Monitor, A Poet in London: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p022kr11 via @bbciplayer

Oh holy light that held me in your gaze

That spoke to me in words without a sound

A holy light, a person hidden away

I did not seek and yet I have been found.

When I was trapped alone with my  numbed heart

When nobody could touch me with their hand

When in bleak despair I sat apart

By your holy light I have been found.

Although you did not speak I heard your words

I heard them all and yet there was no noise

How did you convey them so I heard?

The senses were conjoined, became one voice

I thought I was near death and yet I lived

Despair is long yet graceful are its gifts.

“Some think that sloth, one of the capital sins, means ordinary laziness,” I began. “Sticking in the mud. Sleeping at the switch. But sloth has to cover a great deal of despair. Sloth is really a busy condition, hyperactive. This activity drives off the wonderful rest or balance without which there can be no poetry or art or thought — none of the highest human functions. These slothful sinners are not able to acquiesce in their own being, as some philosophers say. They labor because rest terrifies them. The old philosophy distinguished between knowledge achieved by effort (ratio) and knowledge received (intellectus) by the listening soul that can hear the essence of things and comes to understand the marvelous. But this calls for unusual strength of soul. The more so since society claims more and more of your inner self and infects you with its restlessness. It trains you in distraction, colonizes consciousness as fast as consciousness advances.The true poise of contemplation or imagination, sits right on the border of sleep and dreaming. ……….and hoping for redemption by art, I fell into a deep snooze that lasted for year.

In my dreams I travel deep and low
Into the loving world of long ago
The jacket on the chair ,it smelled of smoke……
The funny tales, he sang, he laughed, he spoke

So faint the memory, strong are its remains
Security and love in our domain
The brushes and the stipplers all stood by
For no-one told his tools that he would die.

On his shoulders, like a queen I rode
So safe and happy on the path he trod.
His voice was clear and he could whistle too
In those days men were used to do

And  love shone from him on my mother dear
She smiled and made us cakes for Sunday tea
What  tragedy to leave  his children five
But in that distant space ,he is alive

The fire as red as any glowing rose
We were dressed so well in  home made clothes
Too happy, needing no words to relate
Our sense of being in this  generous space

I can’t get back to them, I cannot swim
The passages too wet , the light so dim
Yet I feel it in my body faint and clear
Death is not the end of those so dear.

Deep inside our minds, ancestors live
And   to out hearts a depth and breadth they give
Yet missing him,I hover near the place
Where I might dive into his dear embrace

The  table where we  banged our little heads
The chairs so close together like a bed
The teapot  always full, the sugar bowl
The fire, the kettle , pussy cat and coal

The fireplace had its oven  nice and warm
Looking at hot coals made me feel calm
The children seem to play in that   far space
And all around  is love  and on  and on I gaze

https://lithub.com/poetry-and-poets-in-a-time-of-crisis/

“We only know that the immediate signs are bad. Deep, potentially irresolvable fissures in our democracy have revealed themselves, along with an epidemic of rage, as well as hopelessness. The results of this election were, for at least half the country and much of the rest of the world, a massive shock. Yet even had the results been different, we would still have been in a time of crisis. All the local and global problems were already there, and remain.

I am the father of a two-year-old son, so even before the election these facts worried me deeply. Since Trump’s victory I have felt even more spiritually sick, adrift. I keep looking around for a father of some sort, but mine has been gone nearly ten years, and there don’t seem to be any others available.

Since election night I have been experiencing an intense lethargy. During the day, as well as in the middle of the night, I am visited by sudden, destabilizing visions of the future. All night, intermittently, I feel them pressing into my mind. These visions bring anxiety and high alertness, though for no immediate perceivable danger, which in turn brings paralysis, and diurnal exhaustion.

I am a poet, which means that my areas of expertise and concern are language and the imagination. In the days after the election, shattered and exhausted and frustrated and angry and intensely anxious about the future, as so many of us are, I felt certain it was essential to begin to ask, what does this crisis mean for poets, and poetry? What, in these times, must we do? Can poetry help save us?

I have always believed that poetry has its own special role, distinct from all other uses of language. I agree with W.S. Merwin when he writes, “poetry like speech itself is made out of paradox, contradictions, irresolvables … It cannot be conscripted even into the service of good intentions.” He then goes on to explain, however, that circumstances can challenge this belief:”

Town centre 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57615/logic-56d23b4c891a9

Inside my shell, I dream of pearls,
Caterpillars, snails with whorls.
I dream contented, all enwrapped
With reverie and dream, I’m lapped.
The inner seas will comfort me,
While gods allow my eyes to see

Oh, sweeter than confectionery
Is my worn old dictionary.
The words whirl round and fall to shape
The sentences, which my world drape.
This furnishing is rich and strange
Yet magically self-arranged.

Oh, sweeter than the love of man
Is reading works of poets long gone;
And feeling deeply their dark tides,
Upon which our boats may glide.
The sea infinite we float on
Is the same warm sea that ancients swam.

Sweeter still is this spring air
And the blossom spreading fair.
We’ll drown ourselves in deep green fields
To the gods of poetry yield.
We’ll rise again and spring up tall
To grow more rich until we fall.

Sweet it is to live and die
And to write my poetry
Touch me with your ardent souls
My mind and yours shall all be whole

Cain and Abel fought the bitter fight

Like baby eagles, sharks and all that bite

For parents stand aloof as if amused By sibling killing sibling for their food

This may be the crime original

So common it may seem to be banal

Inside the heart of love lurk greed and hate

Genetics brings destruction as a fate

So hatred precedes love if any grows

As dead egrets have no claw to show.

Families have their scapegoats all will harm

No-one seems to notice wild alarm So Cain was not unusual nor mad Indeed he was a hero, that is sad.

One tension-relieving exercise, the tantrum, involves lying on your bed, banging your fists against the mattress while waggling your legs The Guardian 12 Feb 2021

Stan was outside polishing the brass doorstep.”My, these microfibre cloths are wonderful” he thought.Mary was out taking a load of stuff to the Oxfam Shop.Suddenly he heard a loud cry., then he felt a pair of hands fondling the top of his bald head. ”Eeh, no rest for the wicked, even at 81,” he screamed.He staggered to his feet and rubbed his knees.”Just give me a hand” , he said,”‘l have to stretch my hamstrings.They tighten up so.” “I’ll stretch them for you!” Annie whispered roguishly.Stan leant forward to touch his toes and she could not resist the temptation to give his bottom a hearty slap. ”For Pete’s sake, Annie” he shouted faintly.”Someone might see that. ””Don’t worry , there’s no-one around at this time of the day” she tittered. “Oh, yes there is!” It was Dave, the paramedic.He had been lying behind the wheelie bins, all three of them standing plaintively in the tiny front garden. ”I’m an MI5 spy, and I’ve been reading your blog, Mr Brown.” “I’m not called Brown” , said Stan nerdishly. ”Refuses to accept reality, “Dave wrote in his little notepad with some blood he had taken from himself earlier, ”Jesus Christ!”, said Stan. ”Now , now, ” said Dave,”that’s not your name, ”No my name is Tan, not Brown, you’ve been reading the wrong blog!” “Stan Tan!” Dave appeared crestfallen, ” Any chairs need mending today?” “My what beautiful ears you have ,sweetheart,” he said to Annie, “They look like sea shells.” “Your eyes are like shallow pools in Lake Windermere during a thunderstorm.”Annie replied womanfully.”Are you still a transvestite?” she faltered incoherently. “No, I had a mystical experience and now I’m a Zen Buddhist” “How did that happen? ” demanded Stan querulously. “Well, I was knitting myself a Shetland lace sweater in pale blue mohair, and I suddenly had the feeling that everything was interwoven.Going forward or backwards, sideways or straight ahead, it is all part of the warp and weft of life.”” Mistakes don’t matter” he continued idly. ”Oh,yes,they do,”Annie said pouting her full lips., coated in cherry pink lipstick by courtesy of L’oreal of Paris and New York,lip balm by Yves St Laurent, peach foundation by Lancome also of Paris,toning smokey grey mascara by Max Factor,handbag Annie’s own,deep burgundy 70 denier tights by M&S, Grey pointed ballet slippers by Bally of Switzerland.[also available in black, red and teal].Raspberry lingerie by M&S. “As I was saying..,” Dave dived back behind the wheelie bin. Stan polished the brass and Annie disappeared in a puff of smoke. It was Mary’s famous imitation of a bicycle bell that had alerted them to her imminent return from the Oxfam shop. “Don’t they make bike bells anymore?” Dave boringly wondered as he carried on reading the new life of Emily Dickinson “A loaded gun.” He thought it was an army training manual but, hey, mistakes don’t matter! Or do they? Read more at your local newsagent

The end of Essex Road, the slope, the gates,

The entrance to the park, the green invites

The swans and geese are wrangling with their mates.

I idle on a bench and contemplate.

In indolence quite diligent I write

The end of that old road, the curve, the gates.

I must embrace this life, enjoy my fate

The scent of hot damp trees, the feel of sight

The swans and geese are mingling with their mates

Oh joy of greeny grass, oh glorious state.

Oh dandelions and weeds, mosquito bites!

I like the way the road slopes through the gates

Oh heaven above, oh,earth beneath, all’s right

The celandines are brilliant with delight

The swans so white are gliding with their mates

The end of this dear road, the curve, the gates.

Some wondered in which Bank the Saviour saved

I spent my adult life in puzzles mazed

No more to play in parks or climb green hills Wondering was it true that Jesus saves.

On green hills, the Herdwick sheep would graze

While in the town, the people swallowed pills

I spent my adult life in puzzles mazed

On the sunny side,old people prayed

For pensions were too small to pay the bills;

Some wondered in which Bank the Saviour saved

I may have been obsessive in my ways

Keeping my accounts was quite a drill

I spent my entire life in puzzles mazed

How many sins.such thoughts would prey

Of self torture,I have had my fill Wondering is it true that Jesus saves

Jerusalem upon its rocky hill Cannot show but maybe it can tell

I spent my adult life in puzzles mazed

Wondering if it’s true that Jesus saves.

How will I know when it’s my last summer sitting in the open doorway smelling the soft green dampness

Later  suddenly opening the door I see the snails have gathered on the step again

Maybe they are discussing my future as they move on the red tiles.

I can’t go out without stepping on them and my foot is not so cruel today

I close the door again.

Nothing is so important that it could justify killing snails

And can they see us when they stop gluing themselves to the ground?

How would we find out whether the snails could see us?

If I had asked the teacher at school she would have said that I was being difficult or recalcitrant or simply stupid.

Well in the religious lesson we learned something about God but we also learned that God is unknowable.

And I’m wondering whether snails are also unknowable.

Still one snail can know another snail whereas one God cannot know another 

Because there is no other

That means God is very lonely but that must not mean anything.

Just because we can write the sentence down in English it doesn’t imply that it mean something.

But what is pleasant for humans is to know another human

And for snails perhaps that is also the case

Yet God the indivisible has no Other

Is that why he created snails

But how would you know what the snail was when there were no snails?

And how would he have imagined the butterflies and the moths

The ladybirds and the book worms.

I guess he is an interesting fellow. But unknowable to us.

In that case it’s good to be courteous and not to be too proud.

We are just a few steps up from the worm and the beetle and the butterfly

Maybe my words don’t mean anything but I’m thinking

I’m thinking I love snails.

If someone thinks that they can’t write, for example essays when you’re at school or the short  story when you  are an adult, it crossed my mind to think that when we speak we are being creative because we don’t plan what we’re going to say and then repeat it word for word now we open our mouths and let it come out. We are naturally creative and otherwise life would be very boring

Naturally we have a general idea of what we’re going to say but we’re not going to have it there word for word

So if we can speak we should also be able to write.

Another idea I had recently was related to a conversation with a friend who said she wouldn’t go for counseling or therapy because she would rather keep her troubles and trauma  to herself.

It is as if she thinks there’s a script that she’s in possession of.

But I think if you talk to anyone but especially to therapist or a trained listener you don’t know what you’re going to say until you start talking and different people will evoke different conversations

So although you have your own ideas about your past or present suffering if you talk about it to the right person it will give you a new perspective I think.

Already I have noticed that with  different friends I have totally different conversations and one in particular cannot bear it if I sound even the slightest bit emotional or especially sad and he will tell me to go into the kitchen and do the washing up and that will make me feel better but he doesn’t want to know or even to hear on the phone just a tone of my voice when I’m sad or anxious

Going back to the idea of talking to a trained listener.

You might say you would rather talk to a friend but depending on what you want to talk about what’s happened to you in your earlier life or your current life you may find that some of your friends cannot listen to so you end up talking about the price of butter or the way people are stealing eggs from the supermarket

It’s quite a clever method of stealing because you just take two packets of eggs one is the cheapest type often referred to as essential eggs in the most expensive supermarket and then you have your free range and your special kinds of eggs whichever 300% more expensive so you get hypothesis and you swap the exorba put the expensive eggs into the cheap packaging and then when you go to the till you are actually getting the posh eggs for the price of the cheap ones

And I don’t think it’s the poor who are doing this at all because they wouldn’t even know that in Waitrose you can get this about ten of varieties that’s also sorts of prices.

Of course they can’t do that with alcohol!

There’s not much I can do except closing the blog or just abandoning it.

I’m not sure what is happening but I’m got over 4,000 views today and I just don’t believe those are all people.

It’s been going on since November with one or two intermissions so I’m wondering what to do about it. They are mainly from the United States. And I don’t want to think about that at the moment unless it’s essential

Get on with mathematics

So why do we use letters in algebra?

Numbers have no phones.

What would happen if parallel lines met,?

Trains would crash

What is the square root of minus 1,?

I didn’t even know numbers had any roots square or circular.

How many degrees are there in a right angle?

I thought you got degrees at Uni .

I don’t understand what this right angle is.

It means :Looking at the world in the best possible way.

What is trigonometry for?

Measuring triggers.

What is topology?

The height of wisdom

What is an apology?

Well it’s not algebra, for sure. Is it the study of apps?

Why do we need numbers?

It takes two to tango.

Where numbers here before we invented them?

Yes but we didn’t know that.

Nearly everything in mathematics is an abstraction. In nature there are no circles, ellipses, and squares of the kind you see in your geometry book.

The natural world is too complicated for mathematics to deal with it so we simplify it into these abstract shapes which are simpler than the shapes in nature.

No lake is a perfect ellipse

No mountain as a perfect cone.

Of course we try to build houses which are based on these abstract shapes like squares and rectangles even then unless the builders are very good the shapes are not perfectly matched to the mathematical concepts

I’ve made my blog private from search engines. I’m hoping that will cut down on the number of bots visiting me but I have no idea whether I am right.

To some extent it goes with the territory and after all perhaps a bot is better than nothing. NOT

Antibiotics are very strong drugs

The kill many good or bad bugs.

They may also kill you.

This is real and it’s true

Don’t let them make you a mug

I really feel very enraged

My doctor is always engaged

He gave me bad drugs

As his shoulders he shrugged

I said, for God’s sake read what’s on the page

There was an old lady from Dover

Who thought that her life should be over

She swallowed a pin

Is that a sin?

Then she lay down and cried on the sofa

I’m not sure what is happening but I’m got over 4,000 views today and I just don’t believe those are all people.

It’s been going on since November with one or two intermissions so I’m wondering what to do about it. They are mainly from the United States. And I don’t want to think about that at the moment unless it’s essential

The space between Eternity and loss
Shows in a long wave when someone dies
With inner eye, we see past the abyss

With human hearts we fear whom we shall miss
Tell ourselves strange stories,even lies
Of gaps between Eternity and loss

Our education was a mite remiss
The rules are pressed, the truth may well just fly
With inner eye, we see past the abyss

As the life we had come down to this,
When love rolled like the tide in a great sigh
No gap between Eternity and bliss

My imagination you dismiss
For as a golden horse, you leapt so high
The inner eye, will see past the abyss

So now we stumble on without a cry
Yet one day all mankind must say ,Goodbye
What grace between Eternity and loss
Shows us how to cross the great abyss?