Author: Katherine

Poetry writer and author

CAN A REALLY GREAT WRITER MAKE IT ON WORDPRESS?

This is a fascinating idea and a great story

ninamishkin's avatarON BEING OLD

[Last fall I registered for an adult education course that failed to attract a sufficient number of registrants and was therefore withdrawn.  It was about “The Long Short Story.”  I had already bought the books containing the six stories to be discussed, and don’t easily give in while there’s still hope. So I put up a post in which I offered to host a reading program with the professor’s curriculum if I had three takers — a foolhardy idea, as hardly anyone in Princeton knows I blog.  But there was one brave soul, in a town just to the north, who raised her virtual hand.  We’ll call her G.  

And so G. and I, in an extremely leisurely way, began.  We decided to meet every other Thursday at 2 p.m. (except for December, because G. has a large extended family for whom holiday preparations are time-consuming).  We eliminated Faulkner and Conrad from the professor’s list and added a few authors of our…

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The caterpillar cried 

 

Is there a nutmeg in the house,the caterpillar cried.

I’ve been upstairs and locked the door,what else might I try?

I used mace for many years the beetle told us all.

If you budget carefully,the expense will not appall

I have no time to go to town,the moth indignant cried.

And anyone who says I have will very truly lie.

A Penguin cookery book fell down and hit the sleeping cat;

I’ll ask the Vicar what she thinks of coincidence like that.

We looked for maces everywhere but nothing did we find

Except an old lace petticoat beginning to unwind.

Is there an alternative? the mouse asked timidly.

Personally I don’t put dried mace into my tea.

A housefly and a bluebottle refused to speak at all

Because they’d just got married and were saving for a ball.

I find it hard to live like this and I shall go to bed

But all the creatures loudly cried, Oh,when will we be fed?

You can find the entire book in that first line.”

grayscale photography of ladder near bookshelf
Photo by Jim Basa on Pexels.com

 

According to E.L. Doctorow in a 2009 interview: “The first lines of a book are very crucial. They give you the voice. They imply the kind of texture the text will have. And, in effect, they are the acorn from which the oak grows. They Predict. You can find the entire book in that first line.”

 

As on my bed, I dream indignantly

What  to wear in bed’s  a mystery.
The cat has died and will not keep me warm
Where  is my love who wrote my history?
Where the comforts which like  bees did swarm?

When  with a lover, skin is quite enough
But  now alone I feel the need for gowns
My little  skin is tender and less tough
And on my face I wear  ambiguous frowns

Still this  small problem should not worry me
As on my bed I  dream indignantly
For who will be and who is not to be?
I answer God with polite yet piercing plea

Still clothing  helps to comfort   my  dark pain
But no-one knows, as all they see is vain

No,despair, you are a deadly sin

No,despair,I shall not let you win
I’l fight you with my being and disdain
No,despair, you are a deadly sin
I’ll write you out  on paper with my pen

Oh,despair, be not my constant friend.
I look for others  brighter and more gay
To you no card or present will I send
You must not  seek my company today.

Oh,despair,I cannot  hide from you
I fly into your blackness  like a bird
Yet now it is a golden light I see,
Consoling and so warm  it clothes my words

Despair,my friend I’ll fear no more your deeps.
You open up a door while I still weep

And in the evening play a double bass?

Happiness is compulsory at this time
Xmas parties,alcohol and drugs
Inebriated,I can never rhyme
I sit and watch the mating of the slugs

But surely nothing mates in winter  cold
For slugs don’t have a coat like humans do
Perhaps ,despite appearance, they are bold
Need no injections to prevent the deadly flu.

On balance would you rather be a slug
That lives a  life of freedom in the grass
Or do you live  because you write and blog
And  in the evening play a double bass.?

A slug can’t   sing a song nor speak  kind words
This comparison is  foolish and absurd

 

In my patient state

Deferential, I

Eternity await

Submit to your grace

In my patient state.

None but God can judge;

None have his pure gaze.

Write me not your wish.

Tempt me not with praise.

Timeless as the heavens

Eternity is now

Mindful of this lesson

Grace will show me how

 

Poetic devices

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FormForAll – Poetic Devices: Image, Symbol, Metaphor, Allegory

 

“The tenor is the idea being expressed or the subject of the comparison; the vehicle is the image by which the idea is conveyed or the subject communicated. When Shakespeare writes in Sonnet LXXIII –

              That time of year thou mayst in me behold
              When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
              Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
              Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

the tenor is old age, the vehicle is the season of late fall or early winter, understood through a group of images unusually complex in their implications.”

Dante

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http://www.dwildepress.net/critica/mystic5.html

 


“Life is not simple. Dante depicts himself realizing, in the year 1300 at the age of 35, that his life has become so complicated he is lost. The Divine Comedy begins with these famous words:

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
Che la diritta via era smarrita.

In H.R. Huse’s translation:

In the middle of the journey of our life
I came to my senses in a dark forest
For I had lost the straight path.

The metaphors in this sentence are easy for us here on the confusing Earth to grasp. Life is like a journey, path or way that we travel, and it can become so uncertain that at times we may actually feel lost – the “dark forest” clearly represents that feeling of lostness, the sense that you don’t know where you are, and you’re not sure how to get back to familiar or appropriate places. In Dante’s image, the path itself is uncertain. Who am I, where am I, and what am I doing?”

And burned , through her, Christ’s body in their trance.

The shops now closed, we see  bright Xmas lights
Joy to children and adults alike
For many are the savage ,evil sights
We’ve seen upon our screens in these dark nights

Yet  France and Britain warred a hundred years
Our soldiers ravished  women left alone.
A hundred years of terror laid out bare
Joan’s sister raped and klled  despite her groans

Even Joan was not safe from  such men
She did no wrong ,defending  bitter France
But churchmen got her tried by word and pen.
And burned  through her Christ’s body in their trance.

God needs not more  human sacrifice
Humans kill ;it is our “virtuous ” vice.

My husband sleeps on the floor

My husband sleeps in the bath
Why?
Someone said he was a drip.

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My husband sleeps on the floor
Why?
He doesn’t like wakening up by  my boyfriend.

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my husband wears a cap in bed
Do you mean a sheath?
Don’t be ridiculous.His head is much too wide.

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My husband never goes to bed.
How do you feel
I can’t.

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My wife likes tea in bed
And do you?
No,it’s too wet.

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My wife is  very cold
Do you mean frigid?
No, she likes to cuddle me
So why complain?
Her under-active thyroid means she always 3 degrees under.
Wow, she must be clever.
She passed  for normal at school.
I say!
Did you know her?
Not biblically
I meant  sectually
What sect was she in?
Jehova’s Wits.
That is  too  boastful
She used ro be very modest when  she was a God botherer
What went wrong
She bothered him too much

 

 

THAT SEEMS MEAN.

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I’ve got a bad back
How come?
My wife liked aural sex.
I don’t get it.
She has made me put  our bed next to the party wall so  she can hear the  neighbours. better
And does it work?
I don’t know.I have to sleep on a board in the living room
That seems mean.
Please don’t mention statistics.I feel bad enough already

Salvation in horses

A Catholic and a Methodist were walking though the town looking for a coffee shop/
We can get   cheap coffee in the church hall,the Methodist said.
I don’t like cheap coffee, the Catholic said.
How about salvation?,his friend asked
Free?
Yea,bring your partner and a friend, it’s three for two  in Advent.
But we’ve already been saved by faith and good works.
Forget the good works.We are saved by Faith alone.It’s now Daylight Saving Time too.
I wish you had told me that  last week, the Carholic remarked.I just agreed my mother in law could move in with us
From where
Holloway.
What’s the address.
It’s the prison
Why is she there?
She  stole some  horse whips
I thought you said,whores ‘ whips.
It was a Freudian slip.
She stole that as well?
Yes and got 5 years in jail
What a heavy sentence.
Well, she  wore the slip with no dress  as well after killing the hoese
Have you  any animals in your home?
We have six cats.
Buy them some flak jackets.
She could strangle them.
Is that a crime?
We’ll soon find out!
Can’t you hide them?
In a 2 bedroom flat?
Is there a loft?
Yes,but there are two horses  up there.
Why keep horses in a flat?
It seemed a good idea at the time.
What   time was that?
Window box planting time.
You must be mad.
Yes , it is seassonally effective disorder
Does it work for you?
No,but it pulls the horses.
What an ass.
Where?
That man  over there?
I didn’t know you were gay.
I;m not but my therapist reckons I will be soon.
That’s very queer.
What is?
The fact  that we never had the coffee.
We’ll have to change to Colombian Bean Time.
And so they prayed for us

 

Against my ribs my loud heart seems to knock

Like a newborn infant left on rocks
My skin feels tender and my heart is sad
I’d like to creep  inside an empty box

I have turned away my  every clock
Whilst I try to improve how I’m clad
With my a newborn infant  on  grey rocks

The people of this world seem   like lost flocks
Like sheep, they folllow men who’re dumb and mad
I’d like to  hide  inside an empty box

Against my ribs my loud  heart seems  to knock
I gasp for comfort even   from folk bad
Like a newborn infant left on rocks

I feel akin to prey, like the red fox
Which o’er long  moors and meadows  has just fled
I’d like to  hide  inside an  metal box

This sorrow seems to sap my own red blood
And in the sky I see  black thunder  mad
Like a  little infant left on rocks
Without your   heart’s embrace I can’t come back

Is it vice to pay when we’ve not bought?

The villanelle won’t jell,I feel dismay.
I know they’re hell ,but they distill my thoughts
A triolet would work if I could play

I boiled the villanelle  to sell    today
I do believe I’m feeling underwrought
The villanelle won’t jell,I feel dismay

I planned to sell the whole lot on Ebay
But someone gave a hint I never caught
A triolet would work if I could play

I appreciate the values of wet hay
My teacher never mentioned  poems  caught short
The villanelle won’t sell,I can’t  display.

Some will plight  their  troth and others  pray
The teacher saw the writing  she’d not taught
A triolet would work if I could play

I wrote a poem with words I had not sought
Is it vice  to pay when we’ve not  bought?
The villanelle won’t jell,I  say,hurrah
A  violin would work if you could play

When you should have paused before shooting

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The way I experienced you
If that is the aptest word,if not it will do.
It felt as if you pushed me violently
through the window
Then blamed me for the broken glass.
Which cut your toe,alas
Those open sandals are dangerous BTW
Today and yesterday
You didn’t look out at me bleeding on the ground
Nor looked round
Well.why would you?
Who?
The action is inconsistent with looking at the harm you caused
When you should have paused
Because you had done nothing at all
You were off the wall
In your own mind
Blind
And it was cruel of me to mention it
Draw attention to it
That was why I have this scar on my face…
No more embraced
Why are women fooled by holy men?
Again and again.
Well,it’s still the best disguise
To surprise
The unwily, the naive, the dumb.
And the numb.
Even God might be evil in some way
Some days.
Though he’s not a man.
Nor a courtesan
Just a fierce light in the mind
Burning yet kind
Designed
To be free.

Metaphor in religious and other discourse

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Click to access SZTAJER.pdf

Excerpt:

For example, in the metaphor “Time is money” we deal with abstract notion of the time concept using more specific concept from the field of finance and the practice of everyday life. As a rule, target domains are more abstract in comparison to source domains. Thanks to that, abstract conceptual domains are anchored in empirical experience, becoming more comprehensible and understandable. In other words, a metaphor can have a cognitive function as well: “The essence of metaphor is understanding and experiencing one kind of thing in terms of another”.
However, the process of creating metaphors is not limited to understanding or explaining some fields of experience. Metaphor can transform experience, totally changing the nature of its character. It is a tool used for creating some aspects of the reality, especially those which are dependant on language and thoughts, as it takes place in the social and cultural world.
The ubiquity of metaphors is due to the fact that they are unavoidable. Some very abstract domains may be described only metaphorically.

blythburgh_church_-_roof_angelThe fundamental role of metaphor in religious discourse is visible when we realize that religious language function is not only description of reality that is the subject of religion. Religious language has a range of psychological and social functions.
Using religious language is an important medium of religious commitment. Furthermore, religious man acts with a language. The linguistic action is not limited to communication only but comprises “creating” certain things – social phenomena – and regulating human behavior, maintaining a reality of religious world view, construction of some definitions of situations, induction of emotional states, the sense of community, etc.
We have to admit that religious language basically does not function separately from the context of religious life, especially the ritual, but it is a form of religious action itself. It can be seen clearly in the case of symbol, metaphor, and myth that are interrelated with a system of ritual actions, and only in this context can be fully understandable.
Not all metaphors occurring in religious discourse can be described using the wellknown term of “live metaphors”. This is because metaphors are subjected to conventionalization, which often happens through reduction of ambiguity to one of meanings. As a result of this process, a metaphorical character of religious expressions is partially erased, and this can be changed only with renewal of religious language, which introduces new metaphors or enables us to understand the old ones in a different way. Without the renewal, religious language may become a relict that ceases to mean anything at all. Metaphors are not understood beyond a social and cultural context – in fact it is quite the opposite – their meaning is shaped in relation to cultural models; thus it is limited to some community sharing similar experience.13
The Christian metaphor “God is our Father” would not be comprehensible in a matriarchal society.

Too many miles to go

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Feeling the sadness in my heart
and in my arms a tender feeling
as if the flesh is calling out;
My breath’s coming in gasps and
my throat makes a murmur
as if trying to speak.

Sensitive skin on my inner arms yelps
and my heart aches like
I’ve run too many miles .
My legs feel strong
My mouth is dry and my back
needs an arm around it
for protection.
My eyes are wet with the moisture
that might have made saliva.

My cat died
Then you did.Whatever.

The state banquet

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I am writing a short story about Trump sitting next to the Queen at a banquet.She has a few lead weights in her handbag just in case.Or maybe she’s wearing steel underpants with spikes.The tutor seems taken with it but am unsure if I can finish it.Is it wrong,,there’s something about his expression that seems to wound my heart and make it tremble?
We live in little bubbles and he’s not penetrated mine before.What will the progeny be?Lilith?
Well,people like a change, as Goebbels fatuously remarked before swallowing his cyanide capsules.They need a change.But to what? It’s bewildering my spouse greatly.That is true or I die.I might die anyway,if you can read between the signs.
Don’t forget, what is not here today might live tomorrow.

To tell the truth and not a wild, cold lie?

My fingers trailing in the river
I see the sun reflecting ripples fly
Would you like to be forever
In this   gliding boat until we die?
Or will you forsake  your illusions
To tell the truth and not a wild ,cold lie?

The sun is ideal as a  poet’s symbol
The god of fire and love and life.
The mighty one can make us tremble
Or burn the vision out our eyes.
Retinal tender, silky cobwebs
May not last until we  come to die

Many love the moon’s reflection;
Her silver crescent slender as a bone
And for many she’s perfection
While for others she’s a  smiling crone
In the gliding boat I still look upward
Silent,trembling,aching,all alone

 

Wild geraniums

 

Stepping through the door
I am assailed by perfume
Wild geraniums.

I ease these flowers
Out of  the    patio bed
For they cover sage.

They cover flowers-
Blue geranium and saxifrage
Rosemary  sprawls now

Lavender’s nearby.
Now  inside  I hear singing.
Bird by the windows.

A robin came in,
Looking for my old man
I said,he’s not here.

Embodying soul
Sacramental  life in scents
Flowers are themselves.

How I’d like to lie
In the poppy-filled meadows
With my beloved.

Or splash through the ford
Near the open air display
Work of Henry Moore.

The topology
Of his sculptures moves my heart
Vast,holy, peaceful.

Massive like  unto God
They transform the soul and body
Into one being.

Then we are all one
With the sloping green meadows
And the wind bent trees.

Most of all,I know
Wildflowers are God’s darlings.
How he dwells in them.

Low,modest beauties
On the verge of the main road
See ,even here, smiles.

To lose one’s own self
To become a wild-flower
Grace will sanctify.

First, grow an ego
Then lose it in these green woods
Unselfconscious Eve.

PUTIN AGREES TO RECEIVE INTELLIGENCE BRIEFINGS IN TRUMP’S PLACE [Satire]

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 http://www.newyorker.com/humor/borowitz-report/putin-agrees-to-receive-intelligence-briefings-in-trumps-place?intcid=mod-latest

SATIRE FROM THE BOROWITZ REPORT

PUTIN AGREES TO RECEIVE INTELLIGENCE BRIEFINGS IN TRUMP’S PLACE

By

NEW YORK (The Borowitz Report)—In what Donald Trump’s transition-team members are calling a further example of international coöperation, Russian President Vladimir Putin has agreed to receive daily U.S. intelligence briefings in the place of the President-elect.

Trump, who had earlier decided that he did not need the briefings and had assigned Vice-President-elect Mike Pence to receive them, said on Tuesday that Putin was a “much better choice.”

“In securing the Russian President’s services. “The American people are getting an amazing deal here,” he said. “Putin is doing this totally for free.”

We must be incarnate

 

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So much depends on mood and time of day

We interpret or mis-shape what we perceive.

The sun may shine to show a better way

Or absent that,  a transient cloud deceive.

 

No lowing herds wind down our oil fumed  roads.

Tranquillity at dusk has disappeared.

With artificial light the daytime mode’s

 Prolonged and reverie’s  feared.

 

To truly live we must be incarnate.

God himself  has paid this price alone.

For time misspent we do not get rebate.

As ,like the leaves in wind, away we’re blown.

 

To live  aright perception must be clear

Including in its breadth all that we fear.