Author: Katherine

Poetry writer and author

The space I need is neither room nor chair

I need space to write my poetry
Away ye demons; let true peace find me
I cannot write when scruples sting my soul
I  know I’m broken; I was never whole

The space I need is neither room nor chair
It is a space within my  heart; it’s bare
My thoughts are channelled to  this sanctum near
Where  God burns bright and Moses stands in fear

When  exposed  to brightness  not so dear
My mind is wrecked; I wonder why I’m  here.
We need protection; ignorant of the way
Thoughts may cut us off, both night and day.

Tremble by  the  sacred Fires  within;
Protect them from  the politicians’ whim

Ode of the sauce pan

Hare_Otmoor2017

 

Oh, copper pan with silver lined
Now  your status exceeds mine
You are the best, the supreme pan
And I am a  mere, an also-ran.

I am made of stainless steel
So I don’t know  how to feel
But copper  has a warmth sublime
I wonder if you will be mine?

I’ll stand beside you on the shelf
And spin around, beside myself.
My heart is full, my mind is too
Won’t you tell me what to do?

Would you like a wedding dress
And a Rabbi there to bless?
Or an Imam or the Pope
He seems a really pleasant bloke

I am Jewish but do not need
To marry pans of  the same creed
I do  like some variety
Copper pan, please look at me!

Don’t reject me far too swift
I am easily dismissed
But stainless steel is very strong
Don’t  make me wait and think too long.

I may descend to paranoia!
I’m being watched by the chip fryer.
Let me feel  your copper form
That will  make me safe and warm

To be fried in boiling oil
The notion makes my soul recoil
Please forgive my  etiquette
I am polite till I forget

Continue reading “Ode of the sauce pan” →

Perhaps life’s real answers will prove to be dietary

Modern society; oh, what notoriety!
A dress  one can see through; they make sure we do, do, do
I wonder  what I can  say  writing my poetry

Some folks are models of total sobriety
From the top  of the head to the well-heeled  big toe too
Modern society  creates much notoriety

I wanted to  practise medicine and psychiatry
But my unconscious mind  caught  that  terrible swine flu
I wonder what one can achieve by learning poetry?

I studied the foot and learned much “podiatry”
How to cut corns off   or   stick them  back: superglue
Modern society  maims  with notoriety

Perhaps life’s  real answers will prove to be dietary
Stop all this writing and run to the Super Zoo
What I can achieve just making this poetry?

When you phone me up  you say “is that you, Lou”
I’ll  say  I felt bitter but now I’m just” Boo Hoo”!
Modern society  creates notoriety
I wonder  where I   can live  with my poetry

Yet all human lovers

I didn’t know I’d love you

With both my heart and mind
Every love is different
Each is a special kind

I didn’t know I’d miss you
In quite the way I do.
For we can’t feel emotion
Before its time is due.

And are you missing me now
Despite angelic hosts?
They may care for you , my  sweet
But I think I care the most.

Yet all human lovers
Must part and go their ways.
Some may die and fall to dust
Some may go astray.

I didn’t know I’d love you
And hurt invade my heart.
I didn’t know that you’d love me.
But we would have to part.

From mother and her bosom
From father and his strength
We lose and gain throughout our life
Whatever is its length.

I didn’t know I’d miss you
With all my loving heart.
But  as we’re made of fragile flesh
We must sadly part.

If you had been a sadist
If you had been unkind.
I would not now be grieving
And losing my own mind.

So maybe I should be grateful
For being found and known.
I wish you were still sitting here.
And I were not alone.

When we feel so lonely
No-one else will do.
It’s not that I’m just lonely.
I’m lonely, just for you.

In the wet and stony
Pathways we must go
We must keep on walking;
Be patient when we’re slow.

The inner force is working
To make new maps for me.
Wherever they shall guide my steps,
With you I long to be

When their loved ones do defect

I still don’t know  how deep inside  my heart
Is a strange belief, he has not died
I can’t believe  he’s never coming back
Is it self-deception or a lie?

I wakened up and thought I heard his breath
Then remembered all the details my loss.
I wonder if I’ll see his shadowed ghost?
And if I do, no doubt I shall get cross

Like children taken from a mother’s arms
When she returns they’re angry  yet forlorn
Too young to speak, to verbally express
They  bite the breast and wish that they were grown.

Even  those who rationally accept
Are struck dumb when  their loved ones  do defect

Offers lines from its unconscious wealth

When a novice writes an early poem
The surprise is not the cuteness of the  rhyme.
But is a moment when a deeper self
Offers lines from its unconscious wealth

Later when re-reading, I’m amazed
That I myself was channel for such  grace.
It may happen  but I  never know
Unless I write and travel with the flow.

To get to know the depths of our own mind
May  enlighten us to when we ‘re  most unkind.
Inside the heart, a bitterness may blind
Yet pain  may hint  we must the heart unchain.

So writing  opens both the soul and mind
Shows we’re one as we’re all humankind

 

 

 

Five ways to write a poem

 

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http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/advice/5-ways-how-to-write-a-poem

 

“Capture a moment. One trap I can sometimes fall into is that I try to write the big poem or the poem filled with ideas (like love, hate, etc.). What always works better, for me anyway, is to focus on one moment that expresses an emotion or works as a metaphor for a bigger idea.”

Stan’s Yorkshire puddings

Tea pot
Tea pot
 
  • Stan was cooking the Sunday dinner.As usual up North it was roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.Stan was very good with  Yorkshire puddings.
    They ate them with gravy before the main course just to maintain tradition.Even Emile,their talking cat, loved a pudding soaked in thick meaty gravy..Suddenly the kitchen door burst open and in rushed their neighbour Annie… covered in blue paint.
    What’s happened to you,hinny,Stan enquired naughtily.Surely you are not house painting on  a Sunday?
    No,I never paint  thee housemyself,she responded.I was in the shed and a stray cat was up on the top shelf.It leaped off  and knocked over over this  old tin of paint.I’m wondering how to get it out of my hair?The paint,not the cat!
    What type of paint is it?
    It’s emulsion paint.
    Well,I’m afraid you can’t get it out!
    I can’t go around town with blue hair,she cried hysterically..
    Well,all I can think is,I could cut off a little of your hair.
    OK, if that’s the only way.she said,being keen on Stan’s touching her even if only on the head.
    Can I stay and eat with you?
    Of course,sweetheart.Now here are some pinking shears.
    Have you no ordinary scissors?she screeched fractiously.
    No,we lost them.But pinking shears will give a layered effect.
    Stan began cuttting the left side of Annie’s hair.Then he went around to the right.
    She looked in the mirror,The left side  is a bit longer than the right.
    OK I’ll cut off a bit more on the left.
    Oh,my God.The shears slipped,it’s gone really short!
    All Stan could do was cut the remainder of Annie’s lovely hair so it was only 2.54 cm long all over.
    Suddenly Mary came in,I didn’t know you were a hair dresser she said sardonically to her husband.
    Well,Annie got paint in her hair so I’ve trimmed her hair.
    Trimmed it..it looks like she won’t need a cut for about two years.
    Annie began to sob noisily ,terrifying Emile who was hiding behind the flour bin.
    Well,Stan answered, it will be easier to wash and dry and no need for rollers etc
    I think it looks charming.
    Why pinking shears?Mary whispered.You could have used my dressmaking ones.
    Well,.too late now mioawed Emile sarcastically.
    Well,I think it looks sweet,said Stan bravely.
    Meantime,you have burned the puddings again
    Just like King Alfred and the cakes.Men are only good at savoury and meat dishes.
    It takes a woman to cook puddings and cakes.But Yorkshire puddings are savouries.
    I wonder how Wittgenstein would have classified them ?   cried Mary enthusiastically.
    Not Wittgenstein again,moaned Stan,can’t you move onto someone else?
    Whom do you suggest?
    Try Carnap for a while.
    Oh,he’s more of a logician,Mary said defiantly,You see I love Wittgenstein as a human being..
    Are you committing adultery ?Stan demanded  dominatingly That’s an exaggeration,He’s dead i believe.
    That’s what they all say,shouted Stan angrily.
    But what about you and Annie?
    Well,I get lonely with you lecturing and researching all day long.
    Surely you could wait till I come home?
    I suppose so,though a harem has always been my dream!
    I think you are past it,said Mary rudely.
    That’s not what I see, said Emile quietly.
    Meanwhile Annie had washed her hair an it dried in tiny uneven curls all over her head.
    It looks quite fetching,they decided as they sat down to eat the charred yorkshire puddings.
    What an exciting Sunday especially for Stan who enjoyed touching and playing with women’s hair.
    I wonder if it’s a mental illnes?
    I’ll have to look on the internet.Still, better than panic attacks, he thought consolingly as he carried the roast beef into the dining room where the women were discussing religious topics including a curiousity about why Christians were so anti Semitic despite Jesus’s wish for people to love each other.and besides Jesus being God,he was also a Jewish person too on his mother’s side.
    That’s interesting,Stan thought,Here people think he’s English!What a weird world it is,to be sure.
    Little children,love one another,as someone once said many years ago but humankind is still in the toddler stage of development I fear…. and going backwards too.

And places full of light

When the sun is high and bright and strong
We  feel that it will always be the same
But when we live  on earth we know we’re wrong
And for that darkness we have got a name

Now in England we  have lights and screens
We do not fear the dark, the  devils’ night
But often in the winter we will dream
Of summer heat and places full of light

The steps  at Aldeburgh where we saw the sea
The cliffs at Lyme and Charmouth in the spring
But from  such places I dread  memory
The  pain of loss is  hard and no child brings

Now the sky is lilac in the dusk
In creation I find what I trust

Hatred keeps people away

You loved me, but not the  true way
I am not sure  of how I can say
You could not take
An error or mistake
If you can’t  trust  then it ‘s safer to hate

Hatred keeps people away
You projected yours every day
I hoped trust would grow
But I don’t think so
Love makes us  open to blows

 

I noticed you found a new friend
You smile and you hold her slim hand
I wish I could warn her
Her life will be stormier
Dancing on eggs  till the end

What keeps this man going on
Who will be his new victim?
He starts with great charm
Before the alarm
Rings in  the mind and he’s gone

He broke my new window one time
He had to escape from his crimes
He swings to and fro
He wants us to know
He is the best or the worst every time

 

No shades of grey are perceived
So little mistakes make him scream
He curses or blesses
Endures many losses
He’s the cat who upended the cream

Are you a writer?

Hare_Otmoor2017

 

http://www.hongkiat.com/blog/signs-you-are-a-writer/

 

“Writing is a sacred calling that pulls at your soul.

It is the air that you breathe and what makes your heart continue beating. Your soul is filled with words that have no meaning until you sit down and pour them through your heart like a sieve. This is what writing is to the writer. The writing profession is unlike any other because it is not a profession to us. It is a way of life. We are drawn to it, sometimes despite our best efforts to pull away.

You will find us scribbling endlessly on scrap paper, writing during our lunch breaks at a corner table, and sitting at our computers for 20 hours at a time. We write because we have to write. Sometimes, our words are pleasing to other people and that is good. We write even when they are not. If this is not you, you may not be a writer. You may just be good at writing.”

Late blooming writers

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How Writers Can Take a Lesson from Late-Blooming Writers

 

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Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens worked as a lawyer and later as an insurance executive. However, he also wrote poetry during his off hours during most of his working life, except when his daughter was young. Stevens returned to writing around the time his daughter turned nine years old.

Wallace Stevens’s poetry matured and evolved as he got older, and his best work was done later in life, between the ages of fifty and seventy-five. In fact, Stevens won the Pulitzer Prize at seventy-five years old for the book The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens.

Mary buys a dummy

 

New cats today

While Mary sat in the kitchen on a large pine chair looking at Hotter’s  latest shoe catalogue,Annie was creeping up the garden path in a pair of turquoise suede elegantly heeled shoes matching her teal tencel culottes and matching blouse.Round her neck was a large lump of amber on a gold chain handy for beating off muggers or lustful men
Despite the heat she was in full splendour with  golden beige tinted moisturiser from Langone of Lyons on her lovely complexion,pink eyeshadow  from Yves St Current and dark brown boot polish as  her mascara had run out and she’d not been out for a while to buy more
Annie ran the last few yards and darted like an eel into Mary’s 1970’s  kitchen.
What on earth are you doing,dear? Mary asked her.Those shoes look unsuitable for  leading anyone up the garden path.Mind you,I do like them
Oh,I’ll explain,Annie said huskily.
I told  that therapist across the road I was  living with you.
What exactly do you mean by living,Mary asked anxiously.
Well,he said yesterday that anyone who lives alone must be lacking in some way.Except for him of course as he had full  analysis with Alfred Zion.
You mean Wilfred Bion,Mary told her.
Zion,Bion,what’s the difference?
It shows your  lack of education,Mary told her.Not that education nowadays makes much difference when almost anyone can get a 1st or 2.1.After all would you pay £90,000 for a third class degree in Aeronautical Engineering?
That’s not quite what I would have done, said Annie.A degree in flirtation and pleasing men would be more up my street.And cooking of course although I once did have an interest in Hebrew and Aramaic.
It’s not a way to progress in  a neo-liberal economy,although reading the Hebrew Bible is always interesting.Personally I  prefer  that to the New Vex-a man.The stories,the love songs,the action.Mary’s round eyes gleamed with intellectual life and a bit of  languorous lust
How about God? Annie asked her.
He seems to have changed as he related to his people.But he was a friend despite being an abstract concept.Though one could hardly call him a concept as he is inconceivable.
Mary’s voice faltered as  she was stunned by her own articulacy and wondered what she might say next that could offend millions around the globe.
You should write a book,Annie said kindly.
I think I am ill-equipped to write about God.And ,also ,I am saddened to see how his  own people  have been treated.I can’t dwell on  it over much as I already feel weak and weepy.
Why what have you  been doing,asked Annie.
I have been sorting out clothes to  give to the hospice shop. I’ve got a big bag
full already and  2 bags of newspapers and rubbish of various kinds which somehow creeps into my bedroom…  tissues,cotton wool, old hairbrushes.I am hoping to get it nice and neat before my sister comes to see me in August.And no doubt she will not be happy even then.She’d like me to buy a  small new house with a  lovely bathroom and kitchen. But I don’t want to leave my neighbours behind.If I won the lottery I could get the neighbours to move as well.Love thy  neighbour  etc
And now I realise I have far too many pans despite burning several.But it’s a big decision for a woman who was  famed for entertaining friends with  scorching Beef Vindaloo and lemon mousse that  tasted like  rubber.Giving that up is a big wrench.
Why can’t you carry on, asked Annie.
Carrying on is precisely why I can’t do it.Now I am a widow the wives of my former  colleagues and  my own women friends are afraid I will steal their husbands.
Emile miaowed in ecstasy as any  talk about  the love lives of his family were always intriguing.He was hiding as usual behind  the stone flour bin.
Don’t you see,said Annie.If we pretend we are living together then you can mingle with men without suspicion.
This is beginning to sound like a spy story,Mary told her.And do not drag me into  a character part  in the play  based on your romantic love for that psychoanalyst.
He looks ugly and boring to me.
Oh,that’s just a projection,Annie told her.You are defending yourself against acknowledging how much you long to lie in his arms and let him smother you in kisses.
Well,said Mary,I see you have been reading Freud for beginners again.
Or is it Freud for Dummies?
Mary recalled  how nice her dummy used to taste when it was dipped into a jar of malt and codliver oil.Maybe that is the answer,she thought.
I’m going to Mothercare,she called as  she ran out of the house in her green trainers and denim trouser suit.See you later.
Annie sat in the kitchen wondering how soon she could see the psychoanalyst again without  being accused of sexual harassment.Even   old age has not deterred her from seeking a replacement for dear old Stan.A few tears ran down her cheek and Emile  jumped out and sat on her knee.

Human chaos

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Rosa Benchez was standing in the hall  of her deluxe modern semi holding a bag of potatoes in one hand and the  snail mail in the other.Someone was knocking on the door.Rosa put the potatoes down on the bureau next to three broken  clocks and  some pink gloves.She got her camera out as she opened the door as she had a plan.
What is all this stuff doing here? asked her neighbour Rosamund Pilchard
I am doing  photographs of people’s homes and the meaning of such images  and I am starting  with this as an expression of  the loss  I have sufferedsince Charlie Blogge threw me over.Human chaos I might call it.She recalled burning the engagementt ring
She added  a banana to the heap and took several shots with her Kodak Bridge canera
What can I do for you? she asked
Do you know how to make trifle,Rosamund demanded
Yes, but you can buy it  in Waitrose
I  have got this man coming tomorrow from Soulmates.I want to make an impression.I know men used to buy women meals but now it’s different
Did you meet him in  the coffee shop?I saw you there with a strangely handsome  man last week.I liked the look of him
Well. they say don’t let them have your address but as he says he is an MP it should be ok
Is he  really an MP,asked Rosa?You are very  naive,you know
He may be one of those Euro MPs. That  Nigel Farage is.Not that I would date him
I am surprised he’s not met some gorgeous lady  already  over thre.Though you are very beautiful,dear girl.Brussels is very intriguing.Here,take this glass dish.I can email  you the recipe.
What I was thinking was.:will you ring the bell at 8.30 pm tomorrow and pretend you need an egg or some sugar.Then you can meet Saul and tell me what you think of him.Not then but later…
I am no expert on men,Rosa gurgled.I just made a big mistake with Charlie Blogge.I met him!He was ok online but in real life  he is mean and selfish.He only wanted one thing. and it was not sexual love.
Perhaps he hoped you would change him for the better? Rosamund whispered softly
Why can’t he change himself?
If you have a few friends you trust you can ask them for any criticisms they have of you but you can’t  do it with a boyfriend as it is a delicate task to choose the  right moment to say:
I’d rather live with  a gay man  who wears orange velvet trousers and dyes his hair green than with a selfish pig like you.Sex is not the most important thing in the world.Love is my priority
Rosamund was amazed.
I read in the Guardian than a woman of 87 in a Care Home asked for a vibrator.I suppose it’s better than having sex with a horrible man, she mused thoughtlessly
Do you think so? Rosa asked It’s completely different  than having someone there gazing into your eyes and wrapping their arms round you and calling you by a pet name.But I suppose it passes the time when you are stuck in  a Home.It’s exercise of course, as well.
Nowadays  there’s less love and kindness and more sexual experiments said her neighbour.
They are not real experiments as those have to be repeatable and independent  of the observer,Rosa murmured
Why bring in the Observer?  Rosamund asked.What about the Express or the Telegraph
Well,it’s immaterial as  it would not be the same making love while  bein abserved,Rosa told her.Some people might freeze up.Some may enjoy it
They gazed onto the garden where two cats were having  fun on the lawn
Shall we have a cup of tea and some Xmas cake?
The teapot was lying on the floor where Rosa had kicked it when she got up to vent her rage at life.She picked  it up and washed it tenderly
They sat in the lemon painted  room thinking about all the  men they had known and sometimes loved
Will we ever find someone  else suitable? Rosa asked.I sometimes wish I was gay as then we’d have more to talk about with another woman.But I don’t fancy it somehow.There is something missing.
I know what you mean,Rosamund giggled
I didn’t   mean that, it is just  a man is different.Greedy.lazy and can’t use a carpet sweeper as he cannot find the switch.It’s interesting to toy with them and play with their Meccano.
It certainly is.Or persuade them dolls are more fun that engineering
And so say all of us

For the magnetic attraction of rain.

I dreamed I rowed in a large pea green boat
Accompanied by seventeen cats.
And across the Great Lake,without a mistake
I saw mountains of gentlemen’s hats.

I was making no waves in my effort to move,
The cats were discoursing on geometry.
I looked in the mirror fixed onto my boat,
The moon showed entrancing Theology.

“I wonder who’ll help me”I thought to myself,
When I saw an entire spectrum of men–
Dirac, Archimedes,Niels Bohr, with their theories.
I got my great inspiration just then.

I need seventeen physicists,that’s one for each cat,
All tied to my boat with a chain.
The force they exert will just compensate
For the magnetic attraction of rain.

Paul Dirac came up, and I looked into his eyes,
They were full of anxiety and pain.
“I am sorry I am unable do what you wish,
But my father never taught me to swim.”

“That is perfectly alright”,I politely replied,
“You can walk on the water instead”
So that’s how my boat and its cargo of cats
Were accompanied back to my bed.

When I awoke the next day,I was filled with dismay.
I saw that Paul Dirac was gone,
With the cats and the boat,of which I just wrote
And I was now completely alone.

I took a quick look,in my old physics book
And there was a photo of Dirac
I stared at his eyes,and I am not telling lies,
He threw me a very strange look.

I caught this strange look,it’s here in my book.
I am saving it for a special event.
When I gather more Data on Relative Quanta,
I’ll understand just what Dirac meant.

When love is nothing but a word

 

When love is nothing but a word,
When our deep feelings can’t be shared.
When joy and woe unwoven lie
When we can’t speak, except to sigh………

When we are lost behind the glass,
When burdened feelings never pass,
When no-one is a trusted friend
When we are scared but cannot bend.

When love embodied goes away
When we are numbed but cannot say.
When we are rigid with the strain.
When life has little but such pain

We suffer as our will has gone
And we’ve no task to lure us on.
We need to know we’re not alone
That love can penetrate a stone.

That, like the Christ, we rise to life
When we endure with will its strife.
When we accept that all is lost,
But wish to live despite the cost.

Then we are saved as are the flowers
Which decorate the fields and bowers
Though all shall crumble into dust,
While we’re alive we’ll slake our lust.

Ghosts

As we cross the ghost filled plains of  ancient wars
Which cover most of Europe with their scars.
How can I compare  my losing one I love
When screaming poppies  haunt  below , above?
The Jews reciting Kaddish   made to walk
To death chambers where  only Evil  talked
When gypsies ,gays and  women big with child
Died grotesquely  in a  Europe big on style

And in these cells the memory ever lasts

Can anaemia arrive by loss and grief
The red blood cells are flat in disbelief
Too large to penetrate the body cells
No oxygen to feed the brain that tells.

The macro-sized red blood cells well with grief
They cannot weep nor obtain true relief
They knock out other cells as they go past
And in  these cells the memory ever lasts

The doctor at the clinic gives out pills
Folic acid with  gripe water swilled
Cortisone to heal the raw red flesh
But in the mind, the memories burn and  flash

Every cell desires to live and do its task
Can they be deceived by any mask?

 

 

I don’t feel a void inside myself

I don’t feel a void inside myself
Despite the loss of my companion
While he was alive he gave me wealth

Is  a marriage  needed for our health?
They go but their soul is never done
I don’t feel a void inside myself

Widowed,lonely ,crippled and bereft
My confidence has never been full on
While he was alive he gave me wealth

Half blind, yet I see by my own stealth
One can live with  confidence  or none
I don’t feel a void inside myself

Sometimes now I feel I have no self
But God has got me in his winged span
My lover was alive and gave me wealth

 

Dear Lord, I do feel lonesome just for him
I washed his feet and poured the oil  there on
I don’t feel a void but give me help
So  I can decipher all the wealth

 

 

Define your terms:poetry as therapy

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Is Poetry Therapeutic? Define Your Terms!

 

“Certainly readers should refrain from pop-culture-informed psychoanalysis of poets based upon a poem, or even on a collection of poems. The poet may be playing, taking on a persona, hiding behind a mask, recounting historical narrative. It is also true that writing a really excellent poem takes considerable effort far beyond whatever initial expressive urge prompted the piece. And many terrific poems emerge from almost arbitrary prompting rather than from some inner need to rant, emote, reveal the ego, or unpack a trauma. Poets don’t write themselves into sanity. They may confront the void, articulate fears, challenge external and internal authorities, channel grief, and tell stories; but poets who begin writing for reasons of therapeutic expression are usually people already inclined to love the rhythm, music, imagery, wordplay and magical rhetoric of language. Read interviews with poets. The proof is there.”

I thought I’d gone crazy

I’m getting penicillin tomorrow
For I’ve got a UTI bad
I thought I’d gone crazy
And dreadfully lazy
When the germs took a hold in my head.

I could not find my kindle reader
And I’ve cancelled the Guardian off line
I tried  reading the cereal box
And to sort out all my odd socks
But my head was not fiy to design

Now I must wait for the delivery
In the morning their van will come round
I cannot walk there
Although it’s not all that far
I expect after that I’ll  feel grand

We lose ourselves in shadows and may fall.

The world is exists but I just wish to flee
The flowers come into bud but I can’t see.
The birds have built their new   small nests again
Birds forget, but memory feeds our pain.

When I get trapped inside this mud black silt
I forget the tools my mind has lately  built
Again it feels eternal and unkind
The sorrowing  fills the endless realms of mind.

The mind  helps us to mediate and muse
We need it to give weight to different views
But   inwardness can  build up dangerous walls
We lose ourselves in shadow  and may fall.

The life within us will rise up again
If  we  can accept our mental pain.

My traitorous heart

Sonnets

A sonnet has three verses of four lines each which rhyme in a certain way as you can read in mine.Then the have two lines at the end which should be succinct.Shakespeare’s sonnets are the most well known and rightly so
I live a life that many would enjoy
My home and garden artists would admire
And yet my heart is sad and I feel flawed
As my real life fits not to my desire.
I married for the money that I’d gain
and for the house and garden of my dreams
Yet looking back my error is quite plain
That love cannot be found by she who schemes.
I gave birth to a six children whom I love
My sons and daughters are my living joy.
Yet I fear vengeance from the God above…
I made my husband’s life into my toy.
And yet he seems so happy with his lot
Perhaps my traitorous heart has been forgot
 

A bitter sorrow used becomes a curse

 When true love’s gone and doom hangs over head
When life runs like a river to the sea
Then shall I take new lovers to my bed.
And with their carnal touch consoled be?
When true loves lie and break my woman’s heart.
When life seems grey and rocks bestrew my path.
Then, shall I my life of evil start
And on the world shall I bestow my wrath?
When true loves lie and wreck all loyalty.
When puzzlement makes all the world seem mad.
Then I shall upend causality
And let myself do deeds which make all glad.
Our lust for vengeance makes our own lives worse.
A bitter sorrow used becomes a curse

The mind of poetry

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Image by Mike Flemming.Copyright

Inside the Mind of Poetry

“The greatest lines in poetry are infinitely quotable while having no definite meaning. What is a mind of winter, and why must one have one? It doesn’t matter. Wallace Stevens’ greatness lay in his ability to produce these kinds of anti-aphorisms, seemingly wise but ultimately ungraspable: Thought is false happiness. She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream. And, most pointedly: The poem must resist the intelligence / almost successfully. (Or, nay, successfully!)

I believe that to read poetry, one must have a mind of poetry. You must enter a state where you come to understand meaning-resistant arrangements of language as having their own kind of meaning. It’s quite similar to those Magic Eye posters from the ‘90s: If you haven’t figured out how to look at them, you can’t believe that anyone really sees the dolphin. (This metaphor has its limits, making learned skill seem like an on/off conversion; too, with poetry, even when you’ve mastered “the trick,” not everyone sees the same thing.)”

No sound no sight

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In fields of lushest  buttercups we ‘d lie
We’d watch the clouds as gently they blew by.
Love was born we thought would never die.
But now you’re gone and here I sadly sigh

That love itself remains without your form
Yet tears of loss enfold me like a storm.
I knew you’d never hurt or  do me harm.
I  felt your smile’s embrace, so wide, so warm.

How is the world,now emptied of your being?
No sound,no touch,no smell,no sight,no seeing.
How is the world when you have gone ahead
Yet I must linger in my lonely bed?

Some days I weep with gladness for my friends
Some days I weep in sadness without end

When fantasy and dream become confused

When  others acts push splinters through our souls
And into strangers ears we pour our woes..
When grief and sorrow shudder through our walls.
And whether all is lost we cannot know

When what is in or out we cannot tell
Then fantasy and dream become confused.
When darts of agony are felt to maim each cell.
When sensibility is utterly bemused.

He,in whom I to trusted, willed to fail
For what he  claimed  was friendship  was desire.
Now pain and disappointment make  me frail;
In torment know this person was a liar.

Then, having lost all other means to live,
We turn to darkness where our consolation is.

I am X’s wife

I met a neighbour waiting for the bus
He asked why I’ve not remarried yet
I said men don’t like clever wives
But like a cat I have nine lives
So one day some kind man may quite forget.

He asked why I don’t move into a flat
I said I’ll join the circus acrobats
He said,why you can hardly walk
Which makes  you easier to stalk
I disappeared and he is looking yet.

I wonder why men offer me advice
But yet nobody  loves me more than twice
I think I’ll cross the gender lines
And pay a ransom or a fine
Then I’ll pick a  lady for my wife

They say 1/16  of a percent are mixed
So when they are older they must choose their sex
I’m glad we seem to have less shame
And they are in no way to blame
Otherwise they’d all be total wrecks.

I did a quizz my IQ’s 65
The most moronic algebraist alive.
As I am 9/10ths masculine
I wonder it it is a sin
To look so cute when I am  X’s wife

Maybe I am gay but just don’t know
A phallic symbol turned me to and fro
I think I need Viagra now
But my doctor’s a real cow
She said, where you go I shall also go.

So now she follows  Biblical texts too
Her name’s not Rachel,  yet she is a Jew
She desires eternal sex
And   all I want’s eternal rest
I think the Hebrew Bible’s  writers do.