http://www.telegraph.co.uk/books/authors/the-best-british-political-insults-rows-and-putdowns/robert-peel/

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69592/poems-for-peace

“Yet we Americans live in the most powerful country in the world, whose adaptably postmodern empire is marked by what William James calls Pure War, a state in which the real war is the constant preparation for war. Though our poetry has ably represented the traumatic and unmaking operations of war—from the rage of Achilles on to our present day—it has also often unwittingly glorified and perpetuated a culture of war. We have yet to give adequate attention to how our poetry also contains the seeds of other ways of dealing with conflict, oppression, and injustice, and how it may advance our thinking into what a future without war might look like.

How to imagine peace, how to make peace? In our conversations on the Peace Shelf, three general subcategories emerged, though these were full of overlap and contradiction: Sorrows, Resistance, and Alternative Visions. It’s simple enough: we need to witness and chronicle the horrors of war, we need to resist and find models of resistance, and we need to imagine and build another world. Even if modern poetry has been marked by a resistance to the glorification of war, vividly shown by the World War I soldier poets and many others, the important work of poetic dissent has been, too often, via negativa—resistance to the dominant narrative, rather than offering another way.

Even Denise Levertov—one of the self-consciously anti-war poets on any Peace Shelf—found herself at a loss for words at a panel in the 1980s, when Virginia Satir called upon Levertov and other poets to “present to the world images of peace, not only of war; everyone needed to be able to imagine peace if we were going to achieve it.” In her response, “Poetry and Peace: Some Broader Dimensions” (1989), Levertov argues that “peace as a positive condition of society, not merely as an interim between wars, is something so unknown that it casts no images on the mind’s screen.” But she does proceed further: “if a poetry of peace is ever to be written, there must first be this stage we are just entering—the poetry of preparation for peace, a poetry of protest, of lament, of praise for the living earth; a poetry that demands justice, renounces violence, reveres mystery.” That Levertov lays out succinctly what we ourselves, the Peace Shelf collective, took some weeks to arrive at, illuminates the challenge of the peace movement and of the literature that engages it; our conversations, our living history and past, are scattered, marginal, unfunded, and all too easily forgotten.”

I
” A poem about memories of love ”

I miss your hand that used to hold my hand
I miss your eyes that used to smile at me
The needs of love don’t feel like a demand
I miss the hand that caressed my held hand
I miss your love and miss you as a friend.
When you gazed, your eyes lit what you’d see.
I miss the hand that used to warm my hand
I miss the eyes that used smile at me.

Dr Adams was a very kind man

He never fried sprats when they were soaked in jam

I’m wondering how much more our world will change
Out of Europe, gambling with the knaves
While North Korea flaunts missiles near the stage

Donald Trump seems mad in his exchange.
He spends his nights on Twiller in a rage
I’m wondering how much more our world will change

What nasty horror’s waiting off the page
When stupid people choose to immolate?
Has North Korea got missiles just off stage?

Have all the wise gone off, are they estranged?
Is thought now something to eradicate?
I’m wondering how much more our world will change

Where’s Nigel and his Huguenot Garage?
Where’s the careful mind so delicate?
Will North Korea let missiles be our fate?

Where is  the Father who can confiscate
Where is Mother and her grip on fate?
I’m wondering how much more our world can change
North Korea flaunts missiles, Trump ‘s upstaged

The parasol to shield friends from the sun
Has fallen backwards in the autumn winds
Goodness flew away and  Europe’s done

There is no birdsong, thieves  have been and gone
An autumn gold has fallen on my mind
I live here like an ancient, tied to none.

Yet I must declaim the harm we’ve done
The referendum’s fruits  leave  blight behind
Cordial neighbours scorn us, where’s the plum?

I see some little weeds  make up a crown
I must enjoy their  greenness, love of mine
Before  machines  shall trample all  growth down

I still admire the  blades of grass in towns,
Between the flagstones, there they have their reign.
Civil life has flown, the sun falls down.

As Oracle, disaster I proclaim
The minds of Europe tolerate no pain
The parasol did shield us from some sun.
Summer’s  died and   Brexit is no fun

A silence rich with love and full of joy;
The silence after waking at the dawn,
May be both an anchor and a buoy.

Yet often we don’t know what we seek for:
The latest dress, the perfect English lawn?
We forget this marvellous essence, full of joy

We murder by ignoring  love’s own core
We do not see the buds which are new born.
We want an anchor yet we want our toys.

What is most arresting is the awe
We feel when we survive deep grief again
Find  silence rich with love and full of joy

Out of Nature, its Creator calls
Taking in her arms what caused us pain.
Being both an anchor and a buoy.

The silence underneath the silence calms,
Stills our breathing with reviving balm
Perfect silence rich with love and  joy
Shall be our an anchor and shall be our buoy.

Like watercolor pictures left out in the rain
Our colors have mingled,yet the originals still remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colors blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colors intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolor picture painted by the rain,
We shall go, but our Watercolor Love will still remain

http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/themes/writing/historic_writing.aspx

“The earliest form of writing

The earliest writing we know of dates back to around 3,000 BC and was probably invented by the Sumerians, living in major cities with centralised economies in what is now southern Iraq. Temple officials needed to keep records of the grain, sheep and cattle entering or leaving their stores and farms and it became impossible to rely on memory. So, an alternative method was required and the very earliest texts were pictures of the items scribes needed to record (known as pictographs).

These texts were drawn on damp clay tablets using a pointed tool. It seems the scribes realised it was quicker and easier to produce representations of such things as animals, rather than naturalistic impressions of them. They began to draw marks in the clay to make up signs, which were standardised so they could be recognised by many people.

A wedge-shaped instrument (usually a cut reed) was used to press the signs into soft clay. This gave the writing system its name, ‘cuneiform’, meaning wedge-shaped.”

Mary sat down on a garden wall to  enjoy the sunny heat.On rising she discovered that the wall was not what one might call “a drystone wall”.To be blunt,it looked as if she had wet herself.
Her light green silky jacket and pale blue trousers were somewhat blighted by this event but Mary paid little attention.She was on her way to  the Newsagent to terminate her contract
She had sat on the wall also to chat to a neighbour.
How was your heart scan?
Sorry,I’ve never had one.
But you told me before you couldn’t talk because  of it
I said,I am in pain.~
Oh,said Maggie quietly.I misunderstood

Hello, she said to the Newsagent.I want to cancel the newspapers.
Don’t you  like to read the weekend reviews? he said with surprise
Yes,but my eyes can’t seem to focus on the news print any more.And I am very annoyed that Trump is always on the front.
OK. the delightfully charming Indian man replied.Did I tell you I am doing a Ph.D . on  what kind of people read the Guardian and the Telegraph? I collect my data using the customers who call here
I do hope I have not ruined your research Mary remarked languidly.
Not yet, he replied manfully.But if you’d like to try you can call round at 8 pm.I have made a chicken korma
Is that a  new dance, she asked wildly
You must know korma and chips is Britain’s favourite meal, he said in a hurt tone
Please forgive me , she begged.I was trying to make a joke.I am not good at it.
Alright, he said.Why don’t you do a Ph.D? When you live alone it passes the time
I see what you mean, she said tersely as if someone was holding a gun to her head.
But where do you do it? she continued.
The Open University.The trick is to use something you already have written or data you already have like I am doing
Don’t  you need a theory  for that level of research?
Of course, he replied.I usually invent that after I have done the main work
Why, how many Ph.D’s  have you done?
Twenty five,he cried gleefully.Oxford,Cambridge,Edinburgh… a bit cold there
But why bother, she enquired.You are still a newsagent.Do you not want to get an academic job?
I might but shall I be a chemist,mathematician,Lacanian psychoanalyst, English literature professor or just  take it easy being a cleaner?
Why are you asking me,she cried.It’s beyond belief that  any man could  be so learned.
Beyond Belief…. just the title for my new book.Thank you so much.I’ll give you a copy when it comes out.
Alright,Mary answered as she tried to run out of the shop.
Indians are extremely clever.They invented a symbol to represent zero.That is much more difficult to conceive of than is a whole number like 2, she told herself
Shut up, her inner child answered.I am fed up with that bilge.I want to have an icecream cone  and a jacket potato.
Both at once, she joked?
Well,maybe not, her inner child exclaimed.I just want more fun.I bet Emile feels the same.Cats are like people in a way
Well, if you feel such empathy for Emile, why not marry him
I am only three,her inner child cried.I can’t get married yet?
Tough said Mary as she got onto a bus and went to buy a loaf  and a pair of knickers.Whatever would Stan think if he saw her now with short hair and wet trousers?
Thank goodness we will never know.As for him,would he stop playing the harp to look at his wife as she carried out these mundane tasks?

The Single Girl’s Guide to Art

II. BALANCE

A woman must continually watch herself. —John Berger

In line, position yourself near the possible
object of your desire. Pay with plastic,
sign with a flourish. Think of your life
as one well-wrought performance piece,
and be sure to get the little pin; position it
above your breast, on your best side. Always
think ahead! You’ll thank me later—a fabulous
conversation piece, that pin, later at the café.
Remember, your entry into his frame must be
oblique, cause tension. Move to the corner
of his eye, but don’t linger, if he is to engage you
in what we will call the gaze.

https://www.theguardian.com/society/joepublic/2009/mar/23/mental-health-poetry-words-on-monday

Extract:

Sylvia Plath is on record as saying that when she was writing she was accessing the healthiest part of herself. That strikes a chord with me, too. Her joy in the act of writing is evident in her BBC interview with Peter Orr which was recorded in the autumn of 1962, shortly before her death. I think it’s available on You Tube. Well worth listening to.

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/the-first-poets-by-michael-schmidt-61344.html

“But, perhaps most important of all, The First Poets makes it crystal clear to us that there was at least one moment in partially-recorded history when poets really counted for something. They were really needed in ancient Greece on all kinds of religious and secular occasions. So every poet should buy a copy of this book to keep on their bookshelves. And, when the occasion arises, they should throw it at the cynic who may try to ignore or demean them. ”

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The anger of the trapped bull  made to fight
In ring enclosed with no way to escape
Full of useless  strength and less insight

Even with intelligence and light
His self respect and being are both raped
The anger of the trapped bull  made to fight

Like our nuclear weapons and their might
If we use them we destroy all hope
So full of useless  strength and no insight

In discussions , all sides  play polite.
Yet  our humanity they desecrate.
The anger of the trapped ones  made to fight.

Most leaders are   giant infants with the gripes
Not thoughtful people willed to dedicate
Full of useless  strength and no insight

The theatres of new wars, of blood,of hate
Are where the moment leads,ill consecrates.
The torment of the  huge  bull  made to fight
Full of useless  strength and less insight

Travelling down these sentences we find
Unknown,unsought, unthought, but always real
A home where we can rest our  fragile minds

The people  dropped,the habits left behind.
The good, the mediocre, what we steal
While travelling with the sentences we find

The hate that frees,the love that too close binds
The heart, the soul, the body, how we feel
For homes where we can rest our  fragile minds

The touch that chills, the distances unkind
Unwished for yet demanding all the soul.
Unravelling are our sentences unblind.

The freezing looks,the glories undermined
Ill timed,ill gotten, ills both new and  old,
Hedge homes where we could rest our  fragile minds

I have never dwelt in realms of gold;
But there are many stories never told.
Suffering our own sentences we find
A  home that welcomes, our more liberal minds.

My advice to you is try to love in prose
Love is heaven or hell  and sometimes both
We will  genuflect   before  the lows

Keep  words steady, do not come to blows
Speak politely, never use two oaths.
My advice to you is try to love in prose

Get into the swim, feel how words flow
Write down  curious risks  nobody knows
Try to circumnavigate the lows

Make the rules  supports ,which artists chose
Props used on a stage to augment clothes.
I recommend you  try to love in prose

The ocean changes colour as winds blow
Observation is an aid to growth.
We can circumnavigate the lows

For , dignity in love your honour shows
Avoid the avenues your anguish chose.
My work  for you is, write such love in prose
Try to circumnavigate the  ones you  stole

By Mike Flemming.Copyright

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/144265/poems-on-immigration

“The United States of America is a country of indigenous peoples and immigrants. Its inhabitants speak countless languages and have a multitude of experiences and often untold memories. They carry on cultures and customs from nations near and far.

The poet Emma Lazarus wrote a sonnet in 1883 to help raise public funds to build a pedestal for the Statue of Liberty, but it received little notice when published and played no role in the opening of the statue. After her death, “The New Colossus” would become perhaps the most famous poem by an American poet. Thanks to the efforts of Lazarus’s friends after her death, the poem would be printed on a plaque and placed on the Statue of Liberty’s pedestal. Its famous lines, “Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free” are among the most quoted lines in American poetry and have served the country as an informal immigration ethos ever since.

The contemporary poems collected here tell the stories of those who have left their homelands to start a life in the United States. These poems often straddle two worlds, and two languages, to find truth in experience. They witness new beginnings, border crossings, acts of racism and discrimination, and homesickness. To suggest further additions, please contact us.”

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/68657/how-to-and-how-not-to-write-poetry-56d2484397277

“To Michal in Nowy Targ: “Rilke warned young poets against large sweeping topics, since those are the most difficult and demand great artistic maturity. He counseled them to write about what they see around them, how they live each day, what’s been lost, what’s been found. He encouraged them to bring the things that surround us into their art, images from dreams, remembered objects. ‘If daily life seems impoverished to you,’ he wrote, ‘don’t blame life. You yourself are to blame. You’re just not enough of a poet to perceive its wealth.’ This advice may seem mundane and dim-witted to you. This is why we called to our defense one of the most esoteric poets in world literature—and just see how he praised so-called ordinary things!”

To Ula from Sopot: “A definition of poetry in one sentence—well. We know at least five hundred definitions, but none of them strikes us as both precise and capacious enough. Each expresses the taste of its own age. Inborn skepticism keeps us from trying our hand at our own. But we remember Carl Sandburg’s lovely aphorism: ‘Poetry is a diary kept by a sea creature who lives on land and wishes he could fly.’ Maybe he’ll actually make it one of these days?”

To L-k B-k of Slupsk: “We require more from a poet who compares himself to Icarus than the lengthy poem enclosed reveals. Mr. B-k, you fail to reckon with the fact that today’s Icarus rises above a different landscape than that of ancient times. He sees highways covered in cars and trucks, airports, runways, large cities, expansive modern ports, and other such realia. Might not a jet rush past his ear at times?”

To T.W., Krakow: “In school no time is spent, alas, on the aesthetic analysis of literary works. Central themes are stressed along with their historical context. Such knowledge is of course crucial, but it will not suffice for anyone wishing to become a good, independent reader, let alone for someone with creative ambitions. Our young correspondents are often shocked that their poem about rebuilding postwar Warsaw or the tragedy of Vietnam might not be good. They’re convinced that honorable intentions preempt form. But if you want to become a decent cobbler, it’s not enough to enthuse over human feet. You have to know your leather, your tools, pick the right pattern, and so forth. . . . It holds true for artistic creation too.”

To Mr. Br. K. of Laski: “Your poems in prose are permeated by the figure of the Great Poet who creates his remarkable works in a state of alcoholic euphoria. We might take a wild guess at whom you have in mind, but it’s not last names that concern us in the final analysis. Rather, it’s the misguided conviction that alcohol facilitates the act of writing, emboldens the imagination, sharpens wits, and performs many other useful functions in abetting the bardic spirit. My dear Mr. K., neither this poet, nor any of the others personally known to us, nor indeed any other poet has ever written anything great under the unadulterated influence of hard liquor. All good work arose in painstaking, painful sobriety, without any pleasant buzzing in the head. ‘I’ve always got ideas, but after vodka my head aches,’ Wyspianski said. If a poet drinks, it’s between one poem and the next. This is the stark reality. If alcohol promoted great poetry, then every third citizen of our nation would be a Horace at least. Thus we are forced to explode yet another legend. We hope that you will emerge unscathed from beneath the ruins.”

To E.L. in Warsaw: “Perhaps you could learn to love in prose.”

To Esko from Sieradz: “Youth really is an intriguing period in one’s life. If one adds writerly ambitions to the difficulties of youth, one must possess an exceptionally strong constitution in order to cope. Its components should include: persistence, diligence, wide reading,

They said I should write  on my cell phone
But my   fountain pen leaked on the  screen
I pressed  rather gently
For fundament’lly
I hoped that my phone would not scream

I wrote on my palm with a pencil
While watching the 10 o’clock News
But the adrenalin rising
However surprising
Wetted the lead, losing clues.

I dictated my dreams to my Nokia
I knew quite well what to do
But  when I awoke
I saw dark grey smoke
And my husband  had turned denim blue.

How about an old fashioned notebook
With a ball point or biro to hand
It seems very easy
Makes nobody queasy
Gives my words some where to land

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/university-of-toronto-news/why-you-can-and-should-wr_b_4718395.html

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/07/31/can-poetry-change-your-life

The ready roasted chicken on its plate
The roast potatoes ,kale and podded peas
I’m hungry and I do not want to wait

Now I hear the clicking of the gate
The whisper of the wind among the trees
The ready roasted chicken on its plate

You’re never more than twenty minutes late
The trains are crowded, nowhere one can read.
I’m hungry and I do not want to wait

I remember you were working with no break
For nowadays  we ‘re electric in our greed.
The ready roasted chicken on its plate

So  love is hard in such un-knighted states
We want  acceleration in our speed
I’m angry  for there is no real debate

The country’s growing nothing now  but weeds
The Education sector is diseased.
The  cold ,gold roasted chicken on its plate
I’m hungry, but  for you I’ll always wait

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/68755/does-poetry-have-a-social-function

“I hope this does not sound like an exercise in ambiguities. If so, let me add another: one of poetry’s chief aims is to illumine the walls of mystery, the inscrutable, the unsayable. I think poetry ought to be taught not as an engine of meaning but as an opportunity to learn to live in doubt and uncertainty, as a means of claimingindeterminancy. Our species is deeply defined by its great surges of reason, but I think it high time we return to elemental awe and wonder. Such a position is necessary to our communal health.

I try to teach my students the full magnitude of what can happen during the reading of a poem. The readerly self, if the music and strategies of the poem are a success, fades away to assume the speaker’s identity, or the poem’s psychic position. Once a reader has fully internalized the poem’s machinations, she collects a chorus within her and is transformed. This ritual generates empathy and widens our humanity. These might seem like grand dreams, but it is just such a belief in the power of poetry that spurs my pen to action, whether I am getting paid or not. “