In the company of beasts

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

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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.

And scarlet cheeks now decorate my face

When shame has fallen on me like a curse

And scarlet cheeks now decorate my face;

Are manners failures and not evil worse

So cast a person out from their right place?

To disappear from here is all I wish

To hide myself beneath a beggar’s cloak.

To eat soup from a convent’s dish.

As in my own familial haunts they joke.

Guilt can be expiated and redeemed

But shame destroys the deepest source of self.

What helpful measures may now intervene,

Cover my shied face, restore with health?

Is it only I who see my plight?
Imagined laughter hides me from daylight.

COATS AND HATS

 

Coats on the hall stand

Smelling of you

Coats on the hall stand

Some are mine too.

Hats on the top hooks

Caps that you wore.

Now where you’ve gone

You will need them no more.

My hats will be puzzled,

Hanging there all alone

Now when I see yours

My heart feels like stone.

I found some of your shoes

All covered with green

Now they’re in the bin bag

No more to be seen.

I found half  your pyjamas

The rest are all gone.

I wonder where these where;

Where’ve they come from?

Last night in my dreams

You were right by my side

We were cleaning the oven

With brillo and Tide.

But when I awakened

No glimpse did I see.

Except looking slantwise

Towards the red tree,

Why did you leave me?

Why did you go?

I held your left hand

And fondled it so.

Come back to your loved ones

Don’t leave us alone.

We don’t want to live

With voices that groan.

Touch me with your fingers

Melt my poor sad heart

I let go of your hand

Then how pain did start!

Up north in old Richmond

And on blue Cleveland Hills

I’ll remember your dear face

As my eyes with tears fill.

I will lift up mine eyes

To the hills where my strength

Comes down from the Heavens

Endless in length.

Stronger than granite

Stronger than steel

Stronger than silver

Is the love that I feel

Stronger than iron;

Stronger than gold;

Stronger is my love,

For the one I once held

Ariel unconcealed:write a villanelle

How to write a villanelle

The first and third lines are repeated throughout so they are the key.
They also form the last two lines.

So write two lines.I use  five beats [iambic pentameter]

I have lost my mind  in dreams   and thoughts
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought

A villanelle has 5 stanzas of three lines and then one of 4 lines

I decided to alter the first line after musing over it.And I altered it again when repeating  it because I like to do that.My thoughts change it as I move alon

Dreams, my  wordless thoughts.
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.

Well, a first draft…. why don’t you try?

As syntax still needs home assemblage.

They hit my great brain like a spanner
My screws have come loose
I suffer abuse
From  a man with no internet manners.

 

Syntax is unconsciously selected
To make we  feel we’re  well protected
Our sentences form
So blow the ram’s horn
For beauty has now been detected.

Syntax is a  word for  the academic
As they rejuvenate their aging polemic
We  can  all use it
And the really good news is
Anyone can be orally prolific

Someone invented strange language
To cover up nudity with a bandage
In ivory towers
Professors will glower
As syntax  still needs home assemblage.,

Beyond post into pseudo?

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https://philosophynow.org/issues/58/The_Death_of_Postmodernism_And_Beyond

 

Secondly, whereas postmodernism favoured the ironic, the knowing and the playful, with their allusions to knowledge, history and ambivalence, pseudo-modernism’s typical intellectual states are ignorance, fanaticism and anxiety: Bush, Blair, Bin Laden, Le Pen and their like on one side, and the more numerous but less powerful masses on the other. Pseudo-modernism belongs to a world pervaded by the encounter between a religiously fanatical segment of the United States, a largely secular but definitionally hyper-religious Israel, and a fanatical sub-section of Muslims scattered across the planet: pseudo-modernism was not born on 11 September 2001, but postmodernism was interred in its rubble. In this context pseudo-modernism lashes fantastically sophisticated technology to the pursuit of medieval barbarism – as in the uploading of videos of beheadings onto the internet, or the use of mobile phones to film torture in prisons. Beyond this, the destiny of everyone else is to suffer the anxiety of getting hit in the cross-fire. But this fatalistic anxiety extends far beyond geopolitics, into every aspect of contemporary life; from a general fear of social breakdown and identity loss, to a deep unease about diet and health; from anguish about the destructiveness of climate change, to the effects of a new personal ineptitude and helplessness, which yield TV programmes about how to clean your house, bring up your children or remain solvent. This technologised cluelessness is utterly contemporary: the pseudo-modernist communicates constantly with the other side of the planet, yet needs to be told to eat vegetables to be healthy, a fact self-evident in the Bronze Age. He or she can direct the course of national television programmes, but does not know how to make him or herself something to eat – a characteristic fusion of the childish and the advanced, the powerful and the helpless. For varying reasons, these are people incapable of the “disbelief of Grand Narratives” which Lyotard argued typified postmodernists.

This pseudo-modern world, so frightening and seemingly uncontrollable, inevitably feeds a desire to return to the infantile playing with toys which also characterises the pseudo-modern cultural world. Here, the typical emotional state, radically superseding the hyper-consciousness of irony, is the trance – the state of being swallowed up by your activity. In place of the neurosis of modernism and the narcissism of postmodernism, pseudo-modernism takes the world away, by creating a new weightless nowhere of silent autism. You click, you punch the keys, you are ‘involved’, engulfed, deciding. You are the text, there is no-one else, no ‘author’; there is nowhere else, no other time or place. You are free: you are the text: the text is superseded.

© Dr Alan Kirby 2006

 

Colours

Black against light sky,
Bright flowers blown ; bare branches now
Reach beseechingly.

Reluctant sun hangs
Sending thin light and pinkness
To clouds sleek as cats

Now paling, blue grey,
I see mauve dying into dark
Night sky edges in

The blackness awaits;
Dreams dangle like stringed balloons
A new born gurgles

How full the holly!
Forsythia large and darker,
Wisely,birds shelter

The origins of free verse

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http://www.webexhibits.org/poetry/explore_famous_free_background.html

“Modern interpretations.

The promise of irregular cadence continued to beckon unconventional and narrative poets, and began appearing as vers libre in the 19th century French poetry of Jules Laforgue and Gustave Kant. Germany’s Johann Wolfgang von Goethe also experimented with free verse. By the latter half of the century, Walt Whitman had mastered the form, and bards such as Christina Rosetti, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Baudelaire, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and W.E. Henley were writing free verse. Still, it wasn’t until Richard Aldington used the term “free verse” in a 1915 anthology introduction that the form took an English name.

Yet, as T.S. Eliot warned, “No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job.” While free verse is irregular, lyrical, and unmeasured by line counts and stanzas, metrical and rhythmic precision remain just as vital as in other poetic forms.”

Darkness

 

When we have strangled virtue at her birth
When evil thoughts are all that we can find
And  we  cannot take a draught of cheerful mirth;
Escape from this black prison  of ithe mind.

Too friendship and esteem have been foregone
And lone as buzzards circling are our hearts.
Remembrance of past joys will  rately come
We feel  from us the last friend will depart.

When wickedness draws down our minds to die
And hatred seems to cloud the very sky
When we won’t look to see the geese fly by
When all we do is moan and weep and sigh

Then let’s remember all we have not lost;
Knot firm our souls till this dark grief has passed

It’s poetry.Gooooood heavens.

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Poems are shorter
Shorter than a novel is.
Still – no one reads them.

Except for the ones
Written inside Birthday cards.
Sentiment’s valued.

And we remember
That poor lady of Shallot
Peeling onions.

And also repeat
Nursery rhymes and stories
For little children.

You see thy don’t know
It’s poetry,.Goood heavens.
That is not for me.

Good Bones

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

He said I can keep the ring

 

Mary was in the bijou teal colored kitchen of her detached house making a  jam sponge pudding when the doorbell  rang.She wiped her hands on her new purple trousers because  she didn’t want to dirty the  clean towel.She found Dr   Rosa Benchez standing nervously outside shivering
Come in ,Mary cried.Would you like a cup of tea? You need to sit by the fire and get warmer
I’d love  that, Rosa said politely
A few minutes later they were sitting  looking out of  the bay window watching a blackbird sitting on the fence eyed by  a cat friend called Insolent Jones.
May I  talk to you,Mary? I have got   rather  more agitated than ever before.I am wondering if I need counseling or maybe shooting,she joked.
OK,said Mary cautiously.Has anything  unusual happened ?
Yes, my sister has had her driving license taken away  because of some  big panic attacks she had  crossing the Humber Bridge.
She got out of the car and screamed,Help! That was dangerous with so much traffic
She is furious and says we live in a Nazi state and  is writing to the Times.
Well,  it can happen,Mary said,but when she has learned to deal with the attacks she can re-apply and get her license back.Simple things like not eating and being tired can bring that on so I have heard.And fear of fear,too.
As well as  that,Rosa said,my sister in law has got a recurrence of cancer and is going onto some new drug-type chemo.My brother is very distressed and so is she as it was unexpected.
And my fiance Prof. Charlie Blogge has broken off our engagement with no reason.I can’t think of any at all.Shall I éver trust a new man?I guess I could marry a woman now!
He said I can keep the ring which is a blue sapphire ,supposedly, but when I had it valued they said I was  mistaken and you can buy them on amazon for £57 and less.So  she took off the ring and hurled it into Mary’s coal fire where it looked very nice as it got hotter and hotter glowing like a lighthouse off Portland Bill in a sea storm or a banger about to explode

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Good grief, said Mary.No wonder you are agitated.We may have to phone Dave the bisexual paramedic available on the NHS 24 hours a day.Or we could have our hair permed instead.
Which of these  events bothers you most,Rosa? She  continued gently.
It is my own feelings that worry me most.I woke up feeling very  sad and nervous and wonder if I am having a  breakdown.Then I feel worse as I turn it over in my mind trying to decide  what to do.Then I get up and get some food into me and think it all over again while drinking tea.
Well, you know it is normal to feel sad, anxious or distraught when bad things happen,Mary told her.
But most people look happy when I see them in the shops,Rosa shouted angrily
That is because being outside they put on a mask.They could be feeling worse than you.Anyway, why bother about that?We are all different.Some people think I am very calm but they don’t see  me  when I’m not
So what do you do? Rosa asked her nervously,twirling a golden ringlet around her finger as she watched  her engagement  ring melt in the fire.
I don’t do anything,Mary said.This is one of the fundamental errors in our society that action is  needed  for so many things and especially when we feel negative  feelings.But it’s usually part of life.Things pass.
I pretend I have a big round box inside me and I let the anxiety live in there nice  and cosy until my mind has absorbed and dealt with  the pain.Once my box was quite small but it has grown bigger now and so it has room for mad or bad feelings.I do little tasks and listen to music.Then if I feel really bad I listen to Leonard Cohen  
and tell myself,he had it worse.But he made money out of it! Not that you  can make money out of yours. though it’s worth musing about
Well,Rosa replied.Thank you,Mary.I am glad I am not the only one who feels so awful sometimes.I shall try to get a box like yours.
You are welcome,said Mary jovially.Come round on Sunday for tea.Emile is out but he loves to  see you.
The women hugged cautiously and Rosa went out looking less cold and nervous  as she bravely carried her box of troubles along with her though it was invisible to the people passing by11880567_607097136096835_5259809566679842932_n

 

 

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Too much thinking may be bad

 

 

7130713_f260http://writersrelief.com/blog/2009/11/un-think-your-poetry-how-to-write-better-poems/

Quote:

Finally, after you’ve taken the time you need to get a little perspective on your own writing, go back to your poem with your “editing hat” on. Because the creative act is generative and the act of editing is critical, it can help to break those two processes apart and tackle them one at a time. Edit carefully and without judging your own creativity. When critiquing your own writing, always strive to be the generous and sensitive editor that you would be for someone else.

Sometimes writing better poems isn’t a matter of learning more technique or doing more thinking. It’s a matter of NOT thinking. Dig deep to let your subconscious do some writing, and your poetry will grow.

Avalanche by Leonard Cohen

 [Gothenburg Scandinavium, Gothenburg, Sweden
Leonard Cohen

Cohen quote

Leonard Cohen

“Be With Me In The Phases Of My Work Because My Brain Feels Like It Has Been Whipped And I Yearn To Make A Small Perfect Thing Which Will Live In Your Morning Like Curious Static Through A President’s Elegy Or A Nude Hunchback Acquiring A Tan On The Crowded Oily Beach. ”

Is modern poetry so bad?

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https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/arts-and-entertainment/wp/2013/06/20/why-is-modern-poetry-so-bad/

 

Why is modern poetry so bad?

June 20, 2013

Friday morning, America’s great poets will wake up to find that someone has TP-ed their trees and scrawled “COWARD” on the door.

A 6,000-word jeremiad about the pathetic state of contemporary poetry appears in the July issue of Harper’s magazine, which hits bookstores Friday. In “Poetry Slam, or, The Decline of American Verse,” Mark Edmundson, an English professor at the University of Virginia, upbraids our bards for being “oblique, equivocal, painfully self-questioning . . . timid, small, in retreat . . . ever more private, idiosyncratic, and withdrawn.” That’s just for starters.

“Their poetry is not heard but overheard,” he laments, “and sometimes is too hermetic even to overhear with anything like comprehension.”

And he names the names. After studying Paul Muldoon for years, Edmundson complains that he still has “barely a clue as to what Muldoon is going on about.” Jorie Graham is “portentous.” Anne Carson may be Canadian, but that’s no defense; her verse “is so obscure, mannered, and private that one (this one, at least) cannot follow its windings.” John Ashbery “says little” in his “perpetual hedging.”

“One can’t generalize about it all,” Edmundson warns, before generalizing about it all in a nuclear assault that leaves no poet standing.

There is no normal

Two years ago I was recovering from a major operation.I believed that then our life would then  return to “normal.” I can’t believe I have lived through two years and helped someone to leave this world peacefully.
I know now there is not really any normal.I only have to look at the News to see  it

I recall phoning my GP the day after the death and after giving my name was asked:

What do YOU want?

Because they had not believed me when I asked fo a home visit.They thought I was a nuisance.In any case ,it was incredibly rude.I felt so  awful it didn’t hit me.But when I told her the news she gasped for breath.

The logic of deciding what to get rid of: large items go first.

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I am thinking mainly of clothes but the same idea can also help with books.And console yourself by imagining some other  poorer person getting a good coat or skirt.

  • Give away the items that take up the most space first
  • In my case that means coats.These are usually the largest items in a wardrobe.Over the years they seem to accumulate.
  • OK they fasten but are they too  tight? That is a bad look.
    I have got tired of red.And my red coat is a  little tight.So out with that.
    I don’t like  very heavy clothes.So out with a  purple maxi-coat fit for  an Empress.
    Out with any more that are  clinging and tight.
  • Second item that has grown in number…my shoes.
    Out with very heavy  shoes/boots
    In theory, I should wear trainers but I shall keep some of the others for now.
  • I suspect that following the ” are they clingy?”  rule will probably eliminate a few winter woollies.But not today.
  • P1000346
  • BOOKS
  • Big books  like dictionaries  take  a lot of space.Do we need all of them? I had a huge road atlas for lorry drivers which has now gone into recycling.The idea is, starting with the big ones creates space and makes one feel good.Later we can look at the others.Usually we get access online to dictionaries and suchlike.
    I keep good novels but not non-fiction if I don’t  read it in a year.
  • Number-wise look at this picture below.
  •  Mmmmm!My books might not fit into this train
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Never get up before you’re awake

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Ghostly bikes

Never say more than needs to be said
Coincidentally ,that rhymes with bed.
Never wear underpants over your head.
Never speak boastfully  about what you’ve read.

Never hear gossip and don’t pass it along
We know in our hearts this is usually wrong..
Never say in words what is sung in a song
Never wear underslips frightfully long.

Don’t accept   gifts from men you don’t like
Never ride home on the back of their bike.
Never get up before you’re awake
Never take cats for a ride in a lake.
Never feed cats  on an  old Xmas cake.
They are no judges of how well you bake.
Never let in  anyone who appears to be fake
So many folk are now on the make

They need money , not poetry!

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Poetic Justice—writing for Health and Emotional Freedom: Creating a Therapeutic Writing Program for the Chronically Ailing Poor

Can they afford pen and paper? This is a book about poetry therapy.No therapy is proven to work but it seeems more money and better housing would be more likely to help.
But,hey, if you have np money,no clothes and starving kiddies.. write an effing poem about it.That will put flesh on your bones or at least pass the time

Front Cover

Just three hours

The phlebotomist
Did not look at me at all
Sixty folk to prick in just three hours,

Can you contact me
With your eyes,I asked her.
No,it slows me up.

She says she will retire
Bloody work is not humane
People never speak.

What words could we speak
To the tired, bending figure
Who can’t raise her head?

We Manage Most When We Manage Small

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Linda Gregg, 1942

What things are steadfast? Not the birds.
Not the bride and groom who hurry
in their brevity to reach one another.
The stars do not blow away as we do.
The heavenly things ignite and freeze.
But not as my hair falls before you.
Fragile and momentary, we continue.
Fearing madness in all things huge
and their requiring. Managing as thin light
on water. Managing only greetings
and farewells. We love a little, as the mice
huddle, as the goat leans against my hand.
As the lovers quickening, riding time.
Making safety in the moment. This touching
home goes far. This fishing in the air.

Arched like a fallen moon

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Old man,bending over,
arched like a fallen moon
in a dark lilac November sky.
joy and pain wrestle my heart across the emptiness
and toss it up like a damp rocket
to fall in a hidden corner where mice live.
Would that not be a good ending,to be dust
to these little creatures nesting
in my chewed green twine and my tartan basket?
They have eyes and shiver in my hand when I rescue them
from the cat…
as any heart might.
Now night falls on the newspaper basket
where the damp Times and the Guardian mix into glue
and tomorrow the sun will rise
and it will just be the garbage
with no poetic undertones nor deathly hushes..
Heather and a silver light
you stand on a hill top like a god
looking over his domain.
Strong and now weak
it’s the human condition
Everlasting life is too dangerous for us.
Silent,motionless,home of beetles
bit by bit we fall away
into the mother soil
with cracked jugs and dropped coins
for a future academic to dig into.
Transparent  the hand  that touches me.
Whose might it be?

How are we affected by the loss of many people killed in WW2,and by Stalin and by Hitler ,including the Holocaust? And how did the Church respond?

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It is estimated Hitler killed 12 million people,half were  European Jews.Stalin is estimated at 7 million.Such numbers are hard to imagine.Especially to feel each one was a unique person like ourself is to us and our loved ones are to us.These were unique ,beloved people.
Surely Christianity itself  has died along with the innocent ?
What I have been thinking recently is: how different is the world and especially Europe is .since we lost so many people and hence lost their descendants? Jewish people  were almost wiped out and I believe Yiddish is not spoken now.Yet Jews are usually  said  to be very intelligent [ like Nobel Prize Awards are much higher in proportion ]
Is it possible to grieve such enormous losses? Nobody knows.We lost then but we lost our own selves as well/Who are we now after such murder?
I wonder , if we include the soldiers killed. in battle , whether Europe has lost   out genetically.That is my thinking on wondering why we have so few admirable politicians and other leaders.It doesn’t explain Donald Trump except he is half German.His family must have left before WW1.I am unsure why so many Germans went to the USA.Possibly to escape rigid European  work/class problems and hope for more freedom.Nobody  quite like that exists here, thank God.
I have read that some people think Judaism was wrecked as a religion by the Holocaust but I hope that is not true.But belief in God is tested by  immense tragedies.And modern life, in general ,has little time for any religion.
I wonder if to the folk who run the world it is a like a big game and we are their toy soldiers.Dispensible.
Vengeance is mine,says the Lord.Where is he?Why is he waiting?

Like a fox hides in a hole or den

I have been acquainted  well with  grief
I have wept  at home and wept abroad.
I have lost my loved ones to this thief.

I have  known grief  spread like rivers wide
I ‘ve been  hurt  by   painful ,wracked  tears
I have felt the absence of  my God.

I’ve known grief for  more than sixty years
My father and his brother were the first
I have met no  being who’s been spared.

Yet we have no permission  here to weep
I long for ritual like  a   writer needs a pen
I long  to dream of them  while I’m asleep.

Like a fox hides in a hole or den
I would like to hide  when days begin
Uncontained  by  his love  again
As a tree mourns for each little leaf
As God mourns for Adam’s   holy sin
I have been acquainted   with  harsh grief
I have  seen each ghost  and I believe.

 

A turn up for the books

 

Harry Heber with his parents and sister

Harry Heber with his parents and sister. He arrived in the UK in December 1938 on the Harwich ferry. Photograph: Linda Nylind for the Guardian

 

 

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/oct/30/uk-descendants-of-jewish-refugees-seek-german-citizenship-after-brexit-vote

How is the world,now emptied of your being?

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  so 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  this empty  bed?
Yet those who love are  grateful for this gift
Our sorrow is that life  itself’s   too swift