h,words
when words are not enough
to give our feelings form
music is the language
which many find gives calm
when words are too clumsy
touch may be enough
a glance of compassion
may pull us from the Slough
when words don’t come easy
when music fails to charm
then come to me and tell me;
I’ll enclose you in my arms
gestures,touch and glances
are a language in themselves
words are not enough for us
We need touch as well.
After summer’s sultry flowers,
We get autumn showers.
Winds that blow.
Leaves that glow.
,Nature’s wealth is ours.
Harvest grain and harvest corn.
All our food from earth is born.
Warmth of sun-
Ripeness come-
Fruits and nuts adorn.
Trees are turning red and gold
In the glancing sun.
Leaning down I see your face.
Autumn love has come
Stan woke up with a sore throat.
He had to write his wife a note.
He could not speak without much pain.
Oh,dear,he’s got a bug again!
Mary made him lemon tea.
He listened to the BBC.
He read the paper front to back;
Did Su doku,called the quack!
This is Dr Browne right here,
but only gurgles could he hear!
He drove straight round to visit Stan,
He felt concern for this old man!
Stan was lying in the hall.
Dr.Browne asked,Did you fall?
No,said Stan,I hate my bed.
I thought I’d lie down here instead.
It may be draughty,never mind.
Dr Browne is very kind.
What about this long settee?
It looks quite like a bed to me.
I hope you are not feeling gay!
Oh,my my!.What did you say?
I mean it seems a trifle odd
I wonder if you love me, Stan?
Stan said,Doctor you’re a man!
I only love the sweeter sex!
Dr Browne looked very vexed.
You are gay.,Oh,zut alors!
Yes,but I am very chaste.
I never go below the waist
So you just hold hands and kiss?
Yes,my man,it’s utter bliss.
But were do you meet your lovers gay?
I find them mainly on E-bay!
I place small adverts in the Times.
I joined a club for tasting wines.
Some I meet by chance alone.
Can’t you settle on just one?
But you are unfaithful to your wife?
You do not lead a saintly life!
Oh,Mary is not keen on sex,
She sits in bed and sends out texts.
Once our Lyra had been born,
She treated me with utter scorn!
He gave Stan‘s arm a little nudge.
Don’t you want a tiny hug?
It really may scare off that bug
So Stan and Dr Browne embraced.
I assure you it was completely chaste.
Stan went off to make hot drinks
While Dr Browne admired his Quinks.
Do you use a fountain pen?
I use my Shaeffer now and then.
I got it when I went to college.
Through that pen has passed much knowledge.
But now my mind has gone quite blank.
I’d like to be completely frank.
Was all my learning utter waste?
Not at all,it kept you chaste.
While you had your head in books,
It kept attention from your looks.
But now you’re empty,Je t’adore.
With that he made for Stan’s front door.
Stan was gobsmacked by this visit.
He called to Emile:Oh,what is it?
Even though I’m 93
All I meet want to love me!
The English are mainly very queer.
Oh,said Emile,Oh,dear,dear!
Cats don’t have much time for hugs
They chase the frogs and sleep on rugs
Who has never felt grief
When a small gesture would have helped
but it has, unknowingly, been with held?
How many people have the imagination
to guess what’s in your mind,
And to embrace you rather than push you away?
No-one, No-one.No-one knows.
No-one knows these numbers.
No-one knows these names.
No-one knows how many feel diffident,
Nor how many feel shame.
Being alive is joyful!
Being alive is pain!
Being alive is all we have,
We’ll never be alive again.
I look into your eyes today
I sense your pain and woe.
I look into your eyes just now
And tell you that I know,
Being alive is lonely.
Being alive is good.
Being alive is pain indeed
For flesh is not like wood
Just a brief note before my whooping cough returns.Poetry can be just clever playing with words.. or not so clever!But true poetry stems from living and feeling.I shall hope to illustrate this with some examples.Feeling itself is not enough for poetry.The poet needs to transmute the feeling using her craft into something that contains and retains the feelings and passes the result on to readers.Being able to play with words is useful, but not sufficient.Maybe that has to be impregnated with feeling?
I must have had a wish to write.Because for many years ,I studied books on poetry and creative writing.I began to collect images and events which affected me in a notebook.Then one day I asked,When do I write?I had to start, unconfident as I was. Time was passing Here is the first poem I wrote.[January 2010]
CHRISTMAS SNOW:
Too old for cold,I stand, now ,against the hedge,
Watching the snowflakes in the glare of neon street lights.
Darkness has come early,and I think of country uplands and huddled sheep.
On Salisbury Plain,shepherds watched their flocks
Just as in Bethlehem two thousand years before,
And then ,exactly when?
“Between the wars”,it stopped. Now we know there is no “Between the wars”.
And who decided
To cull the sheep and shepherds and the space for kindness ?
Now that same Plain still exists,but banned
And closed to human-kind,
For bombs ,not wombs
Nor for birth of lamb ,nor gypsy child ,nor Saviour
Where would He go today?
_
,s
From the first poem, I can see my mind was wondering if there is any space in the world now safe enough for a creative happening.After I wrote this,I was unsure if I’d get any more inspiration but I did
Here is a slightly later poem
SUN PAINTING
Bright sun
Paints a shadow picture
On the white wall
Dried stems
Of Michaelmas daisies
A leaf caught in a cobweb sways
To and fro.
I gaze.
Silence.
Sympathy is sometimes good,
Especially if you are not made of wood.
Empathy can be superior
If to metal,your brain’s nearer.
Do you want to be fulfilled?
Don’t get ground by coffee mills.
Would you like to be superior?
Do not venture to your interior.
Journeys often end in struggle.
As they make the mind more muddled.
Archaic words can be a joy,
But sometimes archaisms annoy.
Do you like tea from Ceylon?
Alas my own supply’s all gone.
Do you want to study grief?
Take your lessons from a leaf.
After short weeks on a tree
To be cast off is destiny.
Into earth the leaves return
To become food for journeying worms.
So it will be for us all,
Regarding not your status tall
Trust the unknown”.
All shall be well,and all manner of things shall be well”
St Julian of Norwich
Trust the unknown force that grew you,
From the joining of two cells.
Act of love, of self giving,
Thus to grow a newer self.
Trust the dark,the unseen aspects
Of the life we all do live.
Trust that there is wisdom elsewhere,
To your emptiness to give.
Wait in patience for the time
When inspiration comes at last
Trust in darkness,silence,lowness.
Opposition forms the cross.
Pain is bearable in lowness,
Like the worm in earth I dwell.
When I look I see the sunrise
And I trust all shall be well.
Ding,dong the bells will surely rhyme.
I am in no hurry
So do not make a flurry
And do not let me get there on time.
I’m get buried in the morning
I’m puzzled as I am not yet truly dead.
There must be an error,
But never mind the terror.
I am thinking of those books I’ve never read
Put them in my coffin
And please stop that sinful laughing…
I’d like to die r beside you in bed.
I’m getting buried in the morning…
We had to book it ten years in advance.
We are running out of space
For the human race..
But why don’t we make love again,just once?
If the exertion kills me
It will surely thrill me
And I’m sorry I am so unfit to sing and dance.
You may die as well..
There’s no way to foretell.
But why not take this very last chance?
The brightness of the summer light,
The songs of birds whose brood take flight,
I love to take in these earthly pleasures,
And so to fill my mind with treasures.
The conversations with my friends,
The closeness only death will end,
To share my life with those who care,
How could we have better fare?
Those who suffer pain and grief,
From whom love’s stolen by a thief,
Let us take them to our hearts,
So their healing path can start.
Those who fear friendship and love,
Who set themselves at too low worth,
Do they know how courage grows
Through acceptance of our woe
Life is tragic comedy.
Love may be the remedy.
Though if we give our hearts away
We shall have grief and pain to pay.
But if we lock our hearts up tight,
And keep all feeling out of sight,
We will wither like dead leaves,
Falling down from autumn trees.
I play on my cello.
Your music is poignant;
My music is mellow.
I can’t play from your music;
You can’t play from mine.
Our music must be transposed,
But will not be the same.
I have longer fingers.
You have bigger hands.
You play some from memories
which I don’t understand.
I play from my own history,
You compose your own.
You have tragic feelings,
which I have never known.
Would you play my music?
Then it must be transposed;
but we can’t transpose our feelings,
Unless we are shown
how to draw out symbols
From the dark Unknown.
I love the music that you play
and I know you do love mine.
But can we play together
with a meaningful design?
Transposing keys and feelings
Is an arduous,lengthy task;
Much easier to play falsely
and never,never ask.
I can’t share your lifetime hurts
and you cannot share mine.
Is it easier to share happiness
and in love to entwine?
Oh,play your poignant music for me
with your meditative art.
I shall listen with my ears
and listen with my heart.
And then I shall respond to you.
My instrument is here.
I am playing quite new music.
I feel you drawing near.
Suddenly we are moved to play
A completely new design.
I seem to feel your feelings
And I can hear that you feel mine.
Together we seem to make a work
Of torment and release.
This music is so tragic,
Yet its design has brought me peace.
Play on,play on,for now I know
I begin to understand,
without more words or gestures
than those from your curved hands
Skin soft yet firm
Paradoxically elegant solutions
to these lyrical questions.
How lightly you touch me,
Yet I feel you so much.
In turn I touch you.
Life is a pattern of mutual grace;
we are all touched
By the light and the darkness.
Forgive us,O God,
For forgetting your face.
Sun piercing through red maple leaves
Patterns the flagstone path.
Hear how the blackbirds call,
As we wander,paradise is not for humans.
Though in the end,every living moment
Is paradise on this warm skin of our world,
as it spins again in the void:
And He said:
Let there be Light.
And there was light
The wailing wall
I shall try to explain,
but the world is not logical.
the bank notes are old and crinkling.
your face appears like it’s own negative
the wind glows and the sun howls.
why is the rain blue?
i wanted a new weapon but the rainbow was
too long,i need something small and portable,
like a pen i once had.
just a pencil and paper will be fine,
but please look round.
we’re all related in the DNA
but the fighting goes on for what?
does it matter my great grandfather was a Viking
who killed when necessary
or my grandmother sang in Gaelic
and swooned over dead children?
i can’t see but i hear their voices murmur.
a blue and a brown will go together
like harris tweed.
shall i give you some needles to patch yourself
before it’s too late?
i have long threads and connections for you,
if you will listen.
you don’t need the A to Z of London
in this world
it’s not relevant any more
to know exactly where you are,
just use the finger tips to feel the cave walls.
do we know whether to go back or forward
or even upside down?
trust the sense of bones and nerves
and the sea in our veins
linking us all
into a human ocean
all one.
When yet another lover flees my king sized bed
and leaves me cold and lonely in the night
I wonder on the thoughtless words I’ve said,
Or if for him my eyes ddon’t glow woth light?
I lure them in with all my female arts.
They feel I’m like a spider with a trap.
to lure ,devour,digest my handsome guests,
Some think there should be warnings on the map,
But most who find me feel they have been blessed.
I give them my attention and desire
I give them gentle care and sing sweet songs.
I give them comfort by my winter fire
Oh,come back ,sweet one,don’t desert me yet,
The clothes I washed for you are still quite wet.
since i lost you i have lost
the keys to my heart
the front door key
my mobile
and my money
now all i have is a large tube of ibuprofen gel max strength
and some feathers from the tail of a baby wood pigeon
that flew into our house when i left the back door open
maybe i need better boundaries
closed doors
and windows
the wood pigeon was so strong its agitation rocked the front door like a thundergod
like you,it did not realise
there are easier ways to leave
than smashing through glass
leaving shards to pierce my heart
not to mention my feet
become a better leaver
have mercy on those other lovers
for charm wears thin but courtesy is everlasting
like love itself
I didn’t hear you coming,
then you were by my side.
Happiness fills me.
Standing in the garden
looking at red leaves,
I hold your hand gently,
and share the sweetness
of these green leaves,
the distant doves cooing,
the sun dipping to the horizon.
Life is good.
We hear together
the music
of this silence
William Blake > Quotes > Quotable Quote
Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.
Across the ocean of roofs I can see a middle-aged woman, her face already lined, who is forever bending over something and who never goes out. Out of her face, her dress, and her gestures, our of practically nothing at all, I have made up this woman’s story, or rather legend, and sometimes I tell it to myself and weep.
If it had been and old man I could have made up his just as well.
And I go to bed proud to have lived and to have suffered in some one besides myself.
Perhaps you will say “Are you sure that your story is the really one?” But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?
I’ll stalk beside you till the end of time
I’ll take your photo if it’s not a crime.
I’ll blow you kisses right across the street
I’ll write you poetry and make it rhyme
286. Love. George Herbert. The Oxford Book of English Verse.
This may be well known to you already but it’s so marvellous you may wish to read it again
286. Love. George Herbert. The Oxford Book of English Verse.
This may be well known to you already but it’s so marvellous you may wish to read it again
You’re Right — By Emily Dickinson.
You’re Right — By Emily Dickinson.
What is Poetry? | Poetry blog.
I might say that a poem
is the equivalent in words
of this beautiful picture
but I might be wrong
I might say that a poem is like like a kiss
I might say that a poem is like a flower
I might say that a poem is like a tree full of blossom
But after due consideration .I concluded
it’s better to write you a poem
And for you to write me a poem.
And afterwards for us to talk amidst the flowers
Underneath a tree in summer.
Then we will know what it’s all about
If you can see what I mean.
A vision in words
Words with vision
I think you know what I mean
You see
This is true
I
Please don’t pull the curtains
For I am coming by.
I want to see your underwear
Is it thermal? …Don’t be shy.
Please don’t turn your light out
For I wish to peek in.
I like to see men in their beds
Is it a big sin?
Why not sleep stark naked
For then I’ll see your chest.
Have you still got hairs on
OK. Leave on that vest.
Do not put your glasses on
To see whom I might be
I shall wear a pointed hat
Topped with a cherie
I like to see you sleeping with
a smile upon your face
I do hope you are dreaming
of a sweet embrace.
I’ll gaze in and smile at you
And then tip toe away
For if I see you smiling
I’ll be joyous all the day.
I love to see you happy
I ‘ll be with you when you’re sad.
Sharing deeper feelings
Stops us from going mad.
So please don’t pull the curtains.
I am real, I’m not a ghost
I met many people
And I love you the most.
whisky and tea | “Yes, of course we were pretentious — what else is youth for?” – Julian Barnes.
I have found this blog which is giving me pleasure and knowledge … the Sylvia Plath post is very touching…I can’t see anywhere to comment thouigh.
Take a look… wonderful post on the Anglican Church
The good things my mother taught me
are too numerous to list
here or even on a large hoarding
I could rent for a week by the train station.
She gave me my blue eyes and my love of stories
and tolerated the fact that, I like my father,would learn
for the sake of it and not with a view to earning money.
She praised my sense of color though not my three year research scholarship
to place of higher learniing
would rather I curled my hair and smiled at boys.
But my destiny was determined by the fact that I never could master that Singer sewing machine she had
so I had to learn Theoretical Physics to make up for it.
And here I am now,thinking of her home made bread
her showing me how to read music
and the names of the keys on the piano.
I know I was a big disappointment in not marrying into money
or becoming a saint or virgin and martyr,well martyr anyway
She always believed me to be a virgin, even after marriage;
and it’s true I was a virgin with regard to common sense
getting on in society and all related issues.
Some ordinary female knowledge never penetrated me
so I’d sit in the rain wondering what tolerance was
or how Pascal got to lie in bed so much,and whether I could too
because I got creative ideas in bed—
not what you may be thinking of—–
She always changed the sheets and washed our clothes however poor we were…
And made us dresses from scraps of fabric
That’s how we learned geometry,with the trapeze dress……
Numbers we learned from the stars and excitement from playing with boys
in a disused brickfield.
Strange what makes us who we are,but
the biggest contribution comes from mothers
and just to please her I hope as well as all my academic success
one day I’ll make myself a dress out of some rare print
embodying simultaneously both male and female design and shape
And she’ll look down and say,
She always had her head in the clouds,in a book,in the smoke patterns from Dad’s cigarettes, in a dream and a whirl
but she did have a good sense of color.
Yeah,she is my daughter
Yeah,once I imagined I must be adopted but
Yeah.I’m her daughter.
She’s my mother.
Now she’s gone.
How my heart speaks 