Rejection

Being ostracised is kin to death
Rejected, driven out from your own  tribe
The hate, the spurning, the unholy wrath

Rejected when we follow our own path
The choice is hard to make and to decide
Being ostracised is kin to death

Cynical and with a hollow laugh
How shall we portray or describe
The hate, the torment, the unholy wrath

Like the martyr tortured on the cross
With no rapid  poison to imbibe
Being ostracised is kin to death

As for the tribe,it is their loss
For now we have new groups who’re  our allies
No hate, no torment, no unholy wrath

Now there  is  less permanence,few guides
We must trust the depths of our shared minds
Being ostracised is kin to death
The hate, the spurning, the satanic wrath

Soothing rhythms help our minds create

Photo by Katherine

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Evensong evokes another state
A world of beauty, peace and mental calm
Where all is still and thoughts do not gyrate

The breath slows down and evil does not mate
Indeed it flees  before the holy psalms
Evensong evokes another state

In the quiet, we  each can, happy, wait
Assured by songs of good, of healing balm
Where all is still and thoughts do not gyrate

Soothing rhythms  will help the mind  create;
To bear the emptiness unfilled and do no harm.
Evensong evokes  this cultured state

Frantic notes  of music irritate
And minimise all  goodness and all warmth
Let all  be still and let thought emigrate

Let us lowly creatures slowly learn
To love each other as we take our turn
Evensong evokes another state
There all is  calm and thoughts are sweet as fate

And away

Short-eared Durham owl
meditating over the dale's edge,
shadows the fields and folds
in elegant diurnal flight.

On windside,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,
Hemisphere's height implicit
Pied geometer of flight,
Graph your swift drop and ascension

Trees bunched by dry stone wall
call heart home.

Right here on this floor

When I saw you  in that cafe
I knew you would be mine.
You were handsome, smiling,funny,you were specially designed.
You looked like men I’d only dreamed about in all those years before.
I’m so broke up,so broke up;you don’t love me anymore.

I saw you on the station as I came from out the train.
You wore an old green parka to protect you from the rain.
I wanted to be one with you,to make a Love entire;
But all we did was give  create pain too bad be endured

You walked away so quickly,I could not see you long.
I wish I had a big guitar to draw you back with song.
I looked at where you disappeared;what love has loss revealed?
I wish I could just lay down on this floor and keep my face concealed.

Railway stations sadden me, for I know we’ll never meet .
I won’t cry more,for tears are running almost to my feet.
I walk fast looking straight ahead past the entrance gate,
I pretend that you have missed your train,that work was running late/


I count from one and one to a thousand and much more–
But I know for sure it's far too late; you have closed that heavy door.
You are hiding in a dungeon
You are covered with white steel
But I know you had a heart and you must surely feel.

I lost all my illusions, and then I lost some more.
I wish I could lay down and die,right here on this floor

Reverberations


 

Like a piece of ground where bombs go off repeatedly,
my inner landscape is perpetually marked
by these explosions of sorrow,
made all the worse
by the lack of a listening ear,
a warm open heart
or an outstrerched hand.

I have constructed a map
but it's incomplete,by its nature;
so even now,I might stumble into an old hole
or a new one,created
by reverberations underground;
the noise like distant music,
a  constant drumbeat.

We do not dance
I might call it the Liturgy of Loss,
a dance to the music of rhyme;
Patterns abd shapes hold the feelings
and express them.The shape of these forms
is a container for the grief.

In this way,I indicate
that life will go on;I hear the healing music
and sing to its melodies
like a mermaid on the edge of the sea in winter
when the water is cold and green like his eyes,
and the rocks are hard like large fists.

Nature can be a symbol for such emotion
we cannot walk without a tear in ech eye
and a softening of our hearts
as tenderly we touch the world
and are touched in turn by each other.

Stretch out your hand to meet mine.
We can hold each other better
than each can hold theirself.
Like in sex, the meaning is not the climax
but the giving and being given;
receiving and being received.
The sacredness of the erotic needs no explanation
to a gardener or a fisherman
but may need it for the information saturated,postmodern
who dwell in the fascist virtual reality
we call life on earth today

The best illusions  lead us into truth

The innocence of children’s Christmas joy
Eyes wide open with surprise and glee
The candles lit, the tree , the love, the toys

When we’re disillusioned we fall  glum
And from the artificial we will flee
No longer wanting Xmas time to come

But later we find  other ways of love
We see new virtues in the life’s own tree
Silently, as fold the wings of dove

Our spirits rise like bread  by a warm fire
We love  and work to shelter family
And  then we are each filled with  true desire

Desire does not grab hold of sparkling toys
Desire  is  maintained by its  integrity
Not fooling those who look   both weak and sore

The best illusions  lead us into truth
That there is love and grace without a proof
The innocence of children gives us pause
The candles lit, the tree , the love, the law.

 

No contradiction  hides in sacredness

Did anyone believe that rage expressed
Could benefit the agent  without harm
Did anyone  read Freud and then digest?

Feelings need the heat  of blacksmith’s fires
Held inside until they  find their form
An image  worthy of our true desire

As well as rage, we should mistrust  love too
Be backward in expression till more’s known
Or risk an avalanche of cruelty.

Take care of  others, they are not our fools
From  sacred  conjunction  all humans are grown
We misuse  folk to test our charm and tools

Holding in the  inner fires   our wish
The blackness of the  heart can turn to gold
No contradiction  hides in sacredness

Take  your love and in your arms enfold.
The future of the world is growing cold
We liked to have the choice  for rage and death
Until we found the charred remains of bliss.

 

The empty seat

Photo0383Here we sat in sunshine  and in cloud
Yet he’s gone and I forget his words
Enigmatic as a lonely clown

Here were daffodils but rarely crowds
His absence makes my being seem absurd
Where we sat in sunshine  and in cloud

With humour and with wit so well endowed
His  Whitby accent,  treasure to be heard
Enigmatic as a  gifted clown

The cat sat on his shoulders looking proud
At the garden table on old chairs
Where we ate in rain  and in dark cloud

A very private man whose mind allowed
Great kindness to his friends but never bared
Enigmatic as a  gifted clown

His most attractive quality was care
Yet he could suffer more than most could bear
Here he sat in sunshine  and in cloud
Enigmatic,curious and most kind

What is the context?

unpicasso2.jpg
http://www.dictionary.com/browse/context

 

context[kon-tekst] 

noun
1.

the parts of a written or spoken statement that precede or follow aspecific word or passage, usually influencing its meaning or effect:

You have misinterpreted my remark because you took it out ofcontext.
2.

the set of circumstances or facts that surround a particular event,situation, etc.
1375-1425

1375-1425; late Middle English < Latin contextus a joining together,scheme, structure, equivalent to contex(ere) to join by weaving ( con-con- + texere to plait, weave) + -tus suffix of v. action; cf. text

contextless, adjective

Be happy to be purposeless and still

Happy to be purposeless and still
I breathe in my contentment and my soul
I let my heart rule rather than my will.

Of peace and calm we never have our fill
Our heart  needs this to make us truly whole
Be happy to be purposeless and still

For if we cannot stop, we’ll pay the bill
Running till we’re weary after goals
So let the heart rule rather than the will.

In school we had imposed on us a drill
In the teacher’s image, in her mould.
Learn  contentment,peace  in keeping  still

Gently  let your mind its  own thoughts  mull
Let there be more emptiness, less pull.
Happy to be purposeless and still
I let my heart rule, hold back my quick will.

Why poetry misses the mark

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https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2016/10/why-poetry-misses-the-mark/497504/

Extract:

If you are an adult foolish enough to tell another adult that you are (still!) a poet,” he writes, “they will often describe for you their falling away from poetry: I wrote it in high school; I dabbled in college. Almost never do they write it now.” For Lerner, this is more than mere politeness, an attempt to find some common ground with the poet. Rather, it is an unconscious tribute to the sway that the idea of poetry continues to exert over our collective imagination. “Most of us carry at least a weak sense of a correlation between poetry and human possibility,” he asserts. Thus, “if I have no interest in poetry or if I feel repelled by actual poems, either I am failing the social or the social is failing me.” Poetry is a gauge of our mutual connection. If we can’t speak the language of poetry, it is a sign that human communication has been blocked in a fundamental way. This feeling of failure is what explains why people tend to hate poetry, rather than simply being indifferent to it. Poetry is the site and source of disappointed hope.

For Lerner, as his use of the term the social suggests, that hope is not just individual and spiritual, but collective and political. Poetry is linked, in his vision, to the possibility of a total redemption of human society, of the kind Marxism used to call “the revolution.” In particular, his fusion of aesthetic, political, and spiritual messianism brings to mind the work of Walter Benjamin, the 20th-century German Jewish theorist. Lerner’s previous book, the novel 10:04, was saturated in the Benjaminian concept of redemption: the idea that the world as we know it carries within itself the possibility for transformation. Key to this vision is the idea that salvation will come from within, from a rearrangement of the world, rather than through an external power or a god.

Book Cover: The Hatred of Poetry by Ben Lerner
FSG Originals

In the novel, Lerner associates this idea with what he calls “the utopian glimmer of fiction.” Fiction, he suggests, anticipates redemption in its power to alter facts and timelines, to summon alternative possibilities, to transcend the given. In The Hatred of Poetry, Lerner makes some of the same claims for the art of poetry. “ ‘Poetry’ is a word for a kind of value no particular poem can realize: the value of persons, the value of a human activity beyond the labor/leisure divide, a value before or beyond price,” he writes. Poetry is a figure for the unalienated labor and uncommodified value that Marx thought would exist after the revolution. This is a 21st-century artist’s Marxism, one that no longer hopes for real revolution, but looks to the imagination for anticipations of what a perfected world would look and feel like.

As lerner works sinuously through a chain of texts, he draws attention to the inevitable gap between the actual poem, which can only be a series of particular words, and what he calls the “virtual poem” (borrowing a phrase from the poet and critic Allen Grossman), which we can imagine as being perfect because it remains pure potential. It is in taking the measure of that gap that we can “experience, if not a genuine poem—no such thing—a place for the genuine, whatever that might mean.” Yet this approach to reading any particular work by any particular poet also leads to a certain monotony. Because actual poems are always primarily valuable for what they are not, the many different kinds of poems Lerner invokes all supply evidence for the same argument: Look at what these lines fail to capture.

Beautiful railway bridge of the silv’ry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

This is ludicrous, of course, and Lerner shows exactly why. Yet he also suggests that the poem’s very badness is its virtue: “A less bad poet would not make the distance between the virtual and the actual so palpable, so immediate,” he writes. A bad poem can perhaps point to utopia even more effectively than a good poem can, since its very badness reminds us of the impossibility of achieving the total goodness that poetry promises.

This is the perverse logic of invoking utopia, which is a literal “no place.” Like a Romantic poet, Lerner yearns for a transformation that poetry can intimate and promise but never enact. What he largely ignores in his book is the idea that poetry can also be a means of reconciling us to our place, to “the very world, which is the world / Of all of us,—the place where, in the end, / We find our happiness, or not at all,” as Wordsworth wrote. The Hatred of Poetry is a subtle inquiry into poetry’s discontents, and a moving statement of poetry’s potential. It can also be read, though, as an example of the dead end into which modern poetic theory has been led by its grandiose aspirations. As long as we focus on what poetry isn’t and can’t be, how can we rediscover what it once was, and might be again

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

It’s a text a neighbour sent to me at home

A robot voice came out my landline phone
A computer was the first to speak today
Via a text a neighbour sent to me at home

This voice is affectless and cannot groan
Makes inhuman noises quite unlike a prayer
This robot voice came out my landline phone

It sounds like a someone with  a heart of stone
Yt gives a message uninspired and spare
Via a text a neighbour sent to me at home

At least it did not linger on or moan
Wittgenstein  might like the saying bare
Of a robot voice  from out a  landline phone

There is no accent, variation, tone
Essential in its lonely  act of care
This  text a neighbour sent to me at home

The wolf may howl, the fox sleep in his lair
The cat mioaw, the dog bark  on the stair
A  flat cold voice   was on my landline phone
It’s a text a neighbour sent to me at home

Love and hate laid bare

IMG_0038

My villanelle is better sung in words
The tune can be invented as we hum
I sing of love and flowers and summer birds

The gift of language springs from sounds we heard
Mother,father, sister here they come
My villanelle is sweeter sung in words

There is also hatred,love deferred.
Intimacy’s pains are now well known
Why sing of love and flowers and summer birds?

To control my own black heart I am prepared
For seeds with hatred watered too well grow
My villanelle is made to growl in words

From the News much evil has been shared
Yet goodness and true virtue can be shown
So sing of habits loved and high flown birds

Practise love until your skills are honed
Accept your hate but let it not be shown
My villanelle is better sung in words
Sing of love and hate and how we dare

In truth,I’ve never lied

His act perfected,speeches memorised
He looked upon her visage and made eyes
Why do you stare at me, she questioned him
Do you wish to take me to the gym?

I never knew we could in such gyms play
Exercise makes people feel so gay
Are you gender fluid,she replied
No,I’m not,in truth I’ve never lied

I only want to flirt and dance and sing
On hearing this a wasp gave him a sting
Oh, he cried,I feel my end is nigh
I fear I’ll be cremated  if I die.

Like a fool, he malice felt all night
By  morning he was dead from  his own spite

Then to love he came

My friend misread my posts between the lines
So he accused me of a dreadful crime
He said he was from the top echelon
As  far as I could see, he was far gone

He told me off for  moaning at his words
In which just four rude letters  did appear
It seemed I must be chaste  enough for two
While  he would carry on as such men do

My face must always smile and never frown
I must  obtain some silken dressing gowns
I  should  take rather risque photographs
On hearing this, my  tortoiseshell  cat laughed

It seems I did not fit inside his frame
He cut my head off, then to love he came

Nor click my fingers while the cat’s eye blinks

A nod is  good for I can never wink
Nor click my fingers while the cat’s eye blinks
I do not read between the lines as yet
But I can read a face and place a bet

Do you find it hard to signal love?
Does your lover wear a rubber glove?
Non-verbal signals are a tiresome pest
In mathematics, we avoid them in our tests

If you speak to me , be plain I beg
So far, I never got to work on eggs.
I need exact instructions as I fear
Being belted  hard for making Father swear

I ask only that you respect my core
And enter my world only by the door.

Is it wrong?

Is it wrong to hate him for his face
His temper  and his  vicious  comments  show
And we can read the lies he has embraced

No finger of my hand would wish to trace
The petulant smirk, the lines which rage has drawn
Is it wrong to judge him by his face?

Is my judgement  wrong  to see menace
Where others might see merely a man’s frown
Still we read the lies he has embraced

Yet is it not the people’s lack of grace
To give an Empire to an enraged clown
Is it wrong to judge him by his face?

Remember how a child will hide her face
When she’s down wrong and fears to be brought down?
Yet he hides nothing from his  bold fraught face

Our children reap what men like this have sown
There’ll be no help when we’re all overdrawn
Is it wrong to turn from his grim face
Where we can read the hatred he’s embraced

Poetry, nods and winks

adveniatregnumtuam1.jpg

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/jason-holmes/poetry-art-form_b_6031180.html

Extract:

“Poetry is about subtlety and signals, about nods and winks, so the minute somebody gets up and starts braying loudly in polemical terms is often the antithesis of what defines poetry,” he says. “The loud hailer approach doesn’t serve poetry well. Poetry is the art form that tries to think before it speaks.”

With poetry, one can also say the unsayable and make it be heard, and with the UK’s national curriculum embracing the form, Armitage adds: “Relatively speaking, poetry reading has been a marginalised activity of the British public. But this is one of the reasons I went into it. Most poets have made a conscious effort to step aside from something that’s more mainstream.”

His literary powers stretch to novel writing and theatrical drama, but he wants to concentrate on poetry because “it’s a rare form that delights and excites me”, he says, adding that poetry is a dissenting art. “I don’t see poetry and theatre as being completely unconnected. In some ways I think of theatre as the origin of poetry.”

Sue Townsend once described him as a celebrator of the real world, much like another English writer to whom Armitage has been compared: Alan Bennett. “We do different things, but I take that I’ve been compared with him as a huge compliment because he’s one of this country’s most gifted writers. He has strong political opinions which he transmits through continuous ongoing writing. He’s almost a Samuel Pepys-type character. I love his common touch and if that’s the area of comparison, then I appreciate it.”

In 2008, Armitage also strayed tastefully and with wry humour into the rock world when he wrote a short prose poem for Paul Weller’s 22 Dreams album booklet entitled The Missing Dream: “I was thrilled to do it,” he says of the request, but is quick to make a distinction. “Pop songs aren’t poems, they’re lyrics. Poems exist just as language. They don’t have vocal delivery, they don’t have a backbeat or harmonies. They’re just words. What you find when you take away the music from a song is that you have a bad poem, often with mixed metaphor and hypermetric syllables. But that’s not a criticism of their art because lyric writing is incredibly difficult, but it’s music that gives it its power.”

Growing up reading Ted Hughes, Larkin, Thom Gunn, Sylvia Plath and the Beat Generation poets influenced him greatly. “I was drawn to the style. I’m not sure poets have anything different to say than novelists, but it’s the manner in which things are said that makes them different. The attraction was the economy and compact nature of the language of poetry.”

Touching it kindly as with tiny open fingers,

Let your lips meet gently

the top one resting against the lower

touching with tenderness

your own  skin to skin.

Forefinger  propped on chin,

I let the others dangle,

like leaves on a branch;

how softly gravity  tugs them downwards.

Let heart beat quietly,slowly

as  the blood circulates carrying  its music ,

a river,following the path of least resistance.

How the blood vessels receive willingly this flow,

touching it kindly as with tiny  open fingers,

helping and being helped.

How the hair on the head floats

on the breeze,like tentacles of an octopus

waving goodbye.

Top  eyelid loves the lower one;

as we blink they touch

like lovers kissing swiftly

behind a tree.

and how the light comes in

we see a world.

Mine may not be yours,

but the blink of my eyelid

sends waves through the air,

so we’re all touching and being touched,

lips kissing each other,

kiss all living creatures.

skin to skin

air to air.

And inside us,the rich darkness

of creative night

transforms  in turn

these touches

into visions and dreams.

Radio 3 is playing far away

14993456_803616356444911_2244128012820919368_n.jpg

Digital art  made from my photo of a tree using Artweaver. Katherine

Radio  Three is playing far away
Volume low enough to suit a mouse.
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

The sun it shines,the wind with shrubs  still plays
I see it from  each window of the house
Radio 3 still playing far away

 

I’m writing with a pen from off E bay
Because the other pen  forgot to bounce
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

Twenty five revisions just today
My mind is like a tiger fit to pounce
Radio 3  is playing far away

I see a denim coat that’s subtly frayed
Bring my mind back to the present joust
I look around the room,I want  to stay

To all the spirits of the house, a toast
For helping when this heart  felt like a roast.
Radio 3 is playing far away.
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

There’s no test

To let go of expectation is  the best
The task that comes before and after all
Your image, your importance, there’s no test

The  life we lead ‘s to very few confessed
The birth, the growth,the life and then the fall
To let go of expectation is  the best

Who could ever want Eternal rest?
Every European builds a wall
Your image, your importance, there’s no test

The fact of being alive, we must digest
Some know zilch and others “know it all”
To let go all expectation is  the best

Like worms inside the earth,  we will undress
The readiness is all, a story told
Your image, your importance, there’s no test

Life ends for the weak and for the bold
By the dark earth we will be consoled
To let go of expectation is  the best
Your image, your importance never last

Down comes Love

Photo0180_001

Now I see the shadows on the wall
And in my heart. I feel the savage loss
Down I come, and with the dust, I fall

Once I scarcely saw the bad at all
And did not think of love and what it cost
Now I see the shadows on the wall

Down amid the weeds I find my call
And  mixed with dark green leaves I am compost
As down I come, and to the dust, I fall

Brilliance cannot last and life appals
In between my cells comes sudden frost
Oh, I feel the cracks within my walls

We  love between the lines with all we feel
Then broken by the cold we join the lost
Down we come, and into  dust, we fall

Must we live and what shall living cost?
Is it ours to judge the present past?
As I watch the shadows on the wall
Down  comes Love and  holds me as I fall

 

That there Paul Klee

I got water in my shoes again today
First of all it rained and then it snowed
So I shan’t be going out  in case I stray

I  bought myself some wellies on E bay
My feet are big,I wonder if they grow?
I got water in my shoes again today

I finally grew to love that there Paul Klee
I like the way his lines just seem to flow
I shan’t be going   out  for Shaw’s new play

In winter time the air gets rather grey
Which  matched with the darkness of the soul
I got water in my shoes again today

Life is  good and we drink tea all day
We get fun looking out for  barmy trolls
I shan’t be going  in the dark to play

On and on the endless waves  shall  roll
Then the church bell  answers with its toll
I’ve got water in my  eyes again today
So I shan’t be  putting on a Shakespeare play