“What do you want meaning for? Life is desire, not meaning.”

Charlie Chaplin

http://www.cam.ac.uk/research/discussion/the-case-for-children%E2%80%99s-poetry

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 shame 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.

Some days are sad and blue
And then we feel lonely too;
Or we cause rifts.
Some days are doldrum days.
Some days are like bad plays.
Not such a gift.
Most days have joyful parts.
Most days we can lift our hearts.
They pass all too swift.
Some days love speaks to me.
Some days I feel so free.
I love my craft.
Life is a patterned weave.
Love helps us when we grieve.
Love is a raft.

See how the sun comes back.
See how light fills the gaps..
Some days we laugh.
Weep now and I’ll weep with you.
I have known sorrow too.
Yet sorrow does pass.

Sorrow does pass

With my felt tipped pen as painting brush
I see the context holds the written words
And in the speckled brownness of a thrush
See the paint pot Nature wished to share

I move my hand in  rhythm to letters make
The hours of practice come to seamless ease
Yet I miss the  crimson  in  the  lake
As cerulean blues  my  eyes  appease.

Can a name  or word be colour true?
Can a hint evoke the feel of  you?
Can my words tease out the edges new?
Can   we tell when we are feeling blue?

What ever medium we  humans  may  use
We  can merely hint at  points  of view

I used to write when  he was fast asleep
I could concentrate enough and keep my words
Now he sleeps forever in the deep

Will the Resurrection make our bodies leap
Bring back flowers and little ladybirds?
I used to write when  he was fast asleep

He is  vivid presence in my dreams
There his honeyed voice  will still be heard
He’s gone  to dwell where life is dark and deep

In a ray of light, a black sunbeam
Shows the hidden value  of the Word
I used to write when  he was fast asleep

The voice of Place itself  makes widows keen
In the woods, the trees all shake and stir
Yet he sleeps forever in the deep

“God will  give no more than we  can bear”
Must we believe the  traumatized  should learn?
I used to write when  he was fast asleep
Then I’d give him tea and  would not weep

The geese that once flew by at  dawn and dusk
Have vanished since the swans came back to nest
Swans  show beauty   in their curving  necks
Yet  their wings can kill unwanted guests

I miss the geese as in a mass they fly
A  sacramental moment in my day
They circle as if one when  coming  down
A god of form and force is here at play

The birds are one with Nature and  her rhythms
We,  having minds,  are separate and are sad
For we don’t just adapt but we  have changed
We make war and all the world is mad

Can we love and dwell in harmony?
For hatred hung   the good on Calvary

You have to be brave to write because all you have ever felt,experienced or studied can be drawn up into your consciousness whilst you write.A friend of mine who is a writer put it like this.”It has taken me to places I’d rather not have gone to.” However she said she manage to live through it.At the time I had only written mathematical works so I didn’t understand what she meant.But I have now had some experiences which give me a hint of what she was trying to say.
If you’ve had many fearsome experiences then these feelings may come up when you loosen the grip of consciousness.However I have also found a spirit of laughter in me which is new.Step into the darkness without knowing.It’s only by going there that help may come.But the fear is that it won’t.You can’t get an insurance policy beforehand.
Are you stepping into a void or will there be something there?
Also in drawing or painting it can take courage to draw what you perceive.I found that especially when drawing buildings and studying perspective.I have the feeling,”No,No.It can’t be this steep a gradient.It’s too much”
And in being inside a building like Westminster Abbey or Durham Cathedral trying to assimilate the vision,the huge spaces and the power and size of the shapes can create awe or even terror.One can lose one’s sense of self entirely.But it can also be revivifying when one has returned.The fear is that one will not return.
Maybe it’s the same with relating to people as well?

On a  frosty day you need your gloves
The hand that feeds is not one Jack should bite
So in a gesture  of self care and love
Put  gloves on in bed and have a fight

Marriage asks for loving in the night
On a  frosty day you need your gloves
Even with a down duvet so light
Will it make a nice nest for the dove?

My house is cold.I’d undress  if I could
The public library’s fearsome,it’s so  hot
On a  frosty day you need your gloves
On  your head wear a le Creuset pot

Cast iron  may be a la mode today
Yet it was a danger in the  Flood
As it  floated over hills  in antic play
On a  rainy day, sail in a glove.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/jan/24/ursula-k-le-guin-margaret-atwood-tribute

“I am very sad that Ursula K Le Guin has died. Not only was she one of the literary greats of the 20th century – her books are many and widely read and beloved, her awards are many and deserved – but her sane, committed, annoyed, humorous, wise and always intelligent voice is much needed now.

Right before she died, I was reading her new book, No Time to Spare, a collection of trenchant, funny, lyrical essays about everything from cats to the nature of belief, to the overuse of the word “fuck”, to the fact that old age is indeed for sissies – and talking to her in my head. What if, I was saying – what if I write a piece about The Left Hand of Darkness, published by you in 1969? What if I say it’s a book to which time has now caught up?

Consider: the planet of Gethen is divided. In one of its societies, the king is crazy. Cabals and personal feuds abound. You’re in the powerful inner circle one day, an outcast the next. In the other society, an oppressive bureaucracy prevails and a secret committee knows what’s best. If judged a danger to the general good you’re deemed persona non grata and exiled to a prison enclave, with no trial or right of reply.

What do you think, Ursula? I asked her in my head. Were you predicting anything? Not exactly, she answered. It’s a thought experiment. ”

I am a very proud soul,
In my centre I have a large hole.
I have behaved very badly I know.
I once trod on the cat’s  only toe.
I did bite a goldfish in two.
There was nothing else there for my tea.
I scratched my own sister’s leg
And hit her with a  woodenclothes peg.
I know she could be irritating…
An expert at big sister baiting.
But that was no excuse
For binning her with the refuse.
I had so many scruples and doubts,
My confessions went on in long bouts.
The priest gave me more absolutions,
And lessons in elocution.
But you need no lessons from me
In how to brew pots of tea.
My penance has been prolonged
By a serpent with a double forked tongue.
I don’t remember the original sin,
So I’m not sure quite where to begin.
My whole life is a Passion,
And I’m always keen on high fashion.
I even saw Jesus one day.
He was so loving,what else can I say?
He came into my dark cavern
And invited me to ascend into heaven.
I know he was partial to sinners.
And was not so keen on life’s winners.
I am happy to be up here at last,
In fact it’s all happened too fast!
Now I wake up from my dream;
What extraordinary visions I’ve seen.
I liked my trip up above,
But the Earth is the place that I love.

In the morning,I’m
opening slowly, a bud,
a flower,
breathing softly,
In the summer sweetened air.
Cat stretches
Lazily,hot stones
a bed.
Don’t let the day
begin too soon.
Relaxed.
I feel your presence
In the azure sky.
Now midday,I bloom.
And take in all there is

When seven years come round again
My self is liquified,
My skin becomes a holding shell
For my old self has died.
As I dissolve I feel great fear
And yet I trust my soul.
So in the sea I lose my form,
And with the waves I roll.
I am at one with all the world,
And yet I am no-thing.
My inner waters rise and fall
What will the high tide bring?
After my drowning I shall rise
And I shall be renewed.
I must submit to that strange Life
With which I am imbued.
I am not mistress of myself,
I am this moment’s flower.
In the deep waters I must trust
To take me to the shore.
O hang my arms with grasses green
And dissolve me in your sea.
Thus when the time comes  round again
Regenerated I shall be

The roses by your gate
Revealed my sweet fate:
That I would love you in summertime,
That my poetry would always rhyme,
That a dream of petals falling from above
Would drench us both with sunshine’s golden love;
That we would fall into deep grassy meadows
Full of daisies,lie on our backs.Swallows
Darting across the sky would see
Our shapes intertwined with bright buttercups.
Who knows when love will erupt
And carry us on its flowing waters
To places unreachable in summer saunters?
Into the eye of love itself

The argument  was over till he “stirred the pot”

Stirring the pot can have several meanings in cookery.
If you are making a jelly or cold pudding  it will set o if you leave it alone after mixing the ingredients ideally in a fridge or cold place
However unless it is in a  very hot place it will eventually set but will take much longer

That is probably what is referred to  in  the sentence.
If you stir a dish of simmering meat it will not affect the outcome unless you make a hole in  the pot with violent stirring for hours.In which case you deserve all you get

“Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter could be said to remedy anything.”
Kurt Vonnegut

https://www.ancient.eu/Enheduanna/

Extract:

WORKS

She is best known for her works Inninsagurra, Ninmesarra, and Inninmehusa, which translate as ‘The Great-Hearted Mistress’, The Exaltation of Inanna’, and ‘Goddess of the Fearsome Powers’, all three powerful hymns to the goddess Inanna (later identified with Ishtar and, still later, Aphrodite). These hymns re-defined the gods for the people of the Akkadian Empire under Sargon’s rule and helped provide the underlying religious homogeniety sought by the king. For over forty years Enheduanna held the office of high priestess, even surviving the attempted coup against her authority by Lugal-Ane.

In addition to her hymns, Enheduanna is remembered for the forty-two poems she wrote reflecting personal frustrations and hopes, religious devotion, her response to war, and feelings about the world she lived in. Her writing is very personal and direct and, as the historian Stephen Bertman notes:

The hymns provide us with the names of the major divinities the Mesopotamians worshipped and tell us where their chief temples were located [but] it is the prayers that teach us about humanity, for in prayers we encounter the hopes and fears of everyday mortal life. (172)

Enheduanna’s prayers very clearly express those hopes and fears and do so in a very distinct voice. Paul Kriwaczek paints a picture of the poet at work:

1.Avocado pear and melon with black grapes
Chop into small pieces and pour over it some olive oil and lemon juice

2.Cover a rectangular oven dish with layers of onion,mushrooms and tomatoes all sliced
Place on top some lamb chops.Bake  for about 45 minutes at about Gas 6…. till chops are brown.New potatoes go well

3. Mix some cream cheese with honey or maple syrup and serve in  very small round or square dishes

Sit in a comfortable chair and read a novel while drinking whatever you fancy  with whom you fancy or fantasise about  the tennis star of your choice.Or watch TV

Go to bed and dream about the sands at Old Hunstanton and how you  would feel riding a horse there.

How much do you charge?
About half

How do you charge?
On demand

Is therapy good for  us?
Only if  you are madder than the therapist

Can I find a new partner?
Why not resurrect the old one
Jesus Christ
Well, well.Are you a  virgin?
Almost.
What do you mean?
It’s  like limits in calculus
I’d say, more like the sum of an infinite geometric procession
Well, bless my soul
Done!
Thanks so clutch
Are you a virgin yet?
I’ll have to try
Try what?
What do you think?
I never do.
I can’t like others
But they like you

I can’t like others if they don’t like me
I need responses and a judgement fine
Love is transitive and may soon flee

I love to entertain  folk  having tea
Unless  some try to argue hate is fine
I can’t like others if they don’t like me

I do not wish to   savour enmity
While opening a new bottle of good wine
Love is transitive and may soon flee

There may be a gap before we see
Where we ought to draw a boundary line
I can’t like others if they don’t like me

Reflections may  change sides in harmony
Nothing  is not much until defined
Love is transitive and  so are we

Petulant and pouting, see me whine
At least my face has never caused a crime
I can’t like others if they don’t like me
Love is  here and  I may soon  agree

I wondered if I were a cannibal
Could I eat my neighbour not a cow
As long as she was roasted really well?

With the army led by Hannibal
The Alps were crossed despite the ice and snow
I wondered if  they  ate an animal

Sheep and goats will often wear a bell
They ring melodiously as up the hill they go
As long as  they are treated really well

I guess I’d be dessert in caramel
Eaten up with cream till overflow
I wonder if   there still are cannibals

Oh, dear reader,I may say farewell
I need to see the oven is restored
So it  roasts potatoes really well

At least  consuming humans  is no bore
As long as they   like dwelling by a flower
I wondered if,  were I a cannibal,
Could I love my neighbour very well?

In school they taught us how to iron men’s clothes
Handkerchiefs,shirts and even hose
I dreamed I took the iron from the nun’s grip
Then I laid her down and ironed her till quite flat.

And so it was I found my rage within
I went to school to learn and not to sin
I never told my mother of my dream
In case a flattened nun would make her scream.

I should have taken sculpture  in a class
Then made a model of this nun in glass
After she was  flattened she looked good
A piece of   clay could well  have understood

My dreams  escape as I awaken now
Just in case I might flatten a  brown cow

I used to  live with fear I was in sin
As Jesus died to save my wicked soul
I later found a  kinder place within
Where I could escape  the tyrant grim
Learn to love and learn to sing again
Accept my self fragmented and unwhole
Split and  fearful, knowing my thin skin
If He is Love, He will  contain my sin.

Half of me feels glad and half feels sad
I wonder which will take the higher place
I feel a need for stillness without dread
To let the hints of grace  in me  be read
Without obsession over what you said
Or listening to that fearful heavy  tread
I sometimes hear when I have gone to bed
Where is the essence of the love  we had?
Somewhere there must be a hint or trace
Part of me is sad and part is glad
Can  they each accept and then embrace?

Paler than a thousand lips disgraced
Whiter than a whiter shade of pale
I saw by my glass door her silent face.
I had too fiercely put her in her place
By my kitchen fire  which glowed with taste
Like a  headless nun once newly veiled
Yet heaven is not reached in any race
One knows there is no surer way to fail

The place where  my words live is overgrown
Despite it’s winter, freezing, and dark grey.
How did these creepers reach from their old home
The honeysuckle and the honey comb?
The Russian vine is wilder when it roams
The Ways of G-d  alone are not my ways.
The  place where my words died  is not yet shown
But   these days it is seemly should we pray.