Avocado stare with prophecy and police caution
Melon and brain salad. Fresh brains daily
Carrot and Squeak soup. Sorry we have no screams today
Battered beans all aching on fresh moans
Casserole of jam with funny broken bones .
Salmon and duck eggs in steam chamber
Cheese sauce on white mice and immigrant children. (None black yet.)
Fishcakes and celery hearts with bullet holes. Very Pretti
Vegetarian man just shot with pearl barley and foreign spices
Hot spiced police with pasta laws
Chilli thief and barmaid
Seven pear trees with roasted root canals
Icecream and sausage jelly on custard pond. Bloody Sunday
Shoulder,breast very Renee Good and sweet lamb toast with bloody butter
Crazed marauders with ginger cat, well bred. Recently shot with stolen handgun
And why not have a drink of a special coffee
Mau mau brew with apartheid screams
No torture is allowed in the coffee shop please go outside first.
short-eared durham owl
meditating over the dale’s edge,
shadows the fields and folds
in elegant diurnal flight.
on wind-side,careful sight,
may swoop to prey
and away.
your yellow broad-eyed look,
at once both sharp and distant,
holds me.
oh,silence,
oh,wind on green,
oh,earth,
sky.
immense your held vision,
sphere without center,
pied geometer of flight,
oh, swift descent and ascent.
trees bunched by dry stone wall
call heart home
Whirling in the winter wind, dead leaves Dry and brown and broken ever more Send their substance to the souls bereaved
People pray and yet do not believe Christ was born and angels him adored On the winter wind float dying leaves
By our spirits may we be deceived, Even in the heart’s quiet hidden core, Sharing presence with all us bereaved?
Look into the sun and fire perceive Power destroys the lives of all its whores On the wind float lingering, burned out leaves
For men of power think God can be deceived Yet even kings will die despite their force To lie in marble graves, of love bereaved
Wrapped in cloths of linen, cream and coarse With no coffin, Jesus high is borne With the wind, with ashes , with dead leaves, The photons of his love light hearts bereaved
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
I don’t understand how they can put all your emails onto a cloud in the sky and then charge you so much a month.
Well it’s not a real cloud they put your information onto.
In that case why do they call it a cloud?
It must be a euphemism
Is that like a euphonium?
No, one is a musical instrument and the other is using a word that sounds less unpleasant than the one you really want to say.
Can you give me an example?
Yes when you drop a brick on your foot and shout
Drat.
What is the real word that you want to say?
Well nobody knows actually but we didn’t like to admit it before.
What is f*** hiding,?
Damn!
That’s a bit rude. I was only asking a question.
No, I mean that’s what they mean when they say fuck
I think I prefer damn actually.
Why do you keep saying actually at the end of every sentence.
I had better not tell you what I really want to say.
Fuck!
Damn
Stop showing off
I’m not showing anything.
Ignorance may be bliss sometimes but not when you’re being interviewed for an Oxford scholarship
What are you talking about I’ve never even been to Oxford.
That’s why you want the scholarship isn’t it?
You mean if I get the scholarship I have got actually to go to Oxford and live there!
Yes they don’t do Zoom.
What sort of out of date institution is that? I want to go to somewhere new and up-to-date.
What about the university of the West of England?
It sounds interesting but I think they’re trying to hide something by not specifically naming the town or city where it is because the West of England is a very big place
That’s definitely a thought.
Maybe Battersea college of technology?
Yes that sounds more up to date. They will have the latest computers and everything you can imagine.
Well I hope it’s not quite everything I can imagine.
Are you having those nightmares again?
In a very real sense, I am
The whole point of nightmares is they are not real
But they feel really when you’re having them. How do you know that you’ll always waken up?
Well I can’t answer that question because there’s no way of proving it.
So far in my life I have always wakened up from my nightmares. If I don’t it will be very unpleasant.
Rumination is very bad for you.
And yet they said the best things in life are free.
They are just pulling your leg.
So that’s what’s causing the arthritis
How do you tell when somebody is being ironic?
It’s an instinct.
Are we born then knowing what irony is?
No but you’re born knowing how to do the ironing if you are woman.
See you’re ironic already
Could it be sarcasm,?
Similarities but sarcasm is more malevolent than irony which is perhaps on the humorous spectrum
I really think you should go to Oxford you are so intelligent and you can talk so well.
Do I have the right accent?
Well if you are successful they will all imitate your accent
And if you are not successful you will have to imitate theirs
Or what about idiom? I think I’ve had enough for one night.
Posted on May 17, 2019 Should we write in form to make a shape Or let our minds run free, associate? Such tangled webs within the mind are draped
Oh, to run as free as antelopes But from sharp tigers noone will escape Can we control , disarm within a shape?
Love’s enacted falsely , making rape Inside our hearts shall we recover hope? Such tangled webs the curtained mind creates
Round the marbled minds we half dazed traipse Wherever we go hunting, we’re too late Can we control our fear within a shape?
Collapsing faith cracks , can we concentrate Or from the deal , do we dissociate? Such tangled webs of mind make ripe our hate
Now sex compels but will can’t procreate Can kindness smile and friendship instigate? Should we write in form when we love shape? Our mingled maps of mind might alter fate
Mary sat in her dining room listening to Sir Michael Atiyah on the Today programme where he was talking about very advanced Group Theory .Many years ago she had known this great man, though he had scarcely noticed her despite her big blue eyes and skinny legs displayed beneath her home made mini-dress.That was very fortunate as she was there as a tutor not as a tart.
Why her mother had supplied her with such mini dresses, she had often wondered, Going online, she saw a sale on at Welvi, the store for larger ladies.There was an orange culotte jumpsuit made of polyester for £10
Look at this, she called to her friend Annie.A real bargain in my view.
Well, said Annie, suppose you were in the country climbing a hill and you needed to have a wee. I never thought of that, Mary said shyly. Moreover polyester is too clammy for summer and not warm enough for winter, besides it looks transparent.I don’t think Stan would like it.
Well, he’s not here now, said Mary sadly.And transparent plastic trousers are in fashion.Do you wear plastic knickers underneath? No, you’d have to wear a jewelled thong, said Annie.I bet that would make men look at you.
Well, not your face… I’ve never worn a thong.Do they hurt, asked Mary politely.
Yes, I’ve got one on now, said Annie nervously.It’s really hurting me.I’d better ring 999 and ask Dave the paramedic to advise me.
Hi called Dave as he got out of the ambulance, what is wrong today? Annie is in pain from a thong, Mary cried .
Where is it , Dave asked gently Where do you think, Annie shouted?
She lifted up her chambray skirt and showed him her pink lace knicker substitute. Can you take it off, he asked tenderly?
I have run out of clean knickers, she informed him scientifically.
Well in the past women wore cotton petticoats but no knickers.It was more healthy.But with short thin skirts if you fell over all the world would see your mound of Venus
That’s an exaggeration, Annie said.All the world is not looking at me
Ah, but someone could have a video camera and you might be on the News.You’d better go to Marks and buy some more proper knickers. Now, shall I make you a cup of tea?The NHS is here to care for you. Lovely, cried Mary.
Annie go upstairs and take a pair my knickers then put that thong in the laundry basket.I will wash it for you and you can hang it in your bathroom to give an impression of your taste to visitors.
On the other hand, men would be disappointed to see you really wore cotton high waisted pants and not a sort of mini star spangled banner.
All right, said Annie but Stan would have liked them.
I like them, mewed Emile.I love you, Annie.I wish I were a man, I would go to bed with you right now.I have got a French letter from Soraya.She’s been in Paris and wrote to me on real paper.
Wow, a cat using the subjunctive and reading French letters said Mary.That is a surprise.
I don’téven know what a subjunctive is, screamed Annie rudely And so say all of us.
Before we go to bed we vegetate No need for teacher but a compost heap. And as we vegetate, we drift to sleep While in our dreams our little mind debates
But mostly we’re unknowing in this dark Where God himself may manifest at will. His dazzling darkness makes our souls be still And wait for strikes by living ,glowing spark.
But in the morning ,we come back to strife Take up our work and suffer every stroke. From sapling to the oldest,strongest oak Each must choose again its proper life
Every look we cast at others strikes Reflects and shows us what we have become And when there is no movement, we are done Our mind and heart have chosen what they like.
So in our end we vegetate again And no more rise to labour in the day We fertilise the fields passed on our way We show the end of woman and of man.
A daily round becomes our life and death. We live because we’re breathed by sacredness.
How sad I think of washing the bed sheets When my partner holds me in his arms Instead of kissing me he might well shout
Do I get more pleasure as I sleep Dreaming of a Bendix and its charms~ How sad I think of washing the bed sheets
Even grown up men are seen to weep Their lover wants a burglar to alarm Instead of kissing her , he might well shriek
Even when it’s raining cats and sleet Women hang their washing in the yard How sad I think of washing all the sheets
When we marry we don’t know these weights The world sits on our backs quite unadorned Instead of kissing him,she might well shriek
Now romance cannot last, and love lies lame Buying houses, babies, what to blame? Women are still fraying mind and sheets Instead of kissing lovers ,indiscreet
When he in whom you trusted turns malign Yet does not tell you why this might be so Just sends you hate mail, crosses boundary lines This is both a trauma and a blow
Shall I lose myself in thoughtless sin Devote myself to flesh and lovers wild? I shall not run to where revenge may win Nor burn my throat with boiling, putrid bile
Humanity turns backwards does not rush Returns the evil with a strong, good wish When God reveals himself, a burning bush The flames will purify, the heat will kiss
Retaliation may feel very sweet But hate rebounds and eats us, as is meet
I promise you that when I am the prime minister I will deport two million asylum seekers in the first month.
And after that it will go up exponentially so I will deport 4 million in the second month eight million then the third month in 16 million in the fourth month
If I continue in the same way how long will it take to completely empty the country?.
After that I will start with the illegal immigrants such as all those descended from the Normans .
Keep Britain empty especially from deserving asylum receivers.
When I die I am going to Heaven
To sit by Mr Aneurin Bevan
We will eat buttered Welsh cakes
Float in hot blue lakes
Oh final thought, how about Devon?
I wonder if I am perverted
For writing my poems with ten verses
They say we’re post modern
And swearing’s forbidden
So are magic,religion and cursing.
I wonder if I can be fluid
A man or a woman or druid?
I can be other
Since I have no mother
But what about rats in the sewage?
To economists we are just” Labour ”
We’re units when once we were neighbours
Gender’s quite useless
True love is a nuisance
Capital makes Money our Saviour
Why not buy a new winter coat
Decorated with the fur off a stoat
Weasels are cheaper
Cats purr and pierce you
As you sail ‘cross the Styx in a boat
I thought I’d not marry again
I’m a feminist along with the men
But a m\n tried to hug me
And tickled my kidneys
He says I’m charming the snakes into sin
But I think I am past getting wed
I just want to go straight to bed
Not just for the pleasure
Of getting his measure
No, it’s just that my organ’s half dead
I’d gaze into his eyes and feel good
As at last I’d feel well understood
We don’t need to chatter
About any matter
Nor scratch like the cat and draw blood.
I think my bed is too small
The headboard is stuck to the wall
The mattress collapses
As do my synapses
Who do you think should call?
I’ve been untidy ever since I was born
I lost mother’s breast and her warmth
I’ve been looking forever
I got rather clever
Now I’ve lost my old man in the corn
Many a fickle lover’s tickled me like noone ever did galore.
He never blames except the whores.
As one bore flits another scarpers.
How many aisles to babble in ?
She loved him in her ungrown ways.
It’s a good way to tickle Mary.She’s my tart,so there!
Fool Britannia.
Here’s my number,Jack.I’m called Kay.
Twas the last blows of plumbers that ruined my pipes.
And for the final hymn,Full in the ranting arms of Joan.
Now we live in cubicles voluminous We cannot kiss a friend to say goodbye Though some may see or hear the numinous While we live as separate as our perfume is God is unaffected by walls numerous Can visit prisoners without need for lies Divert lonely people being humorous As we ‘re locked so separate can you live with us? We cannot kiss the cat to say goodbye
“One thinks of Isaiah — ”Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling” — and of Psalm 137: ”By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat, sat and wept as we thought of Zion.” The great poems remind us that grief cannot be avoided, nor forgotten, but can be incorporated into a deeper understanding of the human condition, as in Emily Dickinson’s ”After great pain, a formal feeling comes”:
This is the Hour of Lead —
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —
First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —
It is that union of experience, insight and the simple beauty of language that helps us to give our own grief a name, that gives us a kind of company, that extends a wise hand. Many experiencing intense, even unbearable personal loss have found redemptive meaning in the famous poem Ben Jonson wrote in 1603 at the death of his son, the one in which he declares, ”My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.” There is no full consolation for a parent who loses a child, and indeed Jonson does not offer consolation. But he at least gives a form to what most of us only dimly understand: that the source of grief is the intensity of the hopes that have been lost, and that without the possibility of grief there would have been no joy.”
Gravity pulls us to this earth of ours
Where grace is needed for the heart to flower
The need for roots is what each person feels
Yet how can roots grow through a floor of steel?
Settlement in legal terms means peace
Agreement reached and hatred will soon cease
What name exists for taking land not ours
The occupier pays no price, he has the power
The British Empire leaves a trail of death
Pakistan and India split by wrath
Balfour did not care for Arab lives
Jewish people fell to genocide
Lit by raging fires on Holy Lands
Burning children cannot understand
Sometimes sunshine makes us feel bereft Rain and shadowed clouds would suit our mood When we are the warp without the weft
As if we are the pen and no ink’s left As if we hunger yet there is no food Sometimes sunshine makes us feel bereft
Our mind slows down and all we do is drift Evil thoughts into the soul intrude Like we are the warp without the weft
Let the eye and all its muscles rest With wider focus we may cease to brood Sometimes sunshine makes us feel bereft
Do not try with will power nor it test Relaxation brings back knowledge of the good We take it in like babies at the breast
We must not test the will but let it go Trust the ocean and eternal flow Sometimes sunshine makes us feel bereft Sometimes sunshine brings its golden gifts
“As much as we might admire what is fresh and innovative, we all learn by imitating patterns,” writes Irina Dumitrescu in The Times Literary Supplement. “To be called ‘formulaic’ is no compliment, but whenever people express themselves or take action in the world, they rely on familiar formulas.” It’s true. For her review-essay, Dumitrescu reads 5 books about writing and explores how writing advice is caught in a paradox: to get people to communicate clearly, logically, and find their own voices, instruction must first teach them rules and provide enough room to learn by copying. This is why most of us writers begin by imitating established writers. We find someone whose style or subject reflects our own – someone in whom we hear our ideal selves, someone who sounds like we want to sound one day – and we mimic them. This could start with a parent, move to a cool friend, then end with a famous novelist or memoirst, before we emerge from the pupae of literary infancy. In other words, to facilitate originality, we must teach formula, encourage imitation, and push for eventual independence. She explores the value of craft, structure, exploration, and formula, and the way sticking to rules erodes a writer’s style, their character, even the essence of the art. She contrasts John Warner’s book Why They Can’t Write: Killing the Five-Paragraph Essay and Other Necessities with the book Writing to Persuade, by The New York Times‘ previous op-ed editor, Trish Hall.
How my heart speaks 