http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2016/11/andrew-sullivan-trump-america-and-the-abyss.html

Quote:

This is what we now know. Donald Trump is the first candidate for president who seems to have little understanding of or reverence for constitutional democracy and presents himself as a future strongman. This begins with his character — if that word could possibly be ascribed to his disturbed, unstable, and uncontrollable psyche. He has revealed himself incapable of treating other people as anything but instruments to his will. He seems to have no close friends, because he can tolerate no equals. He never appears to laugh, because that would cede a recognition to another’s fleeting power over him. He treats his wives and his children as mere extensions of his power, and those who have resisted the patriarch have been exiled, humiliated, or bought off.

I had a new doctor who pricked me
In the hand with a syringe,he stuck in me
But  when he pressed  on the dressing
I found it oppressing
So in a rage ,I cried out, why not just  kick me?

However, the blood formed a clot
Kn my brain where the  neurons were hot
Some fault in design
Took away my old mind
Now I’m about to be shot

He said kicking patients was bad
Though it might give some speed to the sad.
So I placed my forefinger
In a socket   and bingo
I was shocked until I felt  almost glad.

So now every morning at eight
I measure wy height and my weight
I eat the cat’s whiskers
And all of my sister’s
After that,I ‘m  real thrilled to go straight

For those  souls who missed  out in Vienna..
Crystal Nacht, the  blood lust and its terror
Catherine wheels  going round wild in  Sienna:
What Europe did ,hits  America tomorrow.

Tomorrow has arrived yesterday for the tenor
Leonard Cohen was  already fey  before dinner
We feel sad and  confused by the sinners
Who repent prior to voting  to bin us.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2010/dec/15/poetry-protest-politics

“The Peterloo massacre in 1819, where magistrates sent in cavalry to disperse a crowd of over 60,000 who had gathered to protest for political reform.

Shortly after the massacre, in which several were killed and several hundred injured, Thomas Love Peacock wrote of it to his friend Percy Bysshe Shelley in Italy. Shelley was so moved by Peacock’s description of the events that he responded by penning The Masque of Anarchy, a poem that advocates both radical social action and non-violent resistance: “Shake your chains to earth like dew / Which in sleep had fallen on you- / Ye are many — they are few”.

At times of upheaval and unrest, is poetry’s role to fan the flames or cool tempers? Down the centuries it has proved remarkably effective at both. Against a background of civil unrest in 1970s America, Gil Scott-Heron told the world “you will not be able to stay home, brother”. In his searing, satirical masterpiece “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” on the album Small Talk at 125th and Lennox. Scott-Heron offers a line in tightly-wrought comic surrealism; “The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.” But it is as much his delivery, his voice impassioned but not quite righteous, that electrifies the poem.”

As the sky goes darker by the hour
The coloured leaves all turn to neutral black
The branches look like writing in a script
The sense of which no human can unpack.

Does God write Hebrew with his fingertip?
Does he speak in algebraic form?
Or being there before we humans came
Must we struggle ,mysteries to discern?

For languages evolved from grunts and squeaks
From birdsong and the lapping of sea waves.
Evolution takes much longer than we think
As on our genes, new systems are engraved.

And if God is the origin and source
He does not speak in English or in Greek.
His being  shows both  subtlety and force
A whisper in the wind , a mountain bleak

Our God can never win the Nobel Prize
Beyond ,beneath,the source who underlies.

I looked at my data and for the first time the European Union is the biggest number in   my visitors list, just beating my delightful  friends in the USA.
I don’t know why that should  be unless WP has  amalgamated countries like France,Germany etc.And no doubt His Majesty is peering at me wondering who is telling me what is no good and what should be kept! I’ll see him in my dreams where we clean the oven and  look after hundreds of magical cats which stops us going out.So far he  has not spoken much but that is not unusual.

True anguish hides her face  in times like these
Where  hate and anger blend  and  are appeased.
Where   men and women hesitate to speak
Gomorrah,Sodom,waltz, ah, Viennese.
By this display  we judge  the future bleak.
The spirits freed by  disbelief now freeze.
Atheism turns,till paganism it greets.

For humans need a myth by which to live
To say God’s dead no energy will  give.
From reawakened  pagan gods   comes  power.
Energy,  the psychopath deals  with.
Comes the man and comes the evil hour.
He sees no  problems ,asks none to forgive.
Frees the  taunting demons from their towers

Does he think he’s god and can control
The men of  darkness gathering their haul?
I fear he sees less than a beggar poor
Who leans defenceless by an empty wall
And in the wall ,there is no open door.
Yet there is a trap, a drop. a jail.
Tortures thought historic  are adored.

Against  sadness:no-one here must weep
Nor lounge  about in melancholy deep
Was Van Gogh senseless to permit  his muse.
For  even masterpieces  ,was the price too steep?
We see the yellow chair  but not his views
Nor his  mind where technique made great leaps.
Nor was his journey broadcast on the news.
Against sadness.

Happiness  or joy is hard to find
When we rest, the News preys on our minds
Yet some are  cold  towards the slaughtered priest
His nose a beak of bone  in old  face   lined
Now Muslims go to Mass and join Christ’s feast
Against sadness.

What rages in the mind make men  kill thus?
In Syrian wars  the  innocents fare worse.
But these are our near neighbours so we weep
And wonder how to end the  frightening curse
The sins we once committed hold us deep
We  hold our hands out wanting to be nursed
Against sadness

http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/2738/real-spanish-omelette

To myself,I look quite young  and daring
I wear my clothes of pink and purple lush.
My silver hair looks blonde like Helen Mirren’s
Except that mine looks  like it  needs a  wash

I wear my clothes of pink and purple lush.
My shoes are purple too I must confess
My beauteous hair looks like a  great  thorn bush.
My vest is moth-holed, like my winter  dress

 
My shoes are purple too I must confess
Purple heather   covers Northern  moors
My hat is  purple, like my winter  dress
Some use  such heather as a mattress coarse.

 
Purple heather  dresses Northern  moors
Higher than the  fiercest sheep will go
Some use  such heather as a mattress coarse
Beware of  rabid rams  so wild they  roar.

To myself,I look quite lined   yet caring
I wear my clothes of pink and purple  loose
My silver hair looks  unlike Helen Mirren’s
I bet she never wears a baggy fleece!

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/pantoum-poetic-form

Quote:A good example of the pantoum is Carolyn Kizer’s “Parent’s Pantoum,” the first three stanzas of which are excerpted here:

     Where did these enormous children come from,
More ladylike than we have ever been?
Some of ours look older than we feel.
How did they appear in their long dresses

     More ladylike than we have ever been?
But they moan about their aging more than we do,
In their fragile heels and long black dresses.
They say they admire our youthful spontaneity.

     They moan about their aging more than we do,
A somber group—why don’t they brighten up?
Though they say they admire our youthful spontaneity
They beg us to be dignified like them

Some folk are made of rubber
Some folk are made of glass
And when the stormy winds blow
Rubber lets it pass.

Yes and No
You Me It They We
Foreigners
English
EU
Trump
Vote
Tabloids
Humour?
Democracy
Satire?

https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/usage/commonly-confused-words

She pored the tea out and I said I had enlarged pours on my face.But we drank the tea and thought it was good enough
I shan’t except the prize
Exempt the old and ill from army service,thank you.I except what you think about it/
She excepted his marriage proposal so he was over the top with fright

Such a sad and lonely face you show
I wonder if you ever sought relief.
Unconsoled sadness  seems to grow.
Such a sad and lonely face you  show
I’ve not seen you long enough to know
If  your pain is caused by misbelief
Such a sad and lonely face you show
I wonder if you ‘ll ever  find relief.

Without your permit ,I shall  charge  the free.
I ‘ve got  melodies that can’t be  heard
I  hear the sound of driftwood   on  the sea

Who was I and who can I now free?
Are there any  people left to stir?
Without you here ,I ‘m just hungry for that sea

I was just about to  kill a thousand fleas
This  spider sprang  from out of her  dark lair
I feel  the sounds  of    driftwood   on  the sea

That cup of tea was never, then,  quite free
She  spooked you off as if it were a Fair
Without you here ,I feel nothing can be.

She put you into rehab rather pre..
She brought death  to us with her  in her hair
I feel  just like I’m   drifting out  of me

They made you sow some seeds  and could not see
That you were  almost lying standing there
Without you living  ,I ‘m as long as me.

Quite soon  your vital  poems  had disappeared
You   were beaten whilst you were  jailed there
I feel inside  so black  with misery

Recognization  aching was    the   cue
I cannot I know the mind  in  such  affairs
I doubt a presence  now can salvage me.

Enchanting you by   webs  hung between her thighs
The  demon took your  hand ,I see it clear.
I feel inside.  I’d kill her to be me.

You left as fast as  smiling   can now be
Happy to escape  the  devil’s  glare
Without your  vision ,I am never me

I feel myself like ape or refugee.
Floating on  the tide, I know not where
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I feel inside there is a mystery

Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I ‘ve got  memories that can’t be shared
I feel tlike   some old driftwood   on  the sea

Who was I and who can I now be?
Are there any  people left to care?
Without you here ,I am fno longer me.

I was just about to give you  that hot tea
This  woman sprang our of her  dark lair
I feel inside like  driftwood   on  the sea

That cup of tea was never, then, to be
She took you off as if it were a dare
Without you here ,I feel no longer me.

She put you into rehab misery.
She brought death inside with her like a prayer
I feel  just like I’m   drifting,   all at   sea

They made you go to gym and could not see
That you were  almost dying standing there
Without you living  ,I ‘m no longer me.

Quite soon  your vital signs  had disappeared
You   had not eaten whilst you were  jailed there
I feel inside like  driftwood ;I’m  at sea

Resuscitation  was  to be the  key
I cannot see  the wisdom  of  such fare
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.

Enchanting you by   stars  hung from her tree
The  angel took your  hand ,as it was bare.
I feel inside like  driftwood , all at   sea

You left so fast but  gave a smile to me.
Happy to escape  the  carer’s  glare
Without your  being here ,I am not me

I feel myself like ape or refugee.
Floating on a raft, I know not where
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I feel inside like  driftwood   on  the sea

Philip K. Dick, from The Selected Letters of Philip K. Dick 1972-1973:

A person’s authentic nature is a series of shifting, variegated planes that establish themselves as he relates to different people; it is created by and appears within the framework of his interpersonal relationships.

He  grabbed my love and did not  it return
Labelled me insensitive.unkind.
He  struck my heart without   care or tconcern
I learned that in his soul he ‘s deaf and  blind

He labeled me   insensitive.unkind.
Not the perfect mother of his dreams
In his  deepest soul, he is  still blind
Makes connections mainly for his schemes

I was not the perfect mother of his dreams
His need was for a breast  to like upon
He  wants   women mainly for his schemes
Which failed with me and so he is long gone,

His need was for a breast  to like upon
In ease and comfort like a new born  child
He  failed with me, and so he is long gone,
For I prefer my company more wild.

In ease and comfort,  he lay  like a  child
He  never thought to ask  what I’d  prefer
For I prefer my company more wild.
Only to the lion of God defer

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantoum

Structure

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.

A four-stanza pantoum is common (although more may be used), and in the final stanza, lines one and three from the first stanza can be repeated, or new lines can be written. The pantoum form is as follows:^[1]

Stanza 1
A
B
C
D

Stanza 2
B
E
D
F

Stanza 3
E
G
F
H

Stanza 4
G
I (or A or C)
H
J (or A or C)

Verse forms[edit]

The pantoum is derived from the pantun berkait, a series of interwoven quatrains. An English translation of such a pantun berkait appeared in William Marsden‘s A Dictionary and Grammar of the Malayan Language in 1812. Victor Hugo published an unrhymed French version by Ernest Fouinet of this poem in the notes to Les Orientales(1829) and subsequent French poets began to make their own attempts at composing original “pantoums”.^[2]Leconte de Lisle published five pantoums in his Poèmes tragiques (1884).

There is also the imperfect pantoum, in which the final stanza differs from the form stated above, and the second and fourth lines may be different from any preceding lines.

Baudelaire‘s famous poem “Harmonie du soir”^[3] is usually cited as an example of the form, but it is irregular. The stanzas rhyme abba rather than the expected abab, and the last line, which is supposed to be the same as the first, is original.

• A catechism  for liars
  The Jerusalem rivals.
  She reduced them to idols.
  A catechism for tryers
  A cataclysm of tyres.
  A catachumen  of  squires
• Bare crones were all they had
  Barely alone in bed
  Rare phones  on my iPad keep calling me mother
•  He was bare-faced   and  hairless
  She found him on the bypass
• Barge Inn .No canoes allowed.No canoodling by order.
• Parking  is sad when alone.Rent a companion tonight.
• Parking up the wrong  tree again?
• A worn  miner deified her.Queen of the Coke
• Heroine of  briefs.Always worn out.
  Heroism is  wreathed
  Heroin is   the  theif
• Casket Vase: keep your loved on on the sideboard
• Brass  passwords are next.Pass.
•  He sat on   her eyelid all night.
  She batted his  sighs back
  Drat, the  diarrhea’s underground
• Baited to death
  Waiting for breath.
  Say it,he’s left

I have  filled my mind   with  dreams   and thoughts
I have drawn conclusions  that seem real
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

As Ted Hughes said,  his fishing was the sport
Which brought both meditation and a meal.
I have   studied minds   and  dreams   and thoughts

You see ,like that,   new images are caught.
In silence and in noticing  the feel
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

What we find may not be what we sought
At  first ,it may not show its wise appeal
I have  found a  mind  by  dreams   and thoughts

In the night the images  take flight.
God’s lioness  destroys what  is  congealed
What’s of  value’s not by effort wrought.

Like a butterfly, a flowering dart
Of love and beauty  which was once concealed
I have  found my mind  by  dreams, my  wordless thoughts.
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

I am trying to write a pantoum.The cursor keep jumping so if I disappear I shall be with that…

Another winter, come  so soon has shown
That I survive despite  the sharpest pain
Such solitude as this I’ve rarely known
And yet I’m here and so I shall remain

That I survive  accompanied by  pain
By grief and anguish sharp as knife to heart
And yet I’m here and here I shall remain
This flickering candle’s light will not  blow out

By grief and anguish sharp as knife to heart
I suffer in the company of beasts
The flickering candle’s light survives  my doubt
Late after Nazareth, came the Holy Feast.

Life is only known  when  we  can live
In solitude as  that I ’ve grown to love
As  tranquil consolations, it shall  give
Despite fierce  winter,comes the holy dove
Despite fierce winters, we   believe ,we  love.