The hole sucks me in,with its deep darkness
The Fall was never healed.
Can I resist the call of the killers?
Will they kill me with kindness or with hatred?
I try to hide but no place feels safe anymore
I negate my writing and hide my pens.
Pain degrades  Writing deleted returns in imagination
 I can do little but I try
 Black gravity is the monster in my soul…
 Sway not the tree
 On whose strong branch the leopard drapes himself
 But let the moon speak in silver tongue
 as the leaves rustle
 I am invisible
 except as a home for ants
 Who steals my words.
 I am no more than a punctuation mark or a short title
 I am near the end of my sentence.
 I’ll be hanged by some inverted commas
 From the oak tree.. burning in the sun’s borrowed fires
 I can’t see your face now.
 Just shapes in grey fog
 Like the doctor without feeling for my child.
 A child,that was..
 that would have been…
 that has gone.
 I am uncertain
outside the circle,
outside the circle.
the circle
of
your arms

It appears the world is a verb not a noun.
I’ve had my suspicions of course,
I know that’s how I see,
Not yet having achieved object constancy
I see afresh,which is alarming until one adapts.
I see the way you see on Heroin,
But for me,it’s free.
I never knew if mother was the same person today,
Or some new other mother.
She did have the same hands
But her eyes faltered.
I gave them all the same name,
Like a folder on the computer.
Let’s see how many mothers I created!
In the end I had to go to school
To get some kind of safety net.
We had alternative explanations there
Like we were saved from sin.
But who can save us from multiple mothers?
I never let on,though I felt stressed sometimes
By all the changes.
Couldn’t things be more fixed?
Dreams end,but life goes on
Being a verb it has to act, you see.
If it were a noun it would be enclo
sedBy many parameters,grids like stunning geometric orgasms,
Quite beautiful to look at it but never felt.
Feeling is the art of life.
Art is the life of the feelings.
What are the feelings of the feelings?
Who understands the heart of Art?

Ways of musing
about literature
made the writers’  muse smile
she didn’t like real women.

If I go I won’t tell you.
I’ll just disappear one day.
Like when a cigarette ,which seemed so long,
suddenly has become smaller
and you never noticed it
because you were talking
about the meaning of life
while life was somewhere else
blown away with your smoke
into the sky
and then dispersed
never quite visible again
but still floating on the breeze
hoping to be caught
in a butterfly net
but unable to communicate
except by flying.

The woman walks in a bleak landscape of monotone colors.
With child,she crosses this rough terrain
without a Joseph to protect or a donkey to carry her.
No inn nor stable is here.No cattle nor sheep
Nothing alive.
Now she feels her labor pains coming;
Lies down amongst the rocks to wait
Here is an anonymous,faceless figure.
Pronounces himself a doctor.
She labors; he picks up her son.No Messiah nor Oedipus;
Without speaking,he conveys to her,this child  is dead.
Not ever held in the arms of hie mother
Nor father either.
He’s tossed, light as a few feathers,
light almost as a bird
onto a pile of bodies nearby.
Whose unwanted children are these:?
Still lying flat she observes her child
one of many there.
Days pass and strength returns.
Stands now and walks over to say,Farewell.
The child opens his eyes
Mother,they say,mother.
She holds him and presses him into herself for warmth…
Which way to go and when?
No signs, no maps…
Is there a right way?
Is there a guide?
Why was she journeying this way?
She remembers nothing
She has lost almost everything ….
She steps forward and walks on.
What other choice  has she got?

Sometimes writing makes me breathe differently.
I can feel the silence settle around me,
Like a prayer shawl.
i accept it gratefully.
There’s a thin feeling to the day
As if the sun might have tried harder
to come through
But it had a blue feeling
And the clouds were greedy,
Wanting too much to melt
And shed their moisture.
Some perfume please,I think it was £27.99
Yes,I like that one even more than jasmine oil.
Pour it down over London
Like a  blessing.
A black woman laughed and patted my arm,
You’re so funny,she cried.
And I smiled coyly
As if someone hidden was taking my photograph.
Sometimes life’s too sweet
And needs a little pepper.
The chair creaks as I lean forward
Trying to see everything at once
As if it all happened now,not yesterday

Love shines from your eyes
and makes your face
so beautiful.
Smile has a rare beauty
Like a foreign flower
transported into a bare garden.
Though it’s winter
it’s summer in my heart
as I lose myself
in the colour
of the sea within you

Birds,unlike humans, can  fly across the barriers

Avoid the checkpoints,need no identity papers, permits

Or gold star.

Brothers,why were you separated?

Why could Palestine not be left as one

where ,as in Andalucia before the madness

of Inquisition,you lived together 500 years of peace

Until Christian conformity and suspicion

Tormented and killed you both?

It is we you should be fighting against

Not each other

Are you  our  own Roman Games?

You ,in the  Arena we watch on our screens

We can  turn them off but you,brothers and sisters,

are still there.And your children.

What remains   for any of us?

You came here gradually,
from the whirling chaos of the dreaming infant,
anchored by the maternal hand to earth.
Do not try to fly back to heaven today.
Be patient;your guides will,with no effort,
Teach you the patterns and the dance.
All you need is to be open and to trust,
For you have a place in the world.
We need your contribution.No-one else
will see this world from your perspective.
And as you trust the chaos now,fear it not
Should it return.Every creative act
involves the breaking of these barriers
by which we keep the chairs and tables
anchored into themselves.The patterns may break up
but new ones are somewhere near.Patience
with this suffering is the only route now.

You cannot go back.Heaven comes only after
you have grown roots into this earth,
grown sunward,and travailed the storms
and stinging blows;
have grown your flowers and leaves
And let them fall.
Accept.

The only way you can go
is the earthly way.
You are part of us.
We love you.
Our hands are reaching out
If you just lift your eyes.

In the Chaos,God danced and rainbows
Flew from his hands; tears fell from his eyes…………
Those tears which fertilized our earth.
He wept, knowing of the pain to come;
And yet,he did not cease to dance.

If you happen

to like reading,

books,

can have

a very powerful effect on you,

fifty shades of gay,grey and a way

an evocative effect,

wonder

bringing forth

It’s not as though

when I read

I’m gathering

in

formation,

or indeed

can remember

much

I know the books

that grip

effect is indiscernible.

recognise ?

Leavisite position,

reading certain

sentences

makes you more alive,

[also may kill you]

and a morally better person,

whatever morals are now

are they absolutes?

and that those two things

go together.

[like marriage]

what is clear

are powerful unconscious

evocative effects in reading

books that one loves.?

about

these books

we want to go on

thinking,

matters to us.

not just fetishes

to fill gaps.

[So filling gaps is bad]

like recurring dreams

[but not nightmares]

can’t help

thinking

about

remember them

or can thinking

be unconscious?

People often assume talking is good for us.It must be or it would have died out!Yet even when we are small we know talking or being spoken too can cause pain.I’m leaving out parental criticism.But gossip hurts and so do lies.often.

Later while talking to some people  is good,it’s not universal

Words like flying  pebbles hurtle from her lips

They may not hit me,but they keep  us apart.

Of course,it may be unconscious..

That’s the modern excuse.

Politicians do a double trick.

They sound as if they want to reach us

But they can’t depart from a  script they wrote two years ago.

He smiled like a dead drake,leaned towards me,bared his lips

And said,I love you.

I reared back to escape his yellow fangs.

I’d rather be alone.

I suppose the best time is

When we have a balance of talk and silence.

And for women,it’s usually when the men are absent.

If a woman says a few sentences men think it’s a lecture.

You may not believe that men talk more than women

But research shows it.

It’s how we judge their talking.

Boring talk is the worst.

Especially when we can’t escape.

We think we can’t,perhaps we can.

There’s a warm silence

which feels good,like a cashmere blanket

around the shoulders

which can contain what we say

and what we don’t say.

Which unites us.

Then there’s a cold silence

You are telling me not to speak

Not to  come close.

Even worse,it may say

I’d like to destroy you

You are not human

You’re not worth anything.

Daggers drawn

Hate.

Then there’s the silence of indifference,

You see me but feel nothing.

I could be a table or a hat

A book or  potato.

You live in your bubble

And nothing can pierce it.

Even to see me die would not

Affect you.

You seem to have no affect.

You said you felt strange in the night

It was the lack of oxygen

So I invented stories for you

I read  aloud from this blog

for an hour

Till you were calm.

I went back to bed

Then got up and began again

Until one day  there was no

Again.

You knew

Where to go,by then