The pathways to the heart are made by love.
And those who truly seek will  never lose.
As virtue and her graces smile above
We see the hills ahead,the rocky views.

With willingness to cross the seas of mud,
To push our way through tangled briar-filled woods.
Our soul within shows us the highest good,
When trees that looked quite dead are now in bud.

When flowers so sweet spring up between our toes
Encouragement is ,with relief ,received
And as we smell the fragrance of the rose,
Then we know our hearts were not deceived.

For Virgil, fortune favours those with steadfast feet.
The journey may be long,the end is sweet.

Note:The saying “Fortune favours the brave” is attributed to several people..Virgil,Pascal,Montaigne…ete

The sky is yellowy pink but tinged with grey
The sun is gone and we feel stark dismay
We can’t meet friends in person any more
Only shout as we stand by the door

I think the source of Covid  is just cash
Money laundered less, the notes unwashed
The coins are black as coal in devil’s  claws
Don’t leave  the tip that kills , nor money gnaw

I used to suck a shilling while I worked
I  tapped my  fingers  where it would not hurt
But now the sight of pounds makes   me feel sick
Never use old notes nor lovers lick 

Throw your money into a black hole
You may starve but this will save your soul

• 

• 

The English are rebuilding Hadrian’s Wall.
The space between the frozen tears is small.
Vision is attenuated there.
Emotions tangle, stutter are appalled
Homo sapiens, why did they call?
Vision is restricted, eyes are bare
The space between the frozen tears is small.
The English are rebuilding Hadrian’s Wall.
No Scottish Muslims can cross England, oh, my dear.
Emotions jangle, stutter, are appalled
Historic acts return as do old brawls
Roman villas, altars, what is here?
Vision is restricted, eyes a shield
How about a girder round Whitehall?
Let’s wall off Wales, they asked for more
Emotions rise and angry are our calls
The Scots must raise new taxes, we’re the whores.
How about a war to fund all wars?
The English are rebuilding Hadrian’s Wall.
Feelings surge as anger grips us all

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50700/the-flower-56d22df9112c4

The Flower

BY GEORGE HERBERT



How fresh, oh Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;
         To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
                      Grief melts away
                      Like snow in May,
         As if there were no such cold thing.

         Who would have thought my shriveled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
         Quite underground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown,
                      Where they together
                      All the hard weather,
         Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

         These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
         And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
                      We say amiss
                      This or that is:
         Thy word is all, if we could spell.

         Oh that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
         Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither;
                      Nor doth my flower
                      Want a spring shower,
         My sins and I joining together.

         But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
         Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
                      Where all things burn,
                      When thou dost turn,
         And the least frown of thine is shown?

         And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
         I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. Oh, my only light,
                      It cannot be
                      That I am he
         On whom thy tempests fell all night.

         These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
         Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide;
                      Who would be more,
                      Swelling through store,
         Forfeit their Paradise by their pride

From ad on Amazon

Perfect for holding a variety of knives including pairing knife, vegetable knife, small cooks knife, bread knife, carving knife, utility knife, steak knife, etc.
Kitchen Ware

Send me a pairing knife,dear Lord
I’m feeling lonesome, life is hard
Will there be instructions
How to get some introductions
By cutting out the hard parts of my heart?

Pairing knives are new to me,oh God
I hope I wil not cut off my own head
Is ir a delusion
A psychiatrist’s confusion?
Maybe I just need to go to bed

I thought it would be useful to possess
The secret key to happiness,no less
But should we have to purchase
Pairing knives for courtship
I am very puzzled I confess

I think it’s over rated wiith 5 stars
Noone made a comment,noone shared
So where are all the knives?
Are they in the handsof wives
Don’t tell ne I’m sexist,I’m in tears

Noone wants to say they feel alone
Not even dogs come by for bones
I will paint this knife in gold
A fork will pair it, hold
Then the knife will send its spirit to` my phone

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 a 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 good 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

She had accidental courage
He paid accidental homage
But the fingers pointed upwards as we passed
They got the seccret message
Paid dearly for the passage
Looking deep inside the looking glass
The world is mere appearance
We must gain the endurance
To tolerate the mess and all past trash
She saw an accidental mirage
By the Bedouins they had damaged
The little tents are torn up, what a crash.
Now the nuclear morals flourish
The freezer keeps things coolish
Got to go,I need to make a splash
Oh,the accident will happen
It will be quite sudden
Looking forward to the sausage and the Mass

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/mar/26/authors-secrets-writing

What makes a poem work and can a poem ever be willed into being?

Wendy Cope: You’ve got to have something to say, but you don’t always know what it is. It’s often just some words in your head that you think could be a line of a poem, so you write them down and see where it goes. One of the major misconceptions about poetry is that the poet has some kind of agenda and intentions, not just that some words come into their head and then they start playing with them and seeing where they go. Because sometimes I will try to write a poem and it just comes out dead because there isn’t really anything that’s deeply felt or worth saying. One thing that makes poems work is strong emotion, and I remember hearing James Berry, I think it was, saying that one characteristic of a good poet is that they feel things intensely, and he said: “Of course poets are not the only people who feel things intensely, but it is one of the qualities,” and I think that’s true


About Wendy Cope, see below

.https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wendy-copehttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wendy-cope

Use no superfluous word, no adjective, which does not reveal something. Don’t use such an expression as ‘dim land of peace.’ It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer’s not realising that the natural object is always the adequate symbol. Go in fear of abstractions. — Ezra Pou

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,


By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.

 

Kathryn Braithwaite

Art by author from photo of a Norman Church




In the above extract from my last post I seem to be saying that it is the rhythms of what we write
which in art would be patterns or shapes ,it is these rhythms which tame the spirits of our hearts which may be troubling us.It is not merely writing down how we feel or describing a situation, maybe grief, maybe anger, or any emotion ,it is the work we do to edit or shape what we are trying to convey into a form which will both express
and communicate to others what we are experiencing,
It is like a sculptor making the stone into a shape
which satisfied the creative urge and invites our attention
If there is no feeling in the creation it will not have any value,but the feeling alone is not enough.
It’s the editing,shaping and so on which seems to satisfy our mind and heart.That is my view today

My old blue fountain pen allows

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from the artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush.


Enchanting through the hand which writes,

Bewitched by art, beauty alights.

The script is like a music score

Through which we 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.

Art by Katherine      

After church on Sunday Mary decided to visit Stan , her elderly ,gentle and  frail  husband in the Rehabilitation Unit where he had been sent recently by a strange physiotherapist instead of to a hospice.
He was unhappy as the diuretics made him pee even mo e often than he used to do and  he got very worried about it because his bad heart made it extremely hard for him to walk.
When she went into the bed ward she saw Stan sitting on his chair without any pyjama trousers on even though it was visiting time from 3 to 8 pm.
Why has he no trousers on? Mary asked a nurse angrily, her blue eyes full of unshed  glistening tears which almost washed off her turquoise mascara and made runnels in her honey beige foundation by Rimmel of London and Paris and Munich
He keeps wanting  to  go to the toilet so it’s easier for us   all  if he has no pants on,the nurse told her haughtily.He’s on diuretics,you see as he has water in his lungs and other inner organs and the water has to be removed from his body,Sheila ,the nurse announced ina cold voice
I know that.What about the lack of dignity in baring him to the world,Mary enquired softly yet piercingly her eyes dripping tears again.
Dignity,what’s that? the nurse said insolently.
He is just a pest. And old men don’t deserve any attention.We are tired of them.They should all die now.Thats’s government policy it appears
Emile who had hidden in Mary’s old,but good olive green Radley leather handbag let out a sound like a banshee in Cork or a demon in a nightmare.
The nurse looked  quite frightened
What’s that? she whispered to Mary behind her hand.
It’s probably Satan coming to say ” hello” to you as you seem very wicked to me.Mary informed her politely yet honestly in her Northern way.
Oh my,what shall I do? the nurse asked in a trembling voice.I am so upset now.
You could try reading the Ten Commandments,Mary riposted jocosely… if it’s not too late.
Or recalling the Golden Rule………
I’ve never heard of the golden rule,said the nurse.Is it a measuring instrument of some unusual type?
Yes,in a sense it is,Mary said.It measures us by our compassion towards others.And you seem to have none for Stan.Can you not imagine what it’s like being a man sitting half naked in a public room with no recourse?
What’s a recourse,Sheila, the nurse, asked her thoughtfully,Is it a garment like a dressing gown?
No,it’s a a source of help in a difficult situation.It’s a remedy or an  option
I have a higher degree in nursing,Sheila boasted stupidly.
I don’t care if you have ten doctorates in nursing and philosophy,Mary cried.It’s what you do and say to the patients that counts.And going to an evening class in English would do you no harm.Your vocabulary is limited,to say the least.Words are useful  whatever job you do.Or even if you are unemployed it helps you deal with bureaucrats
Oh,dear,said the nurse,I am sorry for being so thoughtless.I am always thinking about sex,love and clothes instead of the patients.I see now I have fallen into evil ways and hope I can improve a little.
You have been cruel, said Mary.And seeing my aged husband like this is breaking my heart.
She went over to Stan whose face was almost black, [when he was normally white] and sat by him.He fell against her bosom hungrily.Alas it was not for erotic reasons.His blood sugar was only 2 and his BP was 60/40.He was dying there with no trousers on and with no-one but Mary to help him… and Emile, their small  intelligent black cat ,of course.Unfortunately Emile’s trousers were too small for Stan

.Mary wrapped a bath towel around Stan and held him in her arms.
Stan tried to speak but Mary could not make out what he was saying.Tears ran down her  beautiful lined and wrinkled face and dripped onto Stan’s head.I suppose one might say it was a kind of baptism by love.Now Stan will be entering a new dimension and will be given a new and better name by One who cannot be named here.But you catch my drift?

Judgment is mine says the Lord

Aug 24, 20

And here are Pandora’s locks, Professor Smith, quipped, as the female student in the front row fell asleep whilst sitting upright in a large armchair covered in chintz
And I also have Achilles’ cows heel here.
Now for your project, I want you all to say Three Hail Mary’s.
A large bee stung my ass and I awoke and coughed up my soul onto the bed.
Get back inside, I cried. Keep me whole, give me oil, keep me churning.
Alright, it muttered calmly. Don’t lose your head.
I have it well screwed on, I responded.
This is a surprise to see you.
Well, since Pandora lost her locks all the souls have been getting loose from their bodies.Women…why do they lose their locks so much?
After that, the doctor called.
Hi, he screamed.
For God’s sake, don’t do that, I  murmured
I’m not dead you know..even though my blood pressure is zero.
He smiled and handed me a blood sugar monitor.
Here you are, this will cure your pneumonia.
What about my new mania?
What is that?
I am interested in spirals…
Keep it under control.
The whole point of mania is to be out of control
Try for a sort of controlled uncontrol,then.my dear, he murmured.
What a clever idea, I told him. Goodbye
I swallowed the test kit and it cured my pneumonia immediatel

I saw York Minster, felt its cloak of grace
The memory of God who was a Word
The Bible where there is a feeble trace

If we love, we may wish to embrace
The spirits and heart both gently stirred
I saw York Minster, felt its cloak of grace

Do not befriend another in great haste
Love may launch itself like a small bird
From the Ark where there is still a trace

These symbols are mostl potent in their space
The holy spirit alters as it’s heard
In Cathedrals in their cloaks of grace

I am become a cynic, bitter taste.
Death is the religion of these years
We need an Ark to save the human race

To be alive for many’s bleak and hard
Once we see the remnants of the charred
Compare the Minster, and its manmade grace
With the Bible’s golden and pure space

Stan and Mary were sitting on the patio in the damp heat of August.Emile was draped round Stan’s shoulders looking like a stole.Suddenly the door bell rang.It is aways sudden to the old
Mary got up and hoped her voile summer dress was not transparent as she walked the door nervously
There on the new Porch stood Stan’s cousin Arthur who had disappeared 30 years earlier
I thought you were in the USA, she cried in amazement and shock
I came back last summer,he told her informatively
Come in, she told him and they both appeared on the patio giving Stan a shock, though it was not electric
I’ll make some tea, she told the men,even though I am a woman.
Stan spoke briefly to Arthur, as if he were speaking through the window of the Flying
Scotsman departing from its home country
Hi,Art, I’ve got to go out in few minutes
Art stared at him before shouting
I don’t believe it, a fox fur was bad enough but to wear a dead cat
as an accessory is beyond the Pale.
Stan went red with anger
Emile is still alive,he cried
That makes it even worse, said Art
But he likes to sleep there if he can
Oh,I am sorry.I have got a UTI and it’s making me demented.Art answered nastily
I thought he was tied round your neck, he continued merrily
He would bite me if he were tied there,Stan said wisely
That’s possible,Arthut murmured nervously.I have had a breakdown and I am not very calm
In future, think for longer before attacking someone,Stan said insensitively
Alright, said Art.But at my age I might forget to remember and I could break down again
Mary cut the lemon sponge cake with a pair of barbers’ scissors, ignoring Art’s plea for help
Try this, she muttered,as she poured the tea from a coffee pot of china
What are those scissors for,Art enquired.We used a cake knife at home till Brenda died
I can cut my hair with them but they are good for other things
Is it legal,her cousin in law asked?
Do you think we need to ask for legal advice?Is there a law about scissors?
Stan stood up,I’ve had enough
What of,Mary asked.
I’ve not seen Art for 29 years and we are quarreling already
Old habits die hard, said Mary calmly
Monks’ habits, said Art in wonder?
All sorts of habits like chewing your nails and smoking
Are they alive?
I suppose it’s a metaphor,Mary said ponderously.
It means change is hard, on the whole
Yes, people are cracking up at the thought of Lockdown ending,
Stan sighed.
Everything that happens now is a trauma or is abuse, his cousin said
furiously
Well, maybe it was before but we weren’t allowed to mention it
Emile woke up and stretched
It’s Twitter and FB, he mewed.People with no knowledge of an issue write as if they are experts and then other people believe it
Like already people are saying they don’t believe Meghan Markle
could be depressed when pregnant.Yet there is evidence that pre-natal depression exists or at least anxiety about looking after a baby can worry many people
A woman drowned herself recently in the reservoir as she was terrified of giving birth and the pain
Well said,Emile,shouted Art.I think we can be friends
No, you can’t,Stan told him in a cruel tone
I never want to see Art ever again.
Shall I take all the pictures down, said Mary
What are you talking about?
Well, they are Art!
Women, why are they so clever?
And so say all of us

You can only inspire after you have expired

I see your image in the lake below
Bending like a thirsty iris plant
I drown in leaves of paper and of woe

Mirrors, water,faces all can show
But not explain the meaning to an ant
I see your image in the lake below

Let me show by gestures what I know
That love can make an imprint like a stamp
I drown in leaves of paper and of woe

A generous smile. a hand held out,a blow
The Duchess made her tarts just for a tramp
I see her visage in the lake below

Think again and this time think it slow
Do not burn a candle, use a lamp
I drown in leaves of grass and old grey snow

If I offend you, do not take the hump
Let not your pride inflate as by a pump
I see your image in the lake below
Let’s sleep in leaves of elm and mistletoe

The joyous flood sent sailboats through the streets
Sea and land were mingled in display
The sun shone softly with its fiery heart
The joyous flood sent sailboats through the streets
What was once disparate came to meet
Then the sea ran back enriched and fleet
And children flew outside in pools to play
The joyous flood sent sailboats through the streets
Sea and land were mingled, sweet display

s mr

Onto every strife a little shame will fall
Freudian terror
Been in ark,can type
Lost shadows in hall
Traffic jams on white dea
In analysis we meet the undesirable unread unwanted desires
I have a camel bare coat
Would you like me freed?

One evening Mary got earache so bad she was anxious if her brain might be damaged
What’s wrong,mother? mewed Emile her small black cat
I’ve got earache, she told him.And I am still not your mother!
When will you be my mother?
If the law was changed we could get married,Mary said wittily
I can’t marry you, it would fee like incest,Emile whispered
I don’t expect to have a sexual life with you, but you could massage by legs and run up and down my spine
Anyone can do that.
Well, not a dog I hope,Mary giggled.No I love cats
After watching “Princess Di, the true story” on their tablets,were both happy to rest in their beds
Mary woke up to find her earache was worse, like a knife running into her head
Stan, she cried, where are you? I need you!Come home!
Emile ran in, with tears in his eyes
You know Dad is heaven,Mother
Yes,said Mary, though he could be in Purgatory
Is that because he had Annie as his lover,Emile asked
No, no, l love is not what I’m thinking of.I bought a very nice bag in Somerset as my workbag
When he left our flat to get the train to work, he had taken my bag not to mention six notebooks with unlined paper I was going to use for Art
So what did you say. Mother?
I said nothing.Wittgenstein wrote
Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent
But you could have thrown a bucket of cold water over him,Emil said angrily
I doubt Wittgenstein would like that,Mary smiled
Sometimes we just have to let things go or go into a bohemian boutique ..
I went into one and got a yellow cord skirt of unusual design and some deep red trousers
Did you not wear a top,Emile enquired jauntily?
No,I went to give a lecture on 3 dimensional calculus nude from the waist upward
Did nobody say anything?
I was so thin I looked like a boy and they were all enraptured by my words anyway
Those days we were civil to others and ignored their errors or that their trousers were ripped
and that some shirts looked crumpled.We mathematians don’t care about these things.
Then they saw DPD had a van outside. man crossed the road wth several parcels from
M&S.
Mary pulled put a long green wool coat and a cashmere hat
So who doesn’t care,Emile mewed?
I thought it would be good when I need to sit on a wall.The moss on walls is green.
Well,I can see the sense in that, he replied
In ran adulterous Annie their neighbour and Stan’s former mistress
Oh,I have bought one of those.I fear they will shut down
and it’s hard to buy a tailored wool coat these days.They have merino wool jumpers too
Perhaps I’ll buy another, she muttered.
Can I have a jumper,Emile asked?
May I
May I what?
Have a jumper
I am not human, he mewed.Don’t be rude
I will knit you a jumper,Mary told him.Let me know the colours you like
Don’t climb a tree in it or it might catch on a thorn
Oh, mother, thank you,Emile murmured as he fell asleep

Dear Katherine

I see you have left out an apostrophe on wild birds song.You should be old enough to know your grammar
You only use question marks or hyphens.You will never succeed with such carelessness or laziness
I may not be a success but at least I never make a mistake.
Unless it’s the ultimate mistake, having no creative ideas nor urges I never write anything down
I see how stupid this is, like never having any relationships in case I commit a sin by feeling desire wrongfully and I never married in case I should commit adultery or an act of violence
So I might as well have died as my fear of errors has paralysed me and Jesus mixed with sinners,I wish he were here with me now
Anyway,I hope you understand my feelings and you could learn grammar too for my sake

Yours anxiously yet sincerely

Mr Niebody