O happy worm that of my flesh might eat When after death I lie in deep in the earth My bosom,hands and eyes become your meat
You have no sun as you enjoy your feast And none is chosen as we were at birth O happy worm that of my flesh might eat
All of us are equal in defeat None are high or low , what are we worth? My brain,my hands,my eyes become worms’ meat
In the soil, we rest in comfort sweet Let us all be blessed,God make no curse You made the happy worms who will us eat
O remember the deep ash from Auschwitz’ heat The little children killed without Kaddish Those hearts ,those hands, those eyes no worm could eat
,
Why should we be satisfied by wish When people burn or starve beside our dish O Godly worm that of my flesh might eat Let my very self become your meat
My old blue fountain pen allows The ink across the page to flow Like wet paint from an artist’s brush; And words come in a rush.
Enchanted by the hand that writes, Bewitched by art, beauty alights. The script is like a music score Through which you pass as through a door. Imagination’s home.
As,mysteriously,to you,to me, The spirits of our hearts are tamed, By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind, They enter vision quite unplanned, Like moths to flutter softly round Fire joined heart and hand.
The pen slows down,the hand goes still And just as dreams at daybreak will, They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone, I almost caught that one.
Wasting life when we would like to dance Walk in ferny woods. exchange a glance Can we have a decent person at our head? Jesus Christ,no b*gger understood
Why be happy when you could feel mad? Glad that Donald Trump is not your dad Don’t let logic, reason or plain thought Sell you something Mother never bought
Why not let the police take all control? They know how to score a self made goal They can kill a man and wound a child Yet kneel down in Church along the aisle
Holding a black Bible in one hand
Will not take you to the Promised Land Cain and Abel,Jacob and Esau Does he hope to start another War?
As the old man fell towards his death They offered us a handrail for the bath I was so shattered by their wilful lies I could not speak, my saliva had all dried
He was walking albeit slowly when at home When they took him off I heard the groan Lost inside his head, no wife nearby Even Satan would have wept that night
Gabriel and Satan, hand- in -hand Neither one will ever understand We humans waste so much,we’re almost blind Full of envy,hate and so unkind
Reading the letters we receive, I’m always struck by how much, and how quickly, people convert their pain into self-loathing. My first thought when I read your letter, Heartless, was: Oh my god — you’re in pain. Your grieving isn’t over. The public ways in which your fiancé’s mom is grieving have reawakened the more private sense of shock and paralysis you felt when your father died. Your instinctive contempt for her displays of sorrow, and how she’s been able to elicit comfort, raises questions about whether you received what you needed 10 years ago, when you were so young and less equipped to ask for support, or even understand how to grieve.
I’m in deep now,never been this deep before The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door. In so deep, the ocean has its own startled floor. I’m down,down.down.never been so dark , so more
I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am I think I had an accident,fell over, then I swam. Sometimes it’s a loss, be times it’s my man. I guess I only do it cos I know some folk can.
I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain Would I choose to relive if, I was born again? The deep joy is the amazing gain. But the sorrow is damn sad, let’s admit it plain.
I’m in deep and it’s over my head What was I thinking of,when I fell out of that bed? I look up and the sea’s so turquoise like that mist is red When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.
At first, it was all just black,black pain But from the bottom of the well, I looked up with awed love again. That’s when I recalled,feelings are deep and sane Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep,deep zone.
I dunno if I’m ever comin’ out. We can’t control it,ain’t that what life’s all about? I’ll never love with innocence again,nor not feel doubt. But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout.
I’m swimming and the ocean’s so mysteriously bright Down here we don’t have no day nor no night Fish nudge me with big grins and teeth white Sea flowers fondle me and whisper,turn off that light
Mary opened the door as the bell kept ringing.There stood a clergyman in a grey wool suit and baseball cap coordinated with his Nike trainers Hello,madam,he said suavely in a mellifluous voice Hello,Mary answered kindly.What is your mission? To convert the entire world to Christianity. I am sorry,I meant what was your mission with me.But anyway, you can’t convert me.So you are a failure.It’s called a counter example in Maths. Why can’t I convert you, he asked the blue eyed witch of Knittingham standing there in her dark Artigiano jeans, Dash striped top and a red wool stole I like choice, she cried.I do not want a creed. Anyway, the man told her,I just came to say I am buying a flat across the road and I wanted some opinions on the quietness of this area before I finalise my purchase. Mioaw,went Emile in a loud shriek Oh,Lord, what is that, a demon,the poor man asked? It’s only my cat, she told him,why not come in for coffee and I’ll tell you about the nearest neighbours. That is very kind of you, he said.But I might be a burglar Oh,good,Emile purred.I’ve always wanted to meet a burglar. Why, asked the man as he entered the beautiful hall full of spiders and Picasso prints. You can tell me how I can get into other people’s houses, the cat told him boldly. I want to be a cat burglar! Come into the living room, said Mary.The room was full of books like the Encarta English Dictionary, Stanley Middleton and “How to talk so cats can hear” piled in tidy heaps. My name is Jacob, the visitor said.I have just retired but am keen to keep converting people as Christianity is the best religion ever I don’t really want a religion and I am unsure how you prove it’s the best I am keener on the Hindu religion, she lied impertinently just to see if she could carry it off as Aspies can’t tell lies Suddenly the kitchen door opened and in ran Annie, the neighbour and one time Mistress of Stan,Mary’s late and dangerous old husband Hello,Jake, she cried as she kissed his aged cheeks fondly I am buying a flat but I didn’t know you lived here he said politely We met on Tinder, Annie told Mary. What is that, a hill? I know Kinder Scout. It’s a dating website,Annie said gently, her curving lips covered in wine coloured lip glaze which almost matched her burgundy eye shadow and purple hair. Why did you not ask me? Mary said shyly I didn’t think you wanted another man,Annie said pertly with a twinkle in her gorgeous red eyes. And Jacob said he came to convert me but is it true? No, said Jacob.I saw you in the front garden and you look so beautiful I wanted to meet you. Thank God you are not going to shower me with Biblical quotes,Mary said. I suppose we should admire you going straight for what you want.Although when you know me better you may not find me so attractive. Jake’s eyes bulged with emotion. Well, you may not find me so attractive either, he cried wiping his streaming eyes on a kleenex tissue. Mary ran upstairs and collected Stan’s hankies Here, use these, she told Jake soulfully Annie brought in some hot coffee with cream What do we older people want, she murmured quizzically.We have loved and lost but shall we love again? Well, I shall mioawed Emile.I don’t keep thinking,I just do it.If I get a chance Love is more than sex,Emile.We want someone who shares a few interests and likes conversation. What are your interests, she asked Jake? I can’t remember, he admitted.I’ll have to look on FB at my profile. But what do you do all day? I read the Guardian and the Independent then I go out looking for women. Women of the Night? No,I just like to sit in the Mall and admire women as they pass by.I don’t want to cause suffering to women.And I am diabetic so I get erectile dysfunction sometimes so it would be a waste of money in any case Well, if there was a National Wage or better benefits these prostitutes might give up their dangerous work.They all sat looking glum as they pondered over the political scene in Britain If we were Jews we could live in Israel Yes, you’d have seriously think of that to as the number of anti Semitic hate crimes has gone up by about 70% this year.And what that has to do with Brexit is hard to know except all people who are of different ethnicity are also being attacked.Some people seem to think it means black people will have to leave despite the fact nowhere in Europe is there a country mainly made up of black people.And during the Empire all people in it were British citizens. Still,I feel too old to convert.Can we get false documents to prove we are Jewish? That’s not something I know about, said Jacob, though my name is Jewish.It is Disraeli! Hang on a minute,cried Annie.Let’s not be too hasty.It looks like Israel is on the verge of war.Yet Jake. if you married both of us we could get in as your wives as you must be Jewish. But we are not meant to marry Gentiles. Well how about us being servants? Alas, that country was never truly accepted and it has become very,very fierce.I find as well that they love arguing ,which I don’t said Mary. Well many other people love arguing,Jake said.But it’s true it is dangerous there especially with Syria at war so nearby Why don’t we all go out and have a salt beef sandwich and some chips instead?Or how about ringing 999 for advice? They will know about getting false passports. Is that true,said Mary And so ask all of us.
Who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death,— The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns,—puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action
There are superficial trends in our society to encourage us to build our self esteem and to value ourselves… to develop and achieve a place suited to our talents.. but what is best for me is when I lose myself in something.I was reading an old blog of a friend and was quite absorbed and went into a different state of mind..then I regretted I don’t manage to lose myself enoughb have an adult having much on my mind and being busy.
Sometimes it can happen when we love a person.Sometimes a wonderful landscape feels like home.. other times a sunset across the Irish sea from the cliffs of the Isle of Man where myriad butterflies swirl and float over flowers and rocks.
Modern life, the News,talk,excitement of the wrong sort seem to lock us into our self and frighten us so we forget the value of finding something in which to lose ourselves and grow as a result. Sitting by a river fishing,knitting,sewing,a book, many things can elicit this response And remember how horror filled was the self consciousness of adolescence and how good to forget one’s self being more comfortable and accepting of appearance and image..How to live like a wild flower for a time… and be happy not to be a rose but just a tiny wild geranium or a moderate sized gentle pink flower in a arden
Who’re you? Wittgenstein? He’s dead What a shame Actually would he enjoy living in England now No, because he was Jewish. So are lots of people. Somehow they get hurt or even killed at times What times? Nazi.times Stalin-times Tsar-times GoodFriday-times Greedy-times Allthe-time In the Times Of the times Oh, time! Well it’s about time we stopped it. About time On time In time After time Time and Motion Soon we’ll have the Flood Why has Boris not built an Ark? Because he doesn’t Noah how to Because God didn’t see him Because there was a full stop at the end of the sentence.
““To pray,” Auden wrote, “is to pay attention or, shall we say, to ‘listen’ to someone or something other than oneself. Whenever a man so concentrates his attention—be it on a landscape, or a poem or a geometrical problem or an idol or the True God—that he completely forgets his own ego and desires in listening to what the other has to say to him, he is praying.” This may seem a denatured idea of prayer, but Auden took it seriously, and seems to have prayed in exactly this sense. The only value he found in “petitionary prayer”—prayer that asks for something—was that the act of expressing desires can reveal what they are, so that “we often discover that they are really wishes that two-and-two should make three or five, as when St. Augustine realized that he was praying: ‘Lord, make me chaste, but not yet.’” Auden prayed to a God whom he knew he thought about in falsely human-centered terms, but only by doing so could he listen with any attention: “I can see…what leads [Paul] Tillich to speak of God as ‘Ground of Being,’ but if I try to pray: ‘O Thou Ground, have mercy upon us,’ I start to giggle.””
I hought more cyclamen and recalled you Wandering through wildflowers by my side I don’t know where to put them , they might die Then I would feel so sad and lonely blue All we read of pain and love is true. Yet we let our hearts stay open wide I bought some cyclamen and recalled you Wandering through wildflowers by my side I have loved not widely but a few I have touched on bliss and when it flies I have touched the grief that truly lies I bought cyclamen and recalled you
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 my love lies and breaks my little 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 me glad.
For I have love’s own child inside my soul
And I shall tend her till at last she’s whole
How my heart speaks 