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Scientists have found humor helps arthritis, instead of prescribing ibuprofen the doctor will tickle you with a feather duster.You’ll have to strip of course and if the nurse cam in it would look strange to have them doctor running around the room saying,”You need another tickle”
So he’ll give you a pack of cards each of which says:
This card entitles the carrier to one tickle today,two tickles tomorrow.Four tickles the day after, and so on.
If the number of tickles doubles each day,how many tickles will you have been entitled to in a week?
In a month?
On the last day of the year would the number of tickles you were prescribed be more than the number of seconds in the day?
You’d better tick off the doctor for not understanding the growth rate.Still if it gives you or her/him a laugh……..your pain will diminish.
Bring back the tickle,I say.It never did me any harm,though I say it myself.
If that fails to heal you,you could ask for Capital Punishment…. you’ll have to move to London for that.
Author: Katherine
Poetry writer and author
A young composer and player
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How to transition into Autumn?
Lord,it seems until recently we were able to move from summer clothes to winter ones without a thought.But now there are article in Newspapers advising us ho to manage it.It’s a sad moment when we have to give up our lovely light summer things into heavy dark winter ones
In general we seem to be offered a good deal of advice which might be insulting as it implies we are very dim
Well,I can offer you a few thought for women
1.Wear some lightweight boots with your summer dress but only if you already have some. or wear tights
2.Wear more layers of underwear like petticoats.Especially if you are thin.Like 2 camisoles, 3 pairs of pants and 2 waist slips.It may start a new trend as pyjamas are already worn in Tescos!
3 Put a lightweight coat on.Even indoors!It may be colder inside than out.
4.Wear summer trousers with wool socks and proper shoes.And a jumper.Wool socks are amazing
5 Do you have that wonderful thing,a trench coat with a removable lining? If not just wear a long thin cardigan under a cotton trench.
Alternatively, get your warm clothes out because it will save you putting on the heating.And trying out some new combinations amuses some of us
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s. On the last train,Warsaw to Moscow, [ change Niegoreloje.]
Elena,a baby wrapped in woollen clothes.
On the last train,Warsaw to Moscow,
[ change Niegoreloje.]
1939.Father,mother,brother
You passed through the Arctic Wastes of life.
Still as if travelling on a train
To an impossibly far destination.
As you left the German Army crashed into Poland
Lost,your aunts
Your cousins.
Your culture.
How does God select the damned?
You had your own baby,here in England,
Not lost like all those others.
Your father died by his own hand,
The hand of history;
The fingers twitching,
Not sure where to point.
Then settling into frozen grief
A sculpture only your mother saw.
You saw too,Elena.
You always saw,though you can’t remember;
The long journey,your mother’s breast,
Your father’s silence.
Only the dead know that silence.
Only the dead weep
With the rocks and stones .
And the ice in each eye
Fell like snow down your cheeks
As you held your own infant.
Warsaw to Moscow,
Moscow to Jerusalem.
Always journeying
Looking for what they can never find:
The home they left behind
The presence of the dead
Lying in gaunt heaps
Like rubbish
Your aunts, Elena.
Your cousins.
You never knew them.
But there’s a hole in your mind
Through which the Polish wind forever blows
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Gently dancing in the sun
Gently dancing in the sun Wildflowers grow; they bloom, are gone. With no thoughts,they have no cares; Yet their lives are gentle prayers. May I walk in such a way That I'm receptive to this day. So I see with widening view, And joy and sorrows embrace too. Then my time will come like yours... Of us nothing shall endure.
As to the earth our bodies go, All are one;it shall be so
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Variant regina
I lay in a sweet bed of flowers ,why?
I had to use a spray to help my heart
There was no wall or seat to use nearby
I have a kind of migraine,not my eye;
The artery constricts and blood can’t dart
I lay in a sweet bed of flowers ,was it dry?
Yes, it seems the blood could not pass by
Although it is informed and has a chart
There was no wall or seat to use nearby
It started on the bus and I went grey
The pain desired a knife to get real sharp
I lay in a sweet bed of flowers ,would I die?
I reflect and wonder if I’ll cross the bay
Where I long to sing with a Jew’s harp
There would be lots of seats for all nearby
Jewish music is a fearsome art
Yet Jonah’s whale sings gently to the carp
I lay in a neat bed of flowers ,aye.
There was no wall or seat to use nearby
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Devon: Verity – Border Morris – Goats, Haiku
Do look and listen
We recently rented a cottage for along weekend with old friends. Valerie and Becky have known each other for nearly 70 years! It was in Watermouth Cove, Devon and, although the cottage was a bit seedy, it was a lovely place to be.
We missed seeing the cove at full tide, we were often out and the 13 hour cycle was out of sync with us.
The top end was an untidy jumble of a boat yard, they always seem to be like this like this. One evening I watched a huge mobile crane creep from the hard across the beach to the work shop where it lifted a shiny engine destined, I suppose, for one of the yachts being worked on.
I sat on a bench and chatted with someone who told me that there are pockets of Cornish-like language in Devon. We were both interested in…
View original post 1,060 more words
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The road was flatter on the other side.
Why did Jesus feed the five thousand?
To prevent them eating his celery and tomatoes
Why did Jesus like fishing?
He often caught a compliment.
Why did he cross the road?
The road was flatter on the other side.
Was Jesus an Athlete?
No,he was a Jew.
Was he not Mormon?
Called Norman! [Cohen]
Was Jesus very strong?
About the same as best whiskey.
Why do Catholics eat his body?
Because they hate making breakfast.
Does God care if we don’t go to Church?
What’s a Church?
Why does God help those who help themselves?
Because many hands make light work
So God has hands?
In a very meaningful sense.
Why did Jesus ride on a donkey into Jerusalem?
He just missed the bus and they only ran twice an hour
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I have seen you sunbathing in the garden in your bikinis.
A few weeks after Annie moved into the house next door to Stan,he met her when he was seeing his wife off to work.
Why does your wife not have a car? she enquired suspiciously.
She is trying to keep slim,Stan told her.
Well,she’s not been very successful,Annie said scientifically.
She might be much fatter than she is now if she drove a car,he stated ponderously
That’s true,muttered Annie meditatively
I am your new next door neighbor.she continued melodiously
Yes, my dear, said Stan,I have seen you sunbathing in the garden in your bikinis.
How come? she asked scientifically.
There’s a big hole in the fence.
Is it legal to look at women through a hole in the fence?
asked Annie curiously>I know it’s illegal to look into their bedroom windows.
Is it really,asked Stan nervously,I had no idea.
How about women looking at men through a round hole?
Oh,they can’t be bothered to do that,she told him charmingly.
Well,said Stan,clearing his throat,I think I owe it to myself to tell you that I love you.
Wow,you’re quick off the mark,the lady said saucily.
What do you mean,you owe it to yourself? Why are you owed anything?
I don’t really,said Stan tepidly,I could not think how to word it.I mean I wish to unselfishly love you and admire your ripe body and your cute sense of color.I love your teal trouser suit.And you sing so well in the bath.
You didn’t mean you owe it to yourself to take advantage of me? she continued fluently
Not unless you want me to take advantage of you,the gallant old man informed her.
And you can take advantage of me.I make cakes and biscuits,wholemeal bread and I am training my cat, Emile, to do statistics on an i pad.
How extraordinary,Annie whispered.I didn’t know cats had an “I.” let alone pads.
Well,they have pads on their paws,he informed her intelligently.
True,she said,but where are their I’s?
Where are our I’s ?he responded in a manner to rejoice the heart of Mary Midgleyor Susanne Langer two of Stan’s favourite writers on philosophy,logic,symbols and ethics.
Not that he practiced the Ethics but he liked to know what he was doing wron
A man who seduces women merrily one after the other may have no idea it might be wrong.Neither might the women.Why is it wrong?Surely it’s better than killing people or leaving the lid off the jam all night so the wasps get into the jar?
Still,not many men get the chances that Stan got.No-one suspected this kindly,handsome practicing Catholic was a womanizer despite his blue beard,green eyes,white skin and red hair.And his slim yet strong figure clad in navy trousers and white shirts all the year round.Maybe his wife did but she preferred to read Aristotle in bed and dream about mercury… those little silver balls,so cute!
Well,as we know,Stan is about to make Annie his mistress but in such a cold wet summer,where can he take her to do the deed?
The shed?The public library? Cafe Nero?
I owe it to you not to tell you yet.That will give you time to think of a solution for this sweet old man and his naughty but nice neighbor.
Like,how about the confessional in the local Church?
Whatever next?I owe it to myself to keep it secret as you may come along and spoil the fun.
Stan went indoors and washed up in the boiling hot water he kept by him constantly as he owed it to himself to be ready to make a hot drink at any moment he fancied and by gum,he did fancy like no man has ever fancied before.So his daemon tells me.
Next time:Why did God create Stan and why does it matter?
Why does your wife not have a car? she enquired suspiciously.
She is trying to keep slim,Stan told her.
Well,she’s not been very successful,Annie said scientifically.
She might be much fatter than she is now if she drove a car,he stated ponderously
That’s true,muttered Annie meditatively
I am your new next door neighbor.she continued melodiously
Yes, my dear, said Stan,I have seen you sunbathing in the garden in your bikinis.
How come? she asked scientifically.
There’s a big hole in the fence.
Is it legal to look at women through a hole in the fence?
asked Annie curiously>I know it’s illegal to look into their bedroom windows.
Is it really,asked Stan nervously,I had no idea.
How about women looking at men through a round hole?
Oh,they can’t be bothered to do that,she told him charmingly.
Well,said Stan,clearing his throat,I think I owe it to myself to tell you that I love you.
Wow,you’re quick off the mark,the lady said saucily.
What do you mean,you owe it to yourself? Why are you owed anything?
I don’t really,said Stan tepidly,I could not think how to word it.I mean I wish to unselfishly love you and admire your ripe body and your cute sense of color.I love your teal trouser suit.And you sing so well in the bath.
You didn’t mean you owe it to yourself to take advantage of me? she continued fluently
Not unless you want me to take advantage of you,the gallant old man informed her.
And you can take advantage of me.I make cakes and biscuits,wholemeal bread and I am training my cat, Emile, to do statistics on an i pad.
How extraordinary,Annie whispered.I didn’t know cats had an “I.” let alone pads.
Well,they have pads on their paws,he informed her intelligently.
True,she said,but where are their I’s?
Where are our I’s ?he responded in a manner to rejoice the heart of Mary Midgleyor Susanne Langer two of Stan’s favourite writers on philosophy,logic,symbols and ethics.
Not that he practiced the Ethics but he liked to know what he was doing wron
A man who seduces women merrily one after the other may have no idea it might be wrong.Neither might the women.Why is it wrong?Surely it’s better than killing people or leaving the lid off the jam all night so the wasps get into the jar?
Still,not many men get the chances that Stan got.No-one suspected this kindly,handsome practicing Catholic was a womanizer despite his blue beard,green eyes,white skin and red hair.And his slim yet strong figure clad in navy trousers and white shirts all the year round.Maybe his wife did but she preferred to read Aristotle in bed and dream about mercury… those little silver balls,so cute!
Well,as we know,Stan is about to make Annie his mistress but in such a cold wet summer,where can he take her to do the deed?
The shed?The public library? Cafe Nero?
I owe it to you not to tell you yet.That will give you time to think of a solution for this sweet old man and his naughty but nice neighbor.
Like,how about the confessional in the local Church?
Whatever next?I owe it to myself to keep it secret as you may come along and spoil the fun.
Stan went indoors and washed up in the boiling hot water he kept by him constantly as he owed it to himself to be ready to make a hot drink at any moment he fancied and by gum,he did fancy like no man has ever fancied before.So his daemon tells me.
Next time:Why did God create Stan and why does it matter?
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There is no Kingdom for the European State.
The new Messiah will fly on a great horse
A burning stallion with perfect grace
As he crosses Europe he perceives
The scattered remnants of his fellow Jews
The Jews who buried live made Poland heave
The ashes of the ones cremated grieve.
On he rides but where is he to go?
We do not see him coming from afar
Does he come to give acclaim to us
The Christians who made the Jews accursed?
Or does he ride to tell us not to wait
There is no Kingdom for old Europe’s State.
We deny that we’re complicit and what’s worse
Any nation state’s as bad as us.
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I did not bear him any grudge
I won’t go on the North Circular again
There are so many cars, it’s mayhem
My husband drove well
But this road is hell
You might as well turn a sheep to a hen.
When he was more young he drove fast
If I wanted to pee, he was pissed
Then he got older
And his prostate was bolder
So he was sorry he’d hurt me, at last!
I did not bear him any grudge
For his face was a sight much beloved
His voice caused much fear
When the doctor was here
She looked like she’d swallowed a smudge.
I know this may never make sense
But my feelings are always intense
I pray for some news
But God is amused
So he wants my old man to stay hence.
He looked like a Peer of the Realm
So a barman said,overwhelmed
His grandad was a blacksmith
So he covered up his nuts with
A piece of old iron at the helm
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On the tiger’s cage she leant, now she ‘s went
There was a young lady from Kent
In whom wisdom was somewhat absent
She went to a zoo
She knew what to do
On the tiger’s cage she leant, now she ‘s went
My husband lived near ICI
The air was so bad they’d no sky
They said, kill or cure
Or repent and be pure
So he just goes,”why, will I die?”
My husband was a very strange man
He once fried an egg on a pin
I said,I bought that in York
Why not use a fork?
He said,I pinked and so therefore I am.
He was on this diuretic for a while
He had to pee into a vase or a pail
He had no desire
To eat or perspire
Nor did he break into a wail
I didn’t know he was going to die
He leaned over and smiled with his eye.
He winked at me laughing,
I had a premonition
Before I could speak, he had sighed
I still think he’ll come back to me
So I put out a cup for his tea.
I see from the edge of my eye
He is there till I turn to espy
Well,at least up above, they don’t pee!
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Interfering
There was a young lady from Ealing
Who wept upside down on the ceiling
When she was asked why
She said , well I cry
But gravity keeps interfering.
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Self portrait in a convex mirror by John Ashbery
-
Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror
Source: Poetry (August 1974)
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I’ll eat my Canon Powershot if I’m bored.
Come live with me and be my helpmeet now
I’ll share my bed if you can see I’m true
If you let me love you
I’ll darn your old gloves 4 you..
If you come and meet me brow to brow.
Come live with me and teach me all you know
About poetic licence and Soho
I’ll mend your vacuum cleaner
And learn expressions meaner.
How cheerfully the hours to come will go,
Come live with me and be my lover true
Without one,how will we ever do?
I’ll fire up model railways
Learn the Arab weekdays
Come live with me and I will clean your flue.
Come live with me in Norway on a fjord
I’ll eat my Canon Powershot if I’m bored.
I’ll watch the ice flowers growing
And then we must be sowing.
How happy Wittgenstein d’ve been if he’d have knowen
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If singing was their way to eminence
Poetry is images in words
And sentences that coil around the heart
Poetry, like love, is called absurd
Yet does not pierce our being like a dart.
Our first language was song and not bare speech
A melody can move us and entrance
The politicians would be other beasts
If singing was their way to eminence.
In Westminster, the clock would chant, Amen
As silently the day’s work was undone
In the morning,it would sing, Begin
Penelope would weave her soul again.
The image may strike deep into our soul;
Make live the voice that sings us into whole
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An interesting idea— removing smartphones from pictures
Eric Pickersgill has created a set of photos to show our lonely world.I find it really interesting that he thought of this
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I need your touch as well
when words are not enough
to give our feelings form
music is the language
which many find gives calm
when words are too clumsy
touch may be enough
a glance of compassion
may pull us from the Slough
when words don’t come easy
when music fails to charm
then come to me and tell me
and I’ll enclose you in my arms
gestures,touch and glances
are a language in themselves
words are not enough for me
I need your touch as well.
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Enjoy the alternations of your breath
I love to read your poems in the nightAnd see each sentence frame a new born thought.
I often am in darkness not in light,
Like yours my memories are hardly caught.
The cat sits in patient joy upon her chair
The fire glows golden red, I watch the smoke.
Some days I’m here and sometimes there.
My mind from trouble wishes to elope.
The washing gurgles in the old machine
When special christmas garments meet the soap.
Is this true life or am I but a dream?
In someone’s mind perhaps my image floats.
For nothing is so sure in life as death
Enjoy the alternations of your breath
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What are creative people like?
http://talentdevelop.com/articles/TCPTPT.html
10. Creative people’s openness and sensitivity often exposes them to suffering and pain, yet also to a great deal of enjoyment.
Most would agree with Rabinow’s words: “Inventors have a low threshold of pain. Things bother them.” A badly designed machine causes pain to an inventive engineer, just as the creative writer is hurt when reading bad prose.
Being alone at the forefront of a discipline also leaves you exposed and vulnerable. Eminence invites criticism and often vicious attacks. When an artist has invested years in making a sculpture, or a scientist in developing a theory, it is devastating if nobody cares.
Deep interest and involvement in obscure subjects often goes unrewarded, or even brings on ridicule. Divergent thinking is often perceived as deviant by the majority, and so the creative person may feel isolated and misunderstood.
Perhaps the most difficult thing for creative individuals to bear is the sense of loss and emptiness they experience when, for some reason, they cannot work. This is especially painful when a person feels his or her creativity drying out.
Yet when a person is working in the area of his of her expertise, worries and cares fall away, replaced by a sense of bliss.
Perhaps the most important quality, the one that is most consistently present in all creative individuals, is the ability to enjoy the process of creation for its own sake.
Without this trait, poets would give up striving for perfection and would write commercial jingles, economists would work for banks where they would earn at least twice as much as they do at universities, and physicists would stop doing basic research and join industrial laboratories where the conditions are better and the expectations more predictable.
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The technology of poetry
https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1999/03/what-makes-poetry-poetic/377508/
Are we all unwitting prosodists, then? Well, no; and therein hangs the gist of Pinsky’s engaging approach to shedding light on the mastery of poetic craft. On the one hand, his point is that the rhythmic patterns of accent and pitch that form the basis of English metric occur naturally in the modulation of the speaking voice; without them we could hardly make ourselves understood. On the other hand, when Robert Frost composes lines such as
I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they’re gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.
those familiar verbal tones and inflections take on a charged resonance missing from workaday locutions. What makes the difference is the versification: the casting of phrases into distinct vocal cadences that enable a listener, Pinsky writes, to “detect their presence without a printed version of the poem.” Taken by itself, this may sound suspiciously like a truism — and indeed, there is nothing especially startling about the touchstone concepts that inform Pinsky’s account of poetry’s inner workings. The great virtue of his treatment lies in his demonstration that paying closer attention to how poems like Frost’s work — how the flow of language is measured, how the length of a line builds expectation and tension, how the interplay within patterns of sounds produces audible dynamics that are pleasing and stirring — is a technical concern of the most profound kind, instrumental in appreciating the full import of what Pinsky likes to call the “technology of poetry.”
This is about as close as The Sounds of Poetry comes to advancing a theory of poetics, and it is only by way of brisk introduction to what emerges as an invigorating session of talking shop. Why are poems written in lines, and why do the lines break where they do? How do the mechanics of English meter operate, and why is it that artful verse measure is seldom strictly regular? How can a reader acquire a reliable feel for the qualities of rhythm, tempo, and cadence that give a memorable poem its visceral appeal and expressive resonance? Is “free verse” really free — and if so, what has it been liberated from? Pinsky’s sensible answers to these questions — for instance, that lines of poetry need to be understood as notations for the voice, and that rhythm is the “sound of an actual line” while meter is the “abstract pattern” that stands behind it — are never doctrinaire, nor do they appeal to abstruse expertise. The prevailing atmosphere is less that of a solemn classroom lecture than that of a spirited audio tour, with Pinsky offering up various devices and motifs for inspection and providing a lively running commentary on how to fine-tune the ear to respond to the distinctive verbal energies that make poetry “poetic.”
PINSKY’S idea that sound dictates sense can be seen in this example — the first five lines of a lyric poem by William Shakespeare’s contemporary Ben Jonson:
I now think, Love is rather
deaf than blind,
For else it could not be
That she
Whom I adore so much
should so slight me,
And cast my love behind.
And here is part of what Pinsky has to say about the “appealing show-off quality” of the poem’s sense of line:
The run-over lines and pauses, the varying line lengths, the varying way the unit of syntax (that is, the grammatical phrases) coincides with the unit of rhythm (that is, the lines) or does not coincide — all of these create an expressive, flamboyant whole. The poem speeds up and slows down many different ways in the course of these five lines. Though the lines are all made of iambic feet, the variation in pace and emphasis is great — greater than could be easily attained in a comparable thirty-one words of prose.
Pinsky is equally attentive to poems with no fixed meter or rhyme scheme. Thus, shortly after sizing up the “flamboyant” Jonson snippet, he turns to poems by Robert Frost and William Carlos Williams, American contemporaries with polar aesthetic sensibilities, making a persuasive case for how the sinuous structure of Frost’s “To Earthward” (quoted above) and of the following stanza from a decidedly unadorned poem by Williams (“To a Poor Old Woman”) have much in common.
They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her
Both poems dramatize the relation of “vocal alertness to sensory alertness” by “the angling of syntax into line and stanza at interesting tilts.” For Pinsky any diligent reading of poetry must take account of the structural elements of sound that are inherent in the language itself.
Considered as a contribution to the line of edifying essays on metrics and poetics, a genre with a history nearly as long as English poetry itself, Pinsky’s slim primer can hardly be said to break new ground. But that is not its ambition. With any luck the book will find its way into the hands not only of apprentice poets in graduate creative-writing programs but also of lapsed poetry lovers and prodigal English majors — so many of whom, hearsay evidence strongly suggests, have been conditioned to question their instinctual belief that poems should be sources of delight rather than calls to duty. For them, The Sounds of Poetry contains an implicit message — even, one might go so far as to say, a moral: hearing is believing.
David Barber is the assistant poetry editor of The Atlantic. He is the author of (1995), which won the Terrence Des Pres prize for poetry.
The Atlantic Monthly; March 1999; What Makes Poetry “Poetic”?; Volume 283, No. 3; pages 114-116.
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What makes someone a poet?
http://www.newstalk.com/What-makes-a-poet
“Today there are no guidelines for what is poetic and what is not, what constitutes a poem and what does not. Poetry is simply letters on a page which make us go ‘that is a poem’. The only certainty we can have is that a great many people through the ages have been hailed as poets and it tends to be by these marking posts that we define what poetry is. Our small island of saints and scholars has proven a fertile ground for the growing of poets and that is as true today as ever before. One of those at the fore of Irish poetry today is Eavan Boland who has proven her worth as a chronicler of Ireland and the Irish time and time again.
Born to a career diplomat and a post-impressionist painter in 1944 Boland’s life was assured to be an interesting one. Following her father’s appointment as ambassador to the UK in 1951 Boland experienced how the Irish were viewed from the outside. The anti-Irish sentiment she felt in London would help to form Boland’s artistic identity and mission as she went on to tell the extraordinary story of ordinary Ireland and the ordinary Irish. With her combination of poetic skill and simple language Eavan Boland has proven that the existential exuberance, angst, and apathy of the everyman is as perfect fuel for poetic verse as the deeds of Odysseus or Beowulf.
Listen back as Susan talks with Eavan Boland about her life as a poet and find out what she thinks the difference is between a poet and someone who writes good poems.
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A hot bath
My wife likes a hot bath
What’s odd about that?
That’s what I am wondering
Is it good to wonder?
Yes, because there’s only one bathroom and I am bursting
Go outside and do it there!
Don’t the police mind?
With Brexit, racism, anti-Semitism, robberies, murder and low pay?
Is that worse than peeing in your own garden?
Can’t you make your own mind up?
No, but I can make this up
Well, don’t wet your pants
It’s alright, my wife washes them.
So that is why she looks so awful
No, she looked like that even before we met
You sound like Henry the Eighth.You should have asked for an exchange.
It’s too late now.We consummated it.
When?
In that little room by the Confessional.
At the Wedding?
So that’s what it was! Thanks so much.I thought we were living in sin
Sorry to disappoint you
We can have a honeymoon now.
And so can all of us
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The cat is bigger than me!
My husband likes to sleep on the rug
Without you?
There’s only room for his mistress and her cat and him
Do you allow it?
The cat is bigger than me!
Are you sure it’s a cat?
It doesn’t speak English so I can’t ask it!
My wife has twisted feet
What a pity she’s not a chair
Why?
You can unscrew them and replace.
I tried to replace her but she got angry.
I meant the feet.
I wanted to replace her whole body.
That’s really horrible.
Yes, how did you know?
I saw her once having a bath on the roof!
Where were you?
I don’t know.I repressed it
Is it unconscious?
It is now!
So is it unconscious in English?
Well, it could be in Latin.
Why?
Because I say so!
My sister is never jealous of me.
She has nothing to be jealous about.
How about my eyes?
What’s the use if you can’t see?
A good point.What’s that spider on your nose doing?
Making a thread in the conversation
I’ve had enough.
I’m afraid it doesn’t speak English
But it might understand it!
You are very stupid.
Yes, my IQ is 55.Yet I learned English.
How?
Well, that’s my secret along with the first 200 numbers in pi.
Numbers in pie.Are you bonkers?
And so say all of us
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Old and dehydrated folk
He put a new key in the ignition
But the orifice was damaged past derision
So the car failed to start
I felt grief in my heart
Don’t say no plan came to fruition.
The connection for the radio cord
Was broken so the music was barred.
I offered to sing
Or even to sting
This offer left everyone bored.
The state of fruition was good
When we went to find nuts in the wood
But we got drunk on cider
The horse and the rider,
Completed by bladders a-flood
Now most public toilets have gone
Everything’s private or none
One is a coffee shop,
Another’s a polka dot.
There’s nowhere for parking the bum.
There is a puritan ethos around
So using a loo is unsound
Old and dehydrated folk
Fall down in the grass in the park
Their blood pressure’s sunk to the ground
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Fruition
https://www.merriam-webster.com/word-of-the-day
Word of the Day : September 4, 2017
fruition
Definition
1 : pleasurable use or possession : enjoyment
2 a : the state of bearing fruit
b : realization
Examples
“… wife and husband had nothing to do but to link each other’s arms together, and wander gently downwards towards old age in happy and perfect fruition.” — William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair, 1848
“Many brands depend on crowd funding to bring a concept to fruition.” — Curtis Sparrer, Adweek.com, 7 Apr. 2017
Did You Know?
Fruition must come from the word fruit, right? Not exactly. Fruition and fruit are related (both ultimately come from the Latin verb frui, meaning “to enjoy”), but they were derived independently. The original meaning of fruition had nothing to do with fruit. Rather, when the term was first used in the early 15th century, it meant only “pleasurable use or possession.” Not until the 19th century did fruition develop a second meaning, “the state of bearing fruit,” possibly as the result of a mistaken assumption that fruition evolved from fruit. The “state of bearing fruit” sense was followed quickly by the figurative application to anything that can be “realized” and metaphorically bear fruit, such as a plan or a project.
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What might be a window?
The first example is that another person whom we get to know can be a window to a different world.For this to function, we have to realise that we are all different and we are all of value.
Even within one culture big differences are there between one person and another.
And in London where I live, we have people from hundreds of other countries and we British ourselves are multicultural.Some people find this frightening and our ancestors probably only met people from their own village.
But looked at another way, seeing how a friend from another culture views his/her world is enlightening even if only to give a new perspective on our own culture which we may be unaware of.We may see life from a new perspective.These metaphors from Art are very useful.The artist must see as well as possible, and in different ways.So in that sense Art is important not just for pleasure but for living a reasonable life
We may in a metaphorical sense look through this friend’s eyes and see a new world.
Or we may scoff and say how silly and that our culture and our own self are the only ones of value.
Or we may wander on, not really looking so not seeing and so miss many chances of enlightenment
And enlightenment is the best that a new window can offer us.How full of metaphors our languages are.How poetic.
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Near the end of my sentence
The hole sucks me in,
with its deep darkness
The Fall was never healed.
Can I resist the call of the killers?
Will they kill me with kindness or with hatred?
I try to hide but no place feels safe anymore
I negate my writing and hide my pens.
Pain degrades me.
Writing deleted returns in imagination
I can do little but I try
Black gravity is the monster in my soul…
Sway not the tree
On whose strong branch the leopard drapes himself
But let the moon speak in silver tongue
as the leaves rustle
I am invisible
except as a home for ants
Who steals my words.
I am no more than a punctuation mark or a short title
I am near the end of my sentence.
I’ll be hanged by some inverted commas
From the oak tree.. burning in the sun’s borrowed fires
I can’t see your face now.
Just shapes in grey fog
Like the doctor without feeling for my child.
A child,that was..
that would have been…
that has gone.
I am uncertain
with its deep darkness
The Fall was never healed.
Can I resist the call of the killers?
Will they kill me with kindness or with hatred?
I try to hide but no place feels safe anymore
I negate my writing and hide my pens.
Pain degrades me.
Writing deleted returns in imagination
I can do little but I try
Black gravity is the monster in my soul…
Sway not the tree
On whose strong branch the leopard drapes himself
But let the moon speak in silver tongue
as the leaves rustle
I am invisible
except as a home for ants
Who steals my words.
I am no more than a punctuation mark or a short title
I am near the end of my sentence.
I’ll be hanged by some inverted commas
From the oak tree.. burning in the sun’s borrowed fires
I can’t see your face now.
Just shapes in grey fog
Like the doctor without feeling for my child.
A child,that was..
that would have been…
that has gone.
I am uncertain
outside the circle,
outside the circle.
the circle
the circle
of your arms
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Mary can’t find a woollen garment
Mary decided that she too, like many women, wanted a few new clothes for the winter.But she was too lazy to travel 10 miles to a large shop.Instead, she decided to look online.
Fascinating how to learn many clothes there are available.406 tops or T shirts.67 types of trousers,89 coats and 76 raincoats.How many of us wear raincoats when we have cars? Mary wondered.As she still rode a bike she did wear one.But her old one was fine.
See, Emile, she said to her cat, which Top shall I buy?Some have fancy sleeves with bell like cuffs.I like them.And look, red is back in fashion
Knowing you I’d only be waiting for the sleeve to dangle into some tomato soup, he answered cheekily.
A good point, she muttered.Some have short sleeves which may be ok if you work in a hot office but not when at home where we all try to save on heating bills.
I say, Emile, why are there so few wool coats and sweaters on sale?
Maybe the sheep have stopped growing new coats after being sheared!
Oh,dear, I hope that is not true as they will get frozen up on the moors.They will need coats too.I think it’s more likely that people will not save up and buy one good garment.They want a few new things after a week or two and they throw away the others.It is hard not to fall into this trap when you have 56 credit cards and a debit one tooI feel terribly worried.Shal I ring 999 and ask Dave what he thinks? Mary cried
He has no more idea than you, Emile said but some folk say we are heading for a crash again.So much for Austerity when people have to borrow money for food.
I’d rather have a cup of tea,said Mary.And so she did
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Rosa wants new clothes for Autumn
Rosa was looking in a very interesting clothes shop online.Here she saw an outfit totally unsuited to her new post as Head of Linguistics in the University of Unisex.
There her eye was drawn to a pair of blue trousers with a red stripe down each leg.The trousers were somewhat shorter than in the days of that pair of women, Trinny and Susanna who told all of us how to dress.Especially to wear trousers that cleaned the pavement as we walked along as it made our legs look longer
Rosa met her friend Mary for coffee.
What do you think of these trousers, Mary? she asked, showing them to the bewildered lady on her HP Phablet.
I don’t think Stan would have liked those, she murmured.
I see some advantages, Rosa said.
If you have nice ankles then it reveals them and if not, you can wear really fun socks with butterflies on them.
Real butterflies? Mary queried anxiously
No, embroidered or knitted, Rosa said.You see them in those catalogues that come round before Xmas
Or you could knit your own, said Mary.
I think knitting butterflies is very hard, Rosa whispered.
Nothing is innately hard, said Mary.It all depends on what you already know and if you have a good teacher and your devotion
How does Quantum theory compare to knitting butterflies? Rosa enquired jocosely.
That makes it sound as if you will knit with actual butterflies or that butterflies themselves might knit! Mary exclaimed.That would be a thing you might see on LSD
Is that the latest kind of TV set, Rosa asked her?
For goodness sake, Rosa.Have you never taken drugs?
I don’t believe I have.You see at Oxford I was friendly with an ex-heroin addict.He told me not to buy drugs because I saw things like other people do when they take heroin.But I see like that naturally!
Well, that is fortunate for you, Mary sighed.Was it true?
There is no way of knowing, said Rosa scientifically but it saves money.
Well ,how about these trousers?I could get some red ankle boots and a red shirt.Noone wears dresses anymore except maybe transsexuals.
I wear them,Mary said.When I was thin I wore a knitted dress.
Not knitted by butterflies I hope,Rosa giggled
Well, it was from M & S so I doubt it although it would be cheaper to use them as butterflies don’t know what money is!
Nor do many human beings now.Why, plastic £5 notes…. it’s like toy money
And so say all of us
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On paper like the Weetabix comes in
I dreamed that my blood test results had come
On paper like the Weetabix comes in
I can’t recall if they were good or bad
Or whether I just threw them in the bin
I found a pair of trousers, they’re not mine
To which these test results were pinned.
So it dawned on me an error had been made
As for those trousers, I was much too thin.
Someone else has got results not theirs
I have theirs and hope that they have mine.
But why are they fixed to my fresh laundry
And how can I discover them or find?
I don’t know what this dream may symbolise
It made me oversleep with shuttered eyes
