Poetry and Emotion

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https://www.independent.ie/life/celebrating-our-lives-in-poetry-and-emotion-35624315.html

Peter Sirr

And as fellow poet – and partner to Enda Wyley – Peter Sirr points out, for many poets: ”Real life can be the work. Wallace Stevens, one of the greatest poets of the 20th century, used to write most of his poems on his walk through Hartford, Connecticut to his job as Vice-President of the Insurance Company where he worked. Everything he wrote was in his walk to his job.” Nevertheless, ”You have to cultivate the life from which poetry can come.” For Sirr, this life also started in teaching, before his talent as a linguist pushed him towards translation, although it is only in recent years that he has been able to devote himself to his work more fully.

This doesn’t mean that he is suddenly cranking out a poem a day: ”Holding back and not writing and the silence between poems is as important as the writing. You have to be a daily communicant in some way with the art of poetry and other poems and that quality of attention that you give to the world.”

 

 

Unwelcome calls

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I find with BT Call Guardian I can eliminate all international calls and I have got lots recently.The real friends I have abroad can use my mobile number.I managed to learn a few good responses like

I was in an accident Yes ,I was killed last week and I’m not any better
How are you: I have got diarrhea/ cancer/delusions   that I am the Queen or a relative so please speak appropriately
Your computer is faulty: I don’t have one.
Your computer needs checking give me remote access; I can never find that remote.
I am a BT  engineer: so am I
I am  a highly trained person: I don’t like people touching my computer that I don’t have.
I am from Dell: Did you say Hell?
I am from HP: We never use sauce.
I am from Acer: Someone stole mine from the patio.
I am from Asus: Are you God?
I am from Lenovo:Le Nouveau what?
I am very skilful: At what?
What is your name? Theresa May.What’s yours?
Your laptop has a virus: I  have to wash my hair now.
Your laptop is malfunctioning: how amazing.I’ve not even opened the box yet
Your laptop has got a new disease: I’ll  put it to bed then and pour water into it.
Your laptop is an error.Send me a bow.
Your laptop has no sound.Why, can you usually hear it?Where are you?
This is the police.Robbers are near you. If you are the police catch them!

A-atheism

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http://www.journal-psychoanalysis.eu/a-atheism/

 

 

“It ensues that monotheism, such as it would become with the Hellenization of the Jews and later with the rise of Christianity, carries a very relevant and most remarkable ambivalence: a new divine order actually conjoins itself to the assumption of atheism itself. The God of monotheism is no longer a god of presence, but one of absence. He retreats into another world or a world-beyond. But this other/world-beyond[1] is also what requires a thought henceforth in search of a principle or a foundation for the world of given effectiveness [effectivité].

Thus the God of Judeo-Christianity could become – at least in part (we’ll discuss the other part further) – the bearer of this principle or foundational value. It is by starting from here that we may understand the modern becoming of atheism or at least what gives atheism the mark that makes it appear as truly modern.

 

2

Modern atheism is no longer that of the departure or the disappearance of the gods, but of the refusal of God. That is to say that it consists in the negation of a position – a thesis or hypothesis – where “God” is denoted. This position is that of a subject of the world or of the totality of beings. Not Being [l’être] as a quality of beings [de l’étant], distributed and spread across all that is, not a being that takes all the inflexions of the verb to be (to be heavy, true, potential, active, situated, and so on), but the substrate of every modality of being, its foundation or principle. The subject of Being [être], therefore, the utmost of beings , or the being [étant] more being [étant] than all others, and consequently the self too, the auto-position of this substrate that should be supported by nothing else.

This thesis or hypothesis (we can take the latter term in the sense of a thesis that implies all other thesis [toute autre these]…) is capable of taking on two forms: either the subject in question is simply equivalent, no more, no less, to the totality of beings or else it forms a distinct being in itself.

The first form is illustrated by Spinoza in the clearest of ways (Deus sive natura, God or nature). The second posits a (“supernatural”) “supreme being”. The first won Spinoza the accusation of atheism. The second, in contrast, would seem to correspond to all the other great systems of classical and then romantic philosophy.

However, despite appearances, no metaphysics strictly follows this thesis. The “otherworldly” distinction of a metaphysical god is always accompanied by determinations that tend to reduce this distinction (for example, the necessary link that ties god to his creation, or the presence in the latter of his “image” or “providence”, and so on.). The fact is that the position of a subject of the world is impossible without us being condemned to a regression in infinitum (what is the subject of the subject?) or without returning to the Spinozan equivalence between “god” and “nature”. It is the absolute alternative between the pure “auto-” and the pure “given”… Their alternative, or even, insidiously, an identity of theirs…

This is something metaphysics has always known, even when it sought to dissimulate this knowledge to itself. This is why, in the very middle of its history, it produced with Kant the collapse of the so-called “ontological” argument. The idea of a supreme being cannot entail the necessity of its existence because existence is only given, not deduced, and the only necessary existence is the one which is given: indeed, it is the given of beings [de l’étant], with its ensuing contingency, or in its contingency.

 

3

There has never seriously been, therefore, a metaphysical God, and “God is dead” states the truth, matured and declared belatedly, of the entire history of philosophy. Philosophy is atheist in its very principle, and with it onto-theology as a whole, in which “god” is the putative name or convenient cipher for a necessity of the given, the name postulated by desire to make sense of the contingency of the world.

The thesis or hypo-thesis of God has no philosophical consistency. Theism is nothing but the nominal multicolored reverse of atheism, which is at once real, logical and material truth; a cold and grey logic, in fact, like the solitude of the world in the middle of nothing.

Thus we realize the uselessness of the notion of atheism. “God” is not a question for thought – and, on the contrary, thought essentially consists in moving in the element where this question does not take place. Reciprocally, to fix oneself in the element where one Subject or the other binds the world to its foundation is to cease thinking – whether this Subject is called God, Man, Nature or History. This is why no philosopher has ever “believed in God” even when defining his qualities (Descartes or Spinoza, but even Thomas Aquinas, Occam as much as Leibniz, and so on).

Nevertheless, this does not mean that philosophers, and anyone else besides, have nothing to do with this: when it comes to the element in which no Subject, no Substance, no Foundation can present itself in any way – when, in other words, it comes to the element in which no Thing sustains or holds the indefinite multiplicity of things, in which no instance of unity other than a distributive and disseminative one (unity itself is disseminated a priori) can sustain itself, then in this space of “nothing”, in the sense of no Thing (all things = no Thing, no-thing[2]), thought discovers that it thinks beyond all possible thought. It thinks beyond any Object and consequently beyond any possible Subject for an object in general.

4

And yet it thinks. And yet it opens up precisely to what is outside thought itself or it reveals to itself that it has reached the point of exceeding itself, not eliminating itself but not elevating itself either: doing nothing except opening itself. But this opening turns out to belong to a different logic and a different dynamic than that of the thought of the object, of the necessity and of the concept in general (unless we considerably modify the very concept of the “concept”, as Hegel does, and as Deleuze also does, differently).

What is outlined here is then a relation to something other than a thing. To something other than the world-thing. To a sign, in a certain sense, but not to the sign of a signification that would itself have a referent in the order of things. A sign as a signal of opening itself and towards opening. A sign as a call, as an address, and at the same time as the reception of a call or an address; neither to do nor to seize whatever it may be, but to undo and relinquish every thing and every signification of a thing. A call by the opening to the opening, a call not closed in on itself but infinitely opening the sameness of the same.

The name “God” may also have been the bearer of this sign, or even the sign itself. God as a sign of nothing, as the address of nothing but the opening of the world to a meaning that is outside itself (as Wittgenstein says), but that is not a “sense” in this outside, because this outside “is” not. The difference between the inside and the outside, between the world and what the world opens onto is not a difference of terms, since one of the terms is absent. It is the very difference of the same: the identity of an opening, not of a completion.

Is it then possible to “invoke” the name of “God”? There is no certainty of it and perhaps it has become forever impossible. The fact remains, however, that in secular usage this name has also had this function – if one may call it a function – and it had it because it towered by far over any other kind of supreme being [être] or subject. Never has a great mystic, a great “spiritual”, never has a true “worshipper” believed in the existence of God: we can be sure of that. Instead, they have invoked, implored or celebrated, they have adored – which is to say addressed – an unnamable name, which in fact remains unnamed, as a sign of the opening through which meaning escapes and truth announces itself.

 

Perhaps this is what the prayer of the a-atheists consisted of: repudiating god and non-god alike, and stammering, open-mouthed.”

”

Translated by Gianmaria Senia

 

In the  total stillness is his grace

The vanishing point’s not something we can snare,
For as we move towards it, it’s nowhere.
The two sides of a road will never meet
Despite you run with your eternal feet.

Yet we seem to see it as we stare,
Its existence is remote yet clear.
In the geometry of  dimension three,
Infinitely dear, this point ‘s not me

And so I ask myself if God compares.
We need his “presence” whether he is ” here.”
Without  that “point of view.” we have no “selves”
To see the holy earth in all its wealth.

Fast retreating from the ones who chase
In the  mystic stillness, he is grace.

Like curtains closed his eyes

A happy death is joy and sorrow twined
My man was going and it was not wrong
Yet sheets of tears fell  from my little eyes.

A sheet so dense I could not see the line
Of nurses,doctors,listening to my songs
A happy death is joy and sorrow twined

I never saw my nervous father die
And so his death in life did not belong
No sheet of tears fell down from my  child’s eyes.

My mother too  escaped  her daughter’s sight.
So I  had no  pasts to dwell among
A happy death is joy and sorrow twined

Darkness fell on London, and moonlight
I know  I was  quite silent having sung
Still sheets of tears fell down from widowed eyes.

I saw the hands of gold from Heaven descend
I was embraced too , death had no sting
A happy death is peaceful   and divine
The sheets of tears,  like curtains,  clothed his eyes

The  love of strangers brings to us its balm

Exchanging glances,humorous and warm
You were getting off the bus near me
The  love of strangers brings to us its balm

I remembered men who proffered  arms
Helping me to climb,though not up trees!
Exchanging glances,humorous and warm

 

I prefer the normal,not the charm
Just a little makes folk like to please
The  love of others gives both sides its balm

Reach out with your eyes but do not harm
Do not use sharp looks nor  try to freeze
Send a message,make it somewhat warm

As some welcomed Jesus with their palms
The Romans wished to kill and not to pray
The  faces of  the powerful  cause alarm

The message of  the adverts we must flee,
Love   embraces first the refugee
Exchanging glances,humorous and warm
Kindness gives us strength when we’re forlorn

Want to start writing poetry?

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https://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-m-raab/start-writing-poetry_b_7005194.html

”

Reading and writing poetry also has healing and transformative powers. As a matter of fact, many therapists augment their treatments by encouraging their clients to write poetry to express their feelings. This is one way to foster hidden creativity and a chance to allow the client to express themselves using another form. This may be done by writing about a moment or experience in the past, the present or even the future. The idea is to write including as many details as possible so the reader feels as if they are with you on the page, living the experience side by side. Writing poetry also forces you to go deeper into your heart and to write with your heart and not your head as a way to access your inner voice.

Like all types of writing, if you want to be a poet, it is imperative that you read lots of poetry. If you have never written a poem or have not written in a long time, a good place to begin is by writing a prose poem. This type of poem uses the rhythm of a sentence. It could be just a few sentences about a moment that changed your life, a vignette or a short story. The prose in a prose poem extends to the right hand margin, where verse breaks each line at a place not determined by the margin. The prose poem can be a story, description, or a captured mood. In a prose poem, all unnecessary words, phrases and clauses are eliminated. The French poet Charles Baudelaire was largely responsible for popularizing the prose poem.”

The bones already names

When I was born, my bones already named
Clavicle,utensil, copper wire
I thought I’d reached the apogee of fame

I quickly realised murder was the game
As my brothers set  my hair on fire
When I was born, my bones already maimed

How I escaped with difficulty’s plain.
If you will believe I am no liar.
I thought I’d reached the apogee of fame

We had a ginger cat which no-one tamed
We took it in a bag to Midnight Choirs
When I sang, my voice was full of  shame

The cat got in a trap and so was lamed
We dressed its wounds,it scratched  me something dire
I thought I’d reached the higher, sharper pains

I spoke too soon, from love  and hate I tired
Then vulgar fractions  infinite,  defiled
I was born, my bones with words engrained
Jesus Christ, I understand your game

 

A dull pain

A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest
Underneath my heart but  fairly  near
A poignant evocation  of duress

I believe that some folk say  life is a test
And if we fail, is punishment severe?
A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest

When I was little, I would  have confessed
In my eyes I’d feel the damp, cold tears
A poignant evocation  of distress.

When exactly did mother know best?
When she hit me, when I showed my fear?
A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest

I loved my mother once, but less and less.
She was my prison guard and my King Lear
I could not bear my own acute distress.

She made me cut my hair off, and impressed
That I was ugly, no boy would come near
A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest

In my mind the bully boys still jeer
I met one there and yes,I met one here
I was silent for I lived under duress
A dull pain wanders slowly through my  chest

What is a dilettante?

end of the world 4
dilettante
ˌdɪlɪˈtanteɪ,ˌdɪlɪˈtanti/
noun
noun: dilettante; plural noun: dilettantes; plural noun: dilettanti
  1. a person who cultivates an area of interest, such as the arts, without real commitment or knowledge.
    synonyms: dabbler, potterer, tinkerer, trifler, dallier; More

    antonyms: professional
    • archaic
      a person with an amateur interest in the arts.
Origin
mid 18th century: from Italian, ‘person loving the arts’, from dilettare ‘to delight’, from Latin delectare .

Don’t you glare

I don’t know my gender
So I am a  pretender
I’m dressing in a modest kind of way
I wear some cotton trousers
A red skirt and three blouses
And I wore a tweed man’s overcoat today
Since I’ve been getting  lonesome
I invented a companion
Half of me is male,I say,I say.
He writes all  the sonnets
And says he knows  who dunnit.
And I write villanelles with love and care.
When someone seems enchanted
I feel  a dilettante
For I dress  quite like a boy and get half fare
And then they see my  tunics
Embroidered and perfumed
They feel confused and have a new excuse to stare,
Thank God for the Muslims
I imitate their costumes
I am happy to modest, don’t  you glare.

By mistake 2

A prison is a place to meditate
No distraction  and no  need to fake
Nor murder other inmates by mistake

But do you feel ashamed of your new state?
Think of all the MP’s who’re disgraced
Illness gives one time to meditate

To be alone is not what love dictates
Especially if you have no time to waste
You must not murder others by mistake

If inclined to madness,hesitate.
Think of Leonard Cohen and all he wrote
Depression gives one aeons to meditate

Have an illness rather than  a mate
If you  have no lamb then get a goat
It  could murder apples in a bate.

If you swim  don’t wear a heavy coat
If you wander, you might find  new mates
A bedroom is a place to meditate
Do not murder  lovers by mistake

 

 I’ll love you when I be

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‘Twas but a reptile passing by.
It flew across the deep blue sky
Why do reptiles fly so high?
I’ll love you till I die.
“Twas but a cat under the moon.
Did you have a silver spoon?
Why can’t cats all waul in tune?
I’ll love you very soon
‘Twas but a wooden legged man,

Carrying a brass  frying pan.
Why can’t men when women can?
I’ll love you better than.
Why are adverbs?
What are nouns?
why do circuses have clowns?
I’ll love you lying down.
Where do dreams go in the day?
What game can we adults play?
Can you or can you not say?
I’ll love you,in my way.
‘Twas but a verse that seemed so free.
It floated over my oak tree.
I have eyes but cannot see.
I’ll love you when we be.

How deviant

IMG_0034She said she never knew what syntax was until she met me.
Well,you do look worn out by your sins.
How do you know they were sins?
Well,you went to Confession twice a week all your life
That was my scruples.Sometimes I went twice a day…
It sounds like having an upset stomach.
In my case it was an upset soul.The soul emptied out and hung out on the Maginot line
Eventually I realized virtue is not attainable by Will Power alone
How is it attained… won’t power?
I knew you’d say that!
That!
Anyway to get back to syntax,it’s about structure.
Like council tax?
Words fail me
That’s good.I meant tax on a building
You seem very rude today
It’s not just today,I’m like this all the time.
I never noticed before
You only met me tonight
That’s almost true..now syntax is a very important topic.
Are we on a date or are you giving grammar lessons free?
No,I have Waspstingies Syndrome.It’s as if am a wasp in human form.
When do you sting
When people say sharp things to me.
Go on,you’re just needling me..
Truly I think you’ll love syntax and spelling rude words.
Well,we’ve had santax for years.Women pay VAT of 20 per cent on Tampax
It’s enough to make me throw up
No,throw out!Throw out Gove and Johnson
Do you think Labour will remove Santax?
I don’t know but at least you’ll learn how to do percentages with them
I will?
Thank you so much.I am delighted to hear that.We are engaged.Here is a ring.
That’s beautiful.Was it your mother’s?
It still is my mother’s.
How can I wear it when she might see it?
I’ll tell her I liked hers so much I got one the same.She’s got poor vision so don’t worry.After the Wedding I’ll give it back
How mean.
I never knew you liked statistics.What about deviance?
Well,some I like,some I don’t… you catch my drift?
Well,babe,I’ll explain everything when we lie together.
That makes us sound like the government.
How come?
They all lie together.
Do they really.That explains a lot.Do they come together often?
I guess they have a rota.
You can’t come by will power.
That’s good.I want to come in a a horse and carriage.
It might frighten the horses.
I mean to our Wedding ceremony
Do you want four horses?
I am not that heavy!
No,I want you to have it all.
Suppose it’s not enough.
We’ll have to play it by ear..
Is that the organ?
Well,it’s a kind of organ.
A harmonium?
Maybe..I’ll ask the priest.
Does he play?
No,he just hears confessions and says Mass.
It’s a pity confession’s secret.He could write a long novel.
I daresay some have…. with pseudonyms.
I use a wordprocessor… should I get a pseudonym too?
You are crazy but I love you with all my heart.
And is it big?
Big enough for two.
Thank you,God.
Don’t mention it.

 

Without your circling arm

I feel my soul is trembling like a leaf
that clings on in the worst of a fierce gale
yet will drop into black mud far beneath
though briefly through some sunshine it may fall.

I am as nothing trodden into earth
And lower than the lowest living beast,
I make no estimation of my worth
and for the worms I shall provide a feast.

At first I thought that I could ride the storm
That I could live without your circling arm
But truth has taken hold of me entire.
The choice is death by mud or death by fire.

I see I am now trampled with earth’s dust
No more to be an object of mere lust

Walt Whitman

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https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/walt_whitman_13352

 

 

“Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am;
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary;
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come next;
Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and
contenders;
I have no mockings or arguments—I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you, my Soul—the other I am must not abase itself to you;
And you must not be abased to the other.

 

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat;
Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the
best;
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning;
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turn’d over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my
bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.

 

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the
argument of the earth;
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters
and lovers;
And that a kelson of the creation is love;
And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields;
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them;
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heap’d stones, elder, mullen and
poke-weed.

 

6
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.”

Courage by Robert William Service

 Today I opened wide my eyes,
And stared with wonder and surprise,
To see beneath November skies
An apple blossom peer;
Upon a branch as bleak as night
It gleamed exultant on my sight,
A fairy beacon burning bright
Of hope and cheer.

"Alas!" said I, "poor foolish thing,
Have you mistaken this for Spring?
Behold, the thrush has taken wing,
And Winter's near.
"
Serene it seemed to lift its head:
"The Winter's wrath I do not dread,
Because I am," it proudly said,
"A Pioneer.

"Some apple blossom must be first,
With beauty's urgency to burst
Into a world for joy athirst,
And so I dare;
And I shall see what none shall see -
December skies gloom over me,
And mock them with my April glee,
And fearless fare.

"And I shall hear what none shall hear -
The hardy robin piping clear,
The Storm King gallop dark and drear
Across the sky;
And I shall know what none shall know -
The silent kisses of the snow,
The Christmas candles' silver glow,
Before I die.

"Then from your frost-gemmed window pane
One morning you will look in vain,
My smile of delicate disdain
No more to see;
But though I pass before my time,
And perish in the grale and grime,
Maybe you'll have a little rhyme
To spare for me.

A new name for Rosa

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It is a truth totally unacknowledged  by human beings that Professor of Linguistics and  Word Mismanagement Rosa Benchez hates her own name.It is for this reason, she is keen to get married.Unfortunately ,her only suitor is Charlie Blogge. the well known TV biology  expert
Does Rosa Blogge sound any better, she asked her friend Amy Panicker.
I find it hard to judge ,Amy answered. Ar least it’s not Bloggess.But there is another answer.
Rosa and her cat Lucy looked up expectantly.
Go on tell  us!
Change your first name.Have you got any other name besides Rosa? Don’t say Wooden or Iron,I beg you.
Rosa looked surprised.
In a way that is harder emotionally,she began, because that’s what all my friends and family call me
They must have been dim to call you Rosa,Amy cried.
Don’t say that.Who wants to be compared to a lightbulb?
Well ,who wants to be compared to rows of benches? Amy retorted.
Well.grandad was called I.Ron Benchez.Rosa shouted.He was from the USA.
Thank God ,he is not the President,Amy smiled
I think that is stupid.The name of the person has no bearing on how they can lead a government.
Well,how about Trump? Is it a real name or did they pick it from knowing the word trump from card games,Amy asked quietly
I  have no idea,said Rosa.I shall look it up now
Wow, you have a new iphone!
Charlie gave it to me,Rosa confessed shyly blushing dark pink
You had better check whether he  is tracking you, Amy told her anxiously.You never know what men will do nowadays.
But can’t you track folk on Samsungs or Nokia Lumias? said Rosa in  her mellow voice.
I don’t think it is very romantic to give a lady  a smartphone instead of some jewellery,Amy cried.You can sell jewellery but who wants a second-hand iphone.
As a matter of fact ,some old Nokias from the 90’s are now worth a few hundred pounds
So if you have one keep it unless your  home is already overflowing with collections of pens,watches old newspapers and cats like my friend Percival’s,Rosa retorted.
Percival? what  is his last name?
Joyce.Rosa whispered.He is related to the writer James Joyce.
Rosa Joyce…. how does that sound?
Well as you know any word you keep repeating begins to sound odd and the same is true of names.Even the nicest name like Katherine With-Doubt begins to sound odd when  delivery men ask you for it.
Are you with doubt? one had asked her, she told me
Who is without doubt she had replied courteously.
Who indeed said the clever Polish doctor working in the UK  delivering stuff for AAmazing,dot com.He lives round the corner:Thom Without-Doubt
Thank God you are not called that.
Amy asked Rosa if she could make a pot of tea.They sat in the old orange walled kitchen eating cream crackers and cheese and sipping hot tea.
Lucy was eating some cat biscuits and suddenly   had a good idea
Why don’t you and I swap names, she mewed to Rosa with a  loving smile.
Do you know,said Rosa,I am so fed up with names I shall change mine to a number if we carry on like this
Do you think 678 Benches sounds any better,giggled Amy.
I was thinking more of a name like Platonic form or pyramid
How does Platonic Benchez sound. Or Platonic Blogge?
And so ask  all of us.

Why you can’t draw and what to do about it

The 3 Reasons Why You Can’t Draw, (And What to Do About It)

 

“What if I told you, you talk too much

Talking and drawing don’t mix.

The main problems associated with drawing is when you talk you engage your logical, language dominated left side of the brain. This side of your brain is keen on knowing an objects name, labelling it, and organising it.

Often when learning to draw, you need to temporarily hold off judgment and try not to second guess what you think the object should look like, rather than what the object actually looks like.

When you are trying to learn to draw something realistically, you have to engage your right-hand side of the brain, which is keener on images and spatial perception.

It’s very hard to do both at the same time.

Why?

Because it causes mind freeze.

Have you ever been in a creative zone of absorption, a state where time travels quickly and you are in what psychology professor Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi calls ‘flow’.

How Does It Feel to Be in Flow?

  1. Completely involved in what we are doing – focused, concentrated.
  2. A sense of ecstasy – of being outside everyday reality.
  3. Great inner clarity – knowing what needs to be done, and how well we are doing.
  4. Knowing that the activity is doable – that skills are adequate to the task.
  5. A sense of serenity – no worries about oneself, and a feeling of growing beyond the boundaries of the ego.
  6. Timelessness – thoroughly focused on the present, our sin to pass by in minutes.
  7. Intrinsic motivation – whatever produces flow becomes its own reward.

Flow is the mental state when you are fully immersed in an activity, a feeling of full involvement and energy.

You can get to this stage of involvement whilst drawing… until you get interrupted.

The combination of left and right battling against each other makes trying to draw tricky”

I’m feeling cobalt blue

Everybody’s not  the same as you
Some like Mozart some like Whipsnade Zoo
Stone the crows ,I’m feeling very blue

I like eggs stuffed with  Ceylon tea.
What the Dickens can a writer do?
Everybody’s not  the same as me.

Everybody’s unique and it is true
Many cannot solve a crossword clue.
Stone the crows as they are feeling blue

I like avacados’ mystery
I  stole mother’s lovely superglue
Everybody’s not the same as me

When I answer, don’t say. who are you?
I’m your friend and my cat cannot mew.
Love the crows for they are black not blue

If the world ends,baby, I love you
And I love your toolset, is that new?
Everybody’s not  the same dark hue.
Stone the crows ,I’m feeling cobalt blue

 

 

My very first poem

Too old for cold,
I stand, now, against the hedge,
Watching the snow fall in the glare of neon street lights.
Darkness has come early,
I think of country uplands and huddled sheep.
On Salisbury Plain, shepherds watched their flocks
Just as in Bethlehem two thousand years before.
And then, exactly when?
“Between the wars”, it stopped
Now we know there is no “Between the wars”.
And who decided
To cull the sheep and shepherds
And the space for kindness?
Now that same Plain still exists, but banned
And closed to human-kind,
For bombs, not wombs
Nor for birth of lamb, nor gypsy child, nor Saviour
Where would He go today?

The  flick of night

The nights are stretched like canvases on walls
Black and matt  without the least starlight
They evoke our disillusion with the real

From summer’s light , unwilling, England falls
We feel the tension  and the  flick of night
Dreams are hung; Picasso’s echo wails

The unconscious can so swiftly  be revealed
It  steals away  our own nspoken thoughts
Evoking  the illusion  we are real

Before the Judge speaks,do not  lies conceal
What we’ve sold and what we might have bought
Dreams are hung  like criminals unhealed

Gossip’s  sickly like bought ready meal
We omit the details  history taught:
Needed disillusion with the “real”

 

After war,  the trail of losses ought
To  signify no future fiction’s taught
The  Jewish nights, nails scratching wailing walls
With their  burning , G-d himself  has failed