Category: Thinkings and poems

To feel the greenness,  let ourselves be drowned

Remember how our breathing slows right down
When we see a small bird close at hand
We want the  happy moment to expand
To feel the greenness,  let ourselves  be drowned

Our breathing comes much faster in the town
Our hearts will beat as fast as Previn’s hands
We lose our  mind and body, their demands
We may walk in traffic  like dead clowns

See the human faces as they frown
They may update their phone,a thousand pounds!
They may park and ride the underground
To  Mayfair with a credit  card and  crown

We  need to create memories that last
In Dedham Vale  with  wild geese  flying past

Not a moral issue to address

We are both   the Nazis and the Jews
Europe’s heart destroyed by what we chose
Are we just dissociated from
The  pain of learning   what our dreams have done?

They say it’s only post traumatic stress
Not a moral issue to address
Yes, it’s over  but it’s never done
The  starving ghosts of  children  wander on

The dead are  just as strong  as we who live
They intermingle   with  us  in the dreams of night
Wanting their remembrance , our remorse
The Christian people who made live our curse

And as we swallow Jesus in the Mass
The Auschwitz  dead  walk up the aisle en masse

 

Creative boredom

rosa-cornelia-2019http://www.brainpickings.org/2014/06/19/adam-phillips-boredom/

A century and a half ago, Kierkegaard argued that this impulse to escape the present by keeping ourselves busy is our greatest source of unhappiness. A century later, Susan Sontag wrote in her diary about the creative purpose of boredom. And yet ours is a culture that equates boredom with the opposite of creativity and goes to great lengths to offer us escape route.

Is sad bad?

conchidium_extinctorum2019

https://www.mentalhelp.net/blogs/feeling-bad-about-being-sad/

“When we feel bad about feeling sad, we often have internalized these social expectations to feel sad only briefly and to value and therefore be happy. A recent study in Emotion suggests that this social pressure not to feel bad can actually intensify sad feelings, increase levels of depression and reduce life satisfaction (February, 2012).

Studies on our judgments of social situations highlight that when we think about events in our lives, we rely heavily on the reactions of the people around us. How we believe others might respond to us has an impact on our emotions and how we feel about and express our emotions.

Believing that others expect us not to feel sad in any given situation sets us up for negative thinking and unhealthy responses that can intensify that bad feeling. For example, when we fail to meet others expectations, even in the way that we feel, we may tell ourselves that we are failures. These thoughts only intensify negative feelings.

So what can you do if you’re stuck in a cycle of feeling sad and feeling bad about feeling sad? There are a number of interventions that can be helpful, but you may want to start simply by recognizing your emotions. Understanding, naming and describing emotional experiences can reduce their intensity.

Untangling feelings of sadness that originate in negative life events from feeling bad about feeling sad can, in itself, begin to make you feel better. Beyond that, changing the messages that you tell yourself from “I shouldn’t feel this way” to “It hurts to feel this way, but sadness has a purpose” can help.”

 

The agony of loss

When you sentenced me to painful loss
To give birth in a desert stony , grey
I felt like rubbish from a window tossed

Although you did not have to pay the cost
I had wished you’d speak to me again
Despite you sentenced me to painful loss

You gave me not a warning but a test
To see if love and care might still remain
I felt like rubbish from a window tossed
I felt your words strike like a dagger thrust

I knew then it was a cruel game

To make me feel the agony of loss
I know your play with me was never just
What of the child who should have borne your name?
We feel like rubbish from a window tossed

Now I stumble , will I be detained?
I have no papers, no-one to obtain
You cruelly sentenced us to painful loss

From your home my fertile body tossed

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Baptise her with the lot

I wish you were still living
I wish you were still here
I was making you a cup of tea
You were sitting  near

I put it down beside you
On the table top
But before we could drink it
We heard a heavy knock

The woman  came in boldly
With a  spirit black and sheer
She wanted to assess you
But Death had come with her

Death was dancing like her shadow
She was its chosen host
You never drank that cup of tea
That loss hurts me  the most

For a married couple
Sitting side by side
Having a nice cup of tea
Is nothing to deride

Meals and drinks  form  structures
For the sick and frail
You were happy in your old brown chair
I feel that I have failed

I  should have kept that woman out
I see her mocking face
Death hid itself  just by the porch
She  left me  here defaced

Eight days later on the phone
She heard  my quivering voice
Told me to get therapy
Mourning is for ghosts

We cannot grieve and weep these days
For all emotion’s wrong
We need to be schizoid
Our affect flatly flung

Now they say I have spare rooms
They cut my  benefits
I cannot sell my body
I’ll have to use my wits

Come back,John, and have your tea
I’m still warming the pot
If that woman comes again
I’ll baptise her with the lot

I miss you, how I miss you
I only have your dust
I keep it in the window
I ‘m lost in a grey mist

Red maple tree

I lie back in the weather-proofed green chair
To gaze up at the flowering maple tree.
Now, touched by sun,lungs full of scented air
I embrace with joy the beauty I now see.

Old celandine show brightly by my feet
Neglected currant bushes straggle round the path
There is no birdsong yet a silence sweet
Soothes my heart and quietens my wrath.

For my heart's sore and anguished is my mind
Yet in this little wood I feel deep calm.
My eyes are shadowed and my face is lined.
May this greenwood bring me a gentle balm.

For even in depression and deep grief,
The mind makes healing medicine of a leaf.

They pay £162,000 for a handbag but can’t pay income tax

https://www.theguardian.com/fashion/2019/jun/12/hermes-birkin-bag-sells-for-162500-in-london-auction

 

Hermès Birkin bag sells for £162,500 in London auction

Birkin 35 sells for over double its estimate at Christie’s sale which fetched £3.4m

A black niloticus crocodile Birkin 35 bag, left.
 A black niloticus crocodile Birkin 35 bag, left, and a mother of pearl Chanel bag, right, in auction at Christie’s in 2017. Photograph: Christian Sinibaldi/The Guardian

A Hermès Birkin bag sold for £162,500 at Christie’s, in London, on Tuesday, shattering its predicted sales price of £70-90,000.

The 2015 Himalaya niloticus crocodile Birkin 35 was not the only bag to exceed expectations, with a 2007 Hermès shiny ficelle porosus crocodile Birkin selling for £118,750, following estimates of £50,000-70,000.

Perception  stolen by the body’s pain

Perception clouded by the body’s pain
The mind dwells in our flesh   as does the heart
Life seems  dark and  all feels  loss not gain

The mind is not a ghost made by the brain
Why is flesh  not equal in its charm?
Perception’s clouded by the body’s pain

So illness and infection  cause us  strain
In the end from flesh we will depart
Life seems  dark and  all seems loss not gain

Where are they who give love warm,unfeigned?
Absence of a lover brings alarm
Perception’s clouded by the body’s pain

Why do people near project disdain?
The illness and the fevers on me swarm
Life seems  dark and  all seems loss not gain

Here is Satan with his  curving horns
He is not deterred by any thorn
Perception  stolen by the body’s pain
To Satan I  submit to  live unchained

 

The clouds must hide

Clouds like herring bones line up to die
Interspersed with clouds of other kinds
Above the Western reaches of the sky

The sun is setting ,troubling tender eyes
Sinking full of pride , impressed on minds
Clouds like herring bones line up to die

In  the West , stand hills where Satan cries
Asking for  submission  to his  binds
Below the Western reaches of the sky

Now all colours gone, the clouds must hide
As in anxious  dreams our teeth may grind
Clouds like herring bones will shiver, die

Across the fields I see a horse go by
His hooves make patterns, but to them he’s blind
He knows  now,  bewitching  is the sky

For the childhood vision we have pined
Dreams mixed with reality make eyes
Clouds like herring bones line up to die
Above the Western reaches  on they fly

 

A silent UTI makes you get very depressed

https://www.health.harvard.edu/diseases-and-conditions/silent-urinary-infections-serious-consequences

I have a silent UTI
My bladder’s sick but I deny
I sat down  on a wall I cried
I sobbed and wept and then I dried
My tears all full of stress hormones
Ran away and wet the phone
I  maybe am incontinent
My self esteem had not got dents
If I’m wet then I’ll be shunned
I don’t care,I ‘ll be  a nun
I’ll take a vow of poverty
And give it to O’Doherty

Is it its?

 

 

rose of sharon seed pod

Some people mock those who write, :that cat ate it’s dinner.

But  that is related  just to  what is customary:

the cat ate its dinner …. means its own dinner

“The cat ate it’s dinner” means another being called “it”  had its dinner eaten by the cat.Alas.

But usually the context tells us.

“I have lost my head” might confuse some of us.It’s most often a dead metaphor.

I lost my head and told my husband I regretted ever meeting him.But my head was screwed on the right way later.

She lost her head and swore  at the Rabbi who gamely swore back  to keep their friendship alive except it was all in his head.She didn’t even know he was a Rabbi, but believed he was  a soft toy with a missing tee.That’s life.For some of us

Language rages

man in knight raising his sword
Photo by Maria Jose Bueso on Pexels.com

 

https://www.theguardian.com/science/2019/jun/17/language-wars-18-greatest-linguistic-spats

Are you really disinterested?

Use this word at your own risk. If what you want to say is “lacking in interest” then brace yourself, because there’s an army of people who will point out that it should be “uninterested”, and that “disinterested” must mean “impartial”. They are sticklers for what they regard as the correct meaning, and have taken up columnist William Safire’s command to “rear up and rage, rage against the dying of an enlightening distinction”. The problem is that if a word is more frequently used to mean one thing than another, then that’s effectively what it means: you can’t fight a linguistic consensus. The news for pedants gets worse, however. The OED tells us that the use of “disinterested” to mean not interested or unconcerned has been around since at least the 17th century, used by no less a stylist than the poet John Donne.

English and Maori versions of the Treaty of Waitangi had important differences.
 English and Maori versions of the Treaty of Waitangi had important differences. Photograph: Ian Paterson/Alamy Stock Photo

The Waitangi swindle

In 1840, the British government and more than 500 local chiefs signed a bilingual agreement that made New Zealand a colony. English missionaries had translated the draft of the Treaty of Waitangi into Maori but the two versions had important differences. The New Zealand Ministry of Culture explains that “in Maori it gave Queen Victoria governance [kawanatanga] over the land, while in English it gave her sovereignty over the land, which is a stronger term”. The English text also assured the Maori that they would have “undisturbed possession” of all their “properties”, whereas the Maori translation merely gave them tino rangatiratanga (full authority) over taonga(treasures) – a more nebulous term.

Tips for poets

27067324_1065257550280789_1277755180664167940_nimg_20190311_122518https://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/20-best-tips-poets

 

Extracts

1.

The second thing I’d say is you must read old stuff. Dante, Herrick, Donne, Pope, Dickinson…Gertrude Stein, William Carlos Williams, Marianne Moore. Read voraciously! And read aloud.” – Aaron Belz, author of Glitter Bomb”

2.

“Always be writing the next poem.” – Amorak Huey, author of Ha Ha Ha Thump

“Do. Not. Take. Rejections. Personally.” – Amy MacLennan, author of The Body, A Tree

“Be kind. Be aware. Be brave.” – Bryan Borland, author of DIG

“Writing is what makes you a writer. Not a book contract or an award, so don’t let anyone make you feel less than. And don’t quit.” – Christina Stoddard, author of Hive

“I would tell (poets) to honor their truth, whatever it may be, and to write it. Trust the poem. Don’t try to force it or control it. Let the poem take you where it wants to go.” – Beth Copeland, author of Transcendental Telemarketer

*****

Mary’s obsession

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Copyright

Mary went  out shopping as usual on Saturday.She didn’t need much but liked to watch people  passing the Coffee Shop window and give a rating to their  appearance though the number of women in transparent beige leggings was rather  high.Why not wear thicj black ones, she wondered? They look much better but maybe the poor can’t afford good quality
She herself wore a  dusky violet coat and blue shoes.She had forgotten  to comb her hair!
She saw Annie  her late husband’s mistress so  she knocked on the window and Annie came in.
I’ll have a coffee too ,she said jovially
,It is quite expensive but I like the people here
I love that olive green  jacket, Mary informed her.Where on earth did you find  the eye-shadow to match?
I got it up in Wigan. You know, that outlet store I love
But the train ticket must  be expensive Mary tried to calculate how much but gave up
Well, I love Southport so I do go up now and then to Formby Sands
You didn’t tell me.Have you got a boyfriend up there? Sand Dunes are good places to hide.
I know I am very attractive to men, however there are other things in my life like shopping, clothes, make up, hairdressers and manicures.
Why don’t you read a book!
There are so many I can’t decide where to start
Well  don’t bother with Fifty Shades of Grey,Try Mary Wesley.She began writing when she was 70. I can lend you one.Or did you like Jane Austen?
Was she at our school?
No, she’s dead
Oh,I am terribly sorry.Was she a friend of yours? I realise now people are taking  it into their heads   to  succumb to illnesses they managed to ignore for years

No, she was not my friend.She was a writer  who wrote many years ago.
Some have been televised. She is one of the best English writers.Try Persuasion
I am already good at that especially with handsome and intelligent men
I am getting tired of how you keep thinking  about men.Are you not too oId now?
No, I am not but I’m sorry if I offended you.I can’t think of  what else to chat about
Shall we got to a shoe shop to see if they have any olive green shoes  to match that jacket?
That’s your obsession, shoes,Annie answered angrily.Why not dye your hair, it looks dreadful.
Well  I like my hair this colour as Helen Mirren has it the same
We must accept each other as we are.At least we don’t gamble or  take cocaine.Or try to be the next Prime Minister,Mary murmured optimistically.

And so say all of us. Mioaw  cries Emile.

Where is Oxford,on the Tomes?

Where is Ipswich, what is true
Where is Norwich, deja vuP1000005
Cambridge juggles counterpoise

Here’s the  train, is it full
Will there be a cord to pull
Is it diesel, is it steam?
It’s atomic in its beams

I can sit and Sudoku
I’ll sing and whistle as you coo
Let’s not read  the Gaza  strip
Cartoons make old people sick

Is it real, is it  true
Jesus sat down next to you
He abhors the Holy Land
He prefers the Southport sands.

What we find may not be what we sought

.
I have  filled my mind   with  dreams   and thoughts
I have drawn conclusions  that seem real.
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

As Ted Hughes said,  his fishing was the sport
Which brought both meditation and a meal.
I have   studied minds   and  dreams   and thoughts

We see ,like that,new images are caught.
In silence and in noticing  the feel
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

What we find may not be what we sought
At  first ,it may not show its wise appeal
I have  found  my mind   through  dreams   and thoughts

In the night the images  take flight.
God’s lioness  destroys what  is  congealed
What’s of  value’s not by effort wrought.

Like a butterfly, a flowering dart
Of love and beauty  which was once concealed
I have  found my mind  by  dreams, my  wordless thoughts.
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

And we find it,shall we say,satisfactory

6636107_f520
I see a haze of hair on your head
like the softness of just opening leaf buds in spring.
The chemo is over,and you wait relieved and letting that
take you for a while before you start to face the next stage.
Will your Spring turn to a warm enchanting Summer
or has the cancer,as they say “spread.”
Just for now,you’re in that lull
so in three weeks time you will not be
arriving for another session of drugs
and days of sickness.I see the light fuzz which reminds me
of how the cat’s fur grew back after her surgery
and she,being unable to reflect or question,
leapt from the fence top onto next door’s kitchen roof;
no thought in her mind of stitches breaking.
How beautifully the patterned fur returned
and the vulnerable skin was covered again.
Oh,to look into those eyes and see you dream
about mice that live behind the shed
and how you sat watching for hours
and how you were alive till the very last moment.
Then , all of a sudden,you were gone.

Pray it will not be so for ,the fragile,loving human
now waiting and living,hoping for what you took for granted…
a  “normal” life span Or maybe just three quarters of one
would be satisfactory;would be a beneficence
such as trees feel when the sap turns and begins to flow back.
bringing life out of the darkness of earth and soil.
And another Summer comes at the right time
and we find it,shall we say,satisfactory.

If this is summer, let the winter come

If this is summer, let the winter come
My  tears  run dry, my soul  is cold and damp
Where is  the High Noon of the summer sun
If this is summer, let the winter come
What evil  traps us, as our leaders sin?
When will   our  country’s wreck be done?
What Fuehrer will emerge , who runs the Camps?
If this is summer, let the winter come
Here I weep , my  heart feel cold and  cramped

They’ll steal what you don’t own

Have no possessions,  give  your stuff away
But don’t go outside naked  when in= town
It’s not religion, just simplicity

Happy  are those people  free to play
Who may be sunk in dreams or study brown
Have no possessions,  gave   their stuff away

Sing and  dance and let yourself be gay
Remember that a verb is not a noun
It’s not  high learning, just simplicity

If  you see   evil, do not go astray
Help the neighbours,   give them all your gowns
Have no possessions,  give  your stuff away

In Commerce, there is much duplicity
Be aware they’ll steal what you don’t own
All you lose is mere complicity

The lips of wealthy  men speak  vicious  tones
Corbyn  makes them fearful, do they owe?
Have no pride in   virtue,  rather pray
It’s not an error, God may die today.

Shall I my life of evil start?

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When true love’s gone and doom hangs over head
When life runs  like a river to the sea
Then shall I take new lovers to my bed
And with their carnal touch consoled be?

When my love lies and  breaks my tender heart.
When life  is grey and rocks bestrew my path.
Then, shall I my life of evil start,
And on the world shall I bestow my wrath?

When true love lies and wrecks all loyalty.
When puzzlement makes all my world seem mad.
Then I shall upend causality
And let myself do deeds which make me glad.

For I have love’s  own child inside my soul
And I shall tend her till at last she’s whole

If he stood on his head and sang Jerusalem

  • CatsStan was wearing his best suit,topped by a denim apron, and wad polishing the big windows with a microfibre cloth ,as he waited breathlessly for his stunning wife
    .Mary entered the room wearing a long purple and mauve dress which clung somewhat tightly to the curvaceous contours of her beautifully rounded body.
    On her feet she had some smart pewter ballet slippers and in her elegant hand she carried a huge pewter clutch bag which contained some of her many medications.She addressed Stan,
    “I think I can leave my handbag behind if I put my mouth spray into my bra.”
    “That somehow detracts from the romance of the evening.” Stan pronounced openly.
    “Well,you know,I never had a cleavage until lately and I fell I ought to make the most of it.”
    “Surely I should be the one make the most of it,” he riposted jocosely.
    “Of course you may, my angel,but not in the restaurant,”she answered back sweetly
    “I’ll put your spray in my pocket then,shall I?”
    Suddenly the doorbell rang.
    ”Who’s this?”
    It was Annie,their next door neighbour.
    She was wearing a coral velvet track suit with matching Reeboks and sun hat.
    “Hi,I just came in with a little prezzie,”She declaimed.In her hand was a huge box of chocolates.
    “Gosh,Mary you look lovely in that beautiful long dress but you’re not
    going on your bike,are you?”
    “No,we are having a cab,but it’s not come as yet.”
    “Well,never mind.I’ll ring 999 and get them to send an emergency ambulance for you!”
    Fortunately,as luck would have it the minicab appeared and it was only as they were entering the restaurant that Stan realised he was still wearing his old denim apron.
    “Shall I take it off?” he pondered.
    On the pro side I will look smarter on the con side I might spill some soup down my front.I wish I’d done more logic at college.
    So he kept it on.Mary didn’t seem to notice.She just took him for granted.~
    If he stood on his head and sang”Jerusalem” she probably wouldn’t pay any attention.
    Then he noticed that Mary was wearing an apron too.It was the same colour as her dress.What a brilliant idea,he thought.
    “There may be money in this.” He could start a small business,
    “Aprons R You” selling lovely aprons in all colours of the rainbow.
    Suddenly he heard noises;he awoke and heard Mary shouting
    “How can you go to sleep when you are out with me?”
    “Would you prefer me to recite the Periodic Table?” he snapped gently.
    “I’d prefer a poem,” she cried…
    All right,Petal,I’ll think of one soon.In the meantime would you like a fool?”
    “No.I’ve got you,” she responded handsomely.
    “I mean for a pudding?”
    “Oh,yes please.A Rubik fool would be lovely.It will pass the time.You know I get so bored.”
    “Well,I do my best but it’s hard keeping up with you.would you like to read a few truth tables whilst I finish my mea.?”
    He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small leather bound book.
    “Truth tables and levitation for geniuses,” by Bertha Russell.
    “Oh,Stan,this looks interesting .I’ve always wanted to fly like an angel or an owl.”
    “It’s never too late to say never.” he responded.
    “Whatever do you mean?”
    “I don’t know.Just because a sentence is grammatically correct doesn’t imply that it means something.”
    “Yes, quite right.And conversely a sentence can mean something even when it’s not grammatically correct.”“Isn’t thinking exciting!”
    “Yes,indeed.I was thinking how exciting it will be to go to bed with you.”
    “Wow,good grammar and full of meaning.I am yours.I am like a ripe plum ready to drop off the tree.I am a cat ready to mate.I am a song waiting to be sung.”
    “Gosh,are metaphors your bete noir?”
    “Je ne parle pas Francais.”
    “Aimez vous ein Nederlander?”
    “Sprechen sie Deutsche?”
    Ist sein mutter immer krank?”
    Lehitraot, auf weidersehen,au revoir,
    Je suis un parallel line

We try  to be alive, despite the pain

Underneath the shallow pools lies sand
Where shells are  fractured by the ocean’s blows
We  soon  learn what  being alive demands

To bare feet on sunny days beckoned
The warm wet trickles in between the toes
Underneath the shallow pools lies sand

In whose sums is our living reckoned?
Calculation, not so bleak it shows
We learn by pain, true living makes demands

God allows the  abacus unchained
To sum us up as if we are unknown
Underneath the pools,  are these his hands?

Who will be allowed and who detained?
Like refugees, we come to love alone
We try  to be alive, despite the pain

Our hearts are fragile shells, not heavy stones
We, soft flesh enraptured by framed bones.
Darkly on the  beach we humans stand
The fretting waves cry out with love’s demands

God is a  fragile voice, still as a bone

God is a place we rarely  find alone
His spirit  guides us  past the demons wild
God is a  fragile voice, still as a bone

God gave his prophets  sweet  dark honeycombs
By his word they were struck, beguiled
God is a place we rarely  find alone

The Reed Sea parted  should she risk its foam,
The woman heavy with an unborn child?
God is a  fragile voice, still as a bone

The spirit called a dove  by Leonard Cohen
Caught, entrapped  endangered and   then sold
God is a place   where we  kneel, atone

Shall he  leave us bread or  graven stone?
When we feel afraid, his  love enfolds
God is a place we rarely  find alone

On we wander,  hear  the whisper frail
If we listen well we  will not fail
God is a place we rarely  find alone
God is a  fragile voice, still as a bone