.

But stop looking frantically and do something to relax.It works for me.

Main course

Potato tramplings in beef  glue with white rubbish
Semolina Gnocchi with creamed bees
Potato Gnocchi with fried ants.
Macaroni, cheese and mixed solids
Spaghetti with meat paws
Roast leaf of English oak with chips and green fleas.
Haddock with steamed paving and mesh.
Kippers smoked and burned at the table.

Pudding

Bring your own cream

Apple harlot with custody
Pears broached  divine
Apple ply and noodles with manila ice cream
Rice jelly with Basingstoke and raisings
Yoghurt with yew barbs .Bring your own grated nits.
Creme New Laid.
Trifle and burberries with clotted stream.

All meals served with rotted tea, bread and real Highland butter.Bring your own saucers.Cups ok but not Chinese.

Thank you for your customs.All is kosher except the bacon sandwiches [ made in Britain and eaten in Gales] Please do not bring cats, dogs, pigs or sheep.Children in small doses  on Weekends

Admire the old  arthritic man I met
The angels shake their heads at human life
On his head a crown of laurels set

I was by  nausea and my nerves beset
Unfit to be companion  or be wife
Admire the old  arthritic man I met

His face seems smiling even when he’s not
He will never be a source of strife
On his head a crown of laurels set

He lives in a world where  Hate  dwells not
His glances are not sharp as are my knives
Admire the old  arthritic man I met

Give me patience with my daily lot.
Throw off that critic who forever strives.
On John’s head, a crown of laurels set

Count to ten, or at least count to five
Anger and aversion destroy lives
Admire this old  arthritic man I met
On his head a crown of laurels set

In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones
The man was old and small and  used a crutch
Letting bitter rage scream from my bones

Oh, better it would be to utter moans
Than let my anguish out in feet or inch.
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones

What a person is may soon be known
He  turned and smiled as if I’d brought him luck
Letting bitter rage  scream from my bones

So this old man’s mature and fully grown
And will not cause me pain by any trick
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones

Can I ever call my soul my own;
I, unfit, his ancient boots to lick
Letting bitter rage  scream from my bones

I seemed  colder than a stone or brick
His love made my own errors feel antic
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones
Letting bitter hurt scream from my bones

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/70036/freedom-in-poetry

Extract:””Impulses, swerves, collisions, flights, descents, gags, indirections, surprises, exploding cigars,

“”Impulses, swerves, collisions, flights, descents, gags, indirections, surprises, exploding cigars, non sequiturs: all are allowed or encouraged, and all in some sense begin to create their own principles.

There are no rules, but uniformity in art can make it feel as though there are rules: the more unconscious or unperceived (as with widely accepted fashions), the more confining.

A reigning style can feel tyrannical: the assumptions behind it so well-established that there seem to be no alternatives. But there are always alternatives. How might a resourceful, ambitious artist get past or around a perceived tyranny? European painters early in the twentieth century, challenging the academic norm, found something useful in Japanese cigarette papers and African masks.

The past can offer a useful way of rebelling against the orthodoxies of the present. The early modernist poets revived interest in John Donne and Andrew Marvell, not because they wanted to correct the academic reading lists—that was a side effect—but because they were impatient with late-late Romantic, post-Victorian softness. They craved models of hard-edged intelligence and lightning wit.

In the 1970s, a young poet I knew described the manner most prevalent in the magazines and writing workshops of those days as “just grooving on images.” I remember that poet—now a considerable and innovative figure—introducing me to James Shirley’s “The Glories of Our Blood and State,” praising the poem for the force of its statement and idiom, the cogency of its propositions, and its cadences. Those elements carried along the effectively minimal imagery: swords and laurels and breath, even the conventional “icy hand” of death.”

I used to have a husband, how we played!
He was funny, kind and caring in sweet ways
I think he’s in the other room today

He hated Mervyn Stockwood, unsure why
Ian Paisley was another who dismayed
I used to have a husband  and  he prayed

He  never comes to see me,  since last May
Nor brings in our old tea pot on a tray
I think he’s in the other room again

I think I hear him walking night and day
He opened up the window  for my eyes
I used to have a husband in my Play

So I played being Missus B  today
But he did not ever enter, as he’s fey.
I think he’s in the other room again

He was quite an artist of the wry.
He liked Bacon, Freud and yes he loved Paul Klee
I used to have a husband, I feel grey.
I think he must be moving rooms today

What she wore was a striped cat and a  classic navy dress with creme spots
Then later she wore bride legged jeans and a slogan T-shirt saying, I combined
At breakfast, after her first night of married fuss she wore a racy negligee covered by a long Burberry branch
She always looked very keen and tidy.
However, he was put out as he looked like the cat who found the clean.His pyjamas had no mutton at all.
For visiting Torquay, she wore her Alex and Co wavey slacks and a  lime sweatshirt saying, I’m your man.Signed, Eliezer HaCohen.Amen.

What is the placebo affect now
When schizoids alienated do not care?
The feelings that you have might cause a row!

Keeping  mobile faces stiff and how
When the eyes of that  potato are unbared.
Where is the  more pleasing affect now?

He let his affect uneffected show.
To the spectral like myself, it seems unfair
The feelings that I have will cause a row!

The spirits I had lost began to glow
Wittgenstein  said he believed in prayer
How does the deceiver’s affect know?

Come my lonely heart and take a bow;
Before the phallic symbol stands and stares
The feelings that I have will cause a row!

Come my little heart from compressed lairs
Unconstricted love is all  we share
Love is my placebo affect now
The feelings that I know will cause no row!

1. For Older Pests, click Here.

2 Tagged as morbid, eerie, never can tell.

3.If you wrote this well don’t. Congratulations

4.This blog is co-ghosted with my brother, Liked

5. If you think I am no God, I don’t mind.Give me sore specific details

6 I loved your roast today.Much better than  poor usual

7. Did WHO write this?

8. You are a wood grater in my loo.

9 This poem is so good I read all of it.I am trying tonight I ran out of men’s prankies.So no more poems are allowed by  Word Press, Police.

Butterflies can light upon a rose

And sparrows miss the prickly holly leaf

https://www.merriam-webster.com/news-trend-watch/ivanka-an-otherwise-incredible-day-20170920

Although to us the past may seem well known
Reading in the library or the net
The future’s fiction and the past has gone

We cannot hear the murdered as they groan
We cannot meet the folk our mothers met
And yet to us, the past may seem well known

Visit the old street which you called home
See the house now strangers’ habitat
The future’s fiction and the past has gone

See the Synagogues’ and Mosques’  fine stone
Infinite our perspectives and the facts
And  absent thought, the past may seem well known

See the Vatican  where pigeons roam
Showing like the demons, lack of tact
The future’s fiction and the past has gone

Yet, in the  timelines of our facial web
The past is here and not with  people dead
Although to us the past’s imagined, known
The future’s fiction and the past a stone

The age of  all-out war, an accident
An Archduke shot. an Empire on the brink
In a narrow street, an incident.

Nobody stood up as a dissident
In their games, did leaders wish  to pause
The age of nuclear war, by accident?

In many narrow streets, coincidence,
Since apples destroyed Eden, Newton  caused
In a narrow street, an incident.

Inevitably none  get all they want
From mother’s milk to dolls and other toys
The age of  all-out war, and infants’ rants

The time we have got left is rather scant
And there is  threatened bombing every day
In a narrow street, what incident?

There is no peace, just space between the wars
In her pram, the baby ignites toys
The age of all-out war, an accident?
In a narrow street, what incident?

Wilipedia: Shooting of heir to Austro-Hungarian Empire 1914

Fatal shooting

The aftermath of the assassination^[73]

Princip’s FN Model 1910 pistol, displayed at the Museum of Military History, Vienna, 2009

After learning that the first assassination attempt had been unsuccessful, Princip thought about a position to assassinate the Archduke on his return journey, and decided to move to a position in front of a nearby food shop (Schiller’s delicatessen), near the Latin Bridge.^[74] At this point the Archdukes’ motorcade turned off the Appel Quay, mistakenly following the original route which would have taken them to the National Museum. Governor Potiorek, who was sharing the second vehicle with the Imperial couple, called out to the driver to reverse and take the Quay to the hospital. Driver Lojka stopped the car close to where Princip was standing, prior to backing up. The latter stepped forward and fired two shots from a distance of about one and a half metres (5 feet) using a Belgian-made 9×17mm (.380 ACP) Fabrique Nationale model 1910 semi-automatic pistol. Pistol serial numbers 19074, 19075, 19120 and 19126 were supplied to the assassins; Princip used #19074.^[75] According to Albertini, “the first bullet wounded the Archduke in the jugular vein, the second inflicted an abdominal wound on the Duchess.”^[76] Princip was immediately arrested. At his sentencing, Princip stated that his intention had been to kill Governor Potiorek, rather than Sophie.^[77]

Too old for cold,
I stand, now, against the hedge,
Watching the snow fall in the glare of neon street lights.
Darkness has come early,
I think of country uplands and huddled sheep.
On Salisbury Plain, shepherds watched their flocks
Just as in Bethlehem two thousand years before.
And then, exactly when?
“Between the wars”, it stopped
.Now we know there is no “Between the wars”.
And who decided
To cull the sheep and shepherds
And the space for kindness?
Now that same Plain still exists, but banned
And closed to human-kind,
For bombs, not wombs
Nor for birth of lamb, nor gypsy child, nor Saviour
Where would He go today?