IN DEEP

 

I’m in deep now, never been this deep before
The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door.
In so deep, the ocean has its own startled floor.
I’m down, down. down.never been so dark , so more.

I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am
I think I had an accident, fell over, then I swam.
Sometimes it’s a loss, be times it’s a man.
I guess I only do it ‘cos I know some folk can.

I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain
Would I choose to relive it,  if I was born again?
The deep joy is the amazing gain.
But the sorrow is damn sad, let’s admit it plain.

I’m in deep and it’s over my head
What was I thinking of, when I fell out of that bed?
I look up and the sea’s so turquoise like that mist is red
When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.

At first, it was all just black, black pain
But from the bottom of the well, I looked up with awed love again.
That’s when I recalled ,feelings are sound and sane
Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep, deep zone.

I dunno if I’m ever comin’ out.
We can’t control it ,ain’t that what life’s all about?
I’ll never love with innocence again, nor not feel doubt.
But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout.

I’m swimming and the ocean’s so mysteriously bright
Down here,we don’t have no day nor no night
Fish nudge me with big grins and teeth white.
Sea-flowers fondle me and whisper, turn off that light!

Phones

I am too concerned with my mental life to  answer any phones phonemes and phoney operators so I will not listen to the messages.
My cat just died.Please don’t leave a message
I’m in the bath so I am afraid of the phone falling in.Thanks
I am asleep so hang up.
I have got ” do not  disturb” on my phone.So try to, please.I’ll tell you the results.
My phone has Call Control.I can throw it at the wall and it won’t break
My phone can block you.And you.And Boris Johnson
My phone is better than yours because I  stuck glitter all over it and some mistletoe.
My phone might have spoken to Bibi  Netanyahu but I don’t know anything about it or him.He left no message unless it’s in a bottle.It’s a good excuse to get drunk before I see Theresa May.
My phone is here but I am not.If you have any spare money put it in the post.I need it.Coffee is £2.75 now!
I can’t understand myself at all.Am I here or not?

Virtue or vice

Marsh-H-Dry-Sand.jpg
We don’t live a good life to gain rewards.We do it because we feel better living that way.
But how do we do it?
We can’t be good entirely by willpower but maybe we can recognise when we do bad things.And try to learn
I believe perception is what matters.Change that and everything else changes.
Many terms from art  are good  for living

A  new perspective
A sense of proportion
Looking at what is NOT there.
Opening our eyes
Getting the balance right
Another point of view
Seeing what is there, not what we want to see
Letting life affect us.
Letting others give their picture.

If not to grief

I don’t think I’ll write a villanelle
I’ve done the form to death, if not to grief
I  feel like I am flying up a well

I have learned that only victims tell
That time is not a giver but a thief
I don’t think I’ll write a villanelle

I’m feeling poor; I’ve nothing I can sell
I’d better start a newer, fuller life
I  feel like I am spying in a well.

A sonnet is much harder yet they sell.
I realise I could now take a wife;
So I don’t think I’ll write a villanelle

I ponder over Patel’s Israel
Theresa May is getting all the strife
I  feel like I am drowning in my well.

Mortal sin has taken on new life
What about our loss of  love and grace?
I don’t think I’ll write about this hell
The government are fools and lie as well

The phone

I’ve got my landline on ” Do not disturb” but on reflection, I see it is cheaper not to have one at all.
Wasn’t it great going on holiday years agi with no post, no phones ringing and no-one asking you for favours? Now they can email  and text you all the time
I got  a message on my answer phone

Ahhh,uhhh,grrhhhh, cough, cough, vlah, blah,eff off, is that you Lord?Aaaah,uhhhhh,ohhhh.I did not sin after Mass.Ohhhh,grtoooom bum,la la kaaaa,bang.

That is interesting.Am I God or what?

Amazon prime now trick?

Oxford_2017-2.jpgAmazon prime now food delivery was free albeit a £2 tip was suggested and I paid this as getting food the same day os useful midweek.Today I discovered I would be paying an additional £3.99.Unless I spend £40.But the access is not to the whole Morrison’s site so it’s not  good for all your shopping
.I also noticed last week they were charging me £3 for some tissues which were £2.38 in Morrison’s  own shop.They were an own brand mansize
So if I had not been careful I’d have been  paying £5.99  and the £3.99 goes to Amazon not Morrison.I could have removed the tip of £2 but the delivery person gets that and as they are not paid much I didn’t mind it~
So if you are somewhat disabled like I am, then plan ahead carefully.

I am even thinking of using real hankies, as I have loads of my husband’s here!!
Another helping hand cut off.

Political poems

3000456.jpghttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/144562/political-poems

 

COLLECTION

Political Poems

Poets lend voices to current events and elections as they critique and defend the social and political issues of their day.

Plato wanted to banish poets from his Republic because they can make lies seem like truth. Shelley thought poets were “the unacknowledged legislators of the world,” and Auden insisted that “poetry makes nothing happen.” This collection of poems point to the many different kinds of political poems, and the reasons for writing them.

USHERING IN: U.S. INAUGURAL POEMS

JFK requested Frost, Clinton invited Angelou and Miller, and Obama asked Alexander: read the four poems that have been read at presidential inaugurations.

  • ELIZABETH ALEXANDER

    I know there’s something better down the road.
    We need to find a place where we are safe.
    We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

  • MAYA ANGELOU

    But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
    Come, you may stand upon my
    Back and face your distant destiny,

  • ROBERT FROST

    Something we were withholding made us weak
    Until we found out that it was ourselves

  • MILLER WILLIAMS

    But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
    except in the minds of those who will call it Now?

 

Technology

Archaeologists Find Ancient Technology
After having dug to a depth of 1,000 meters last year, French scientists found traces of copper wire dating back 1,000 years and came to the conclusion that their ancestors had a telephone network all those centuries ago.Not to be outdone by the French, an English scientists dug to a depth of 2,000 meters and shortly after headlines in the U.K. Newspapers read: “English archaeologists have found traces of 2,000-year-old fiber-optic cable and have concluded that their ancestors had an advanced high-tech digital communications network a thousand years earlier than the French.”

One week later, Israeli Newspapers reported the following: “After digging as deep as 5,000 meters in a Jerusalem marketplace, scientists had found absolutely nothing. They, therefore, concluded that, 5,000 years ago, Jews were already using wireleless  technology

Trump- Julia Kristeva

http://www.kristeva.fr/the-kristeva-circle/trump.html

 

“The phenomenon of Donald Trump’s ascendency to become the 45th President of the United States is surely overdetermined, meaning that there are likely many different causes for this. The one I entertain here is I believe significant, though I do not argue that it is the main or only cause. But it is one we should consider and address. In short, I argue that the rise of Trump is in part due to a paranoid-schizoid politics found both in the personality of Trump himself and in a large-scale regression of many in the populace to a more primitive state of denial, splitting, and demonization, coupled with a syndrome of ideality. In other words, both Trump and his supporters split the world into good and bad (or SAD!!!! as Trump likes to tweet). In his inaugural speech he repeatedly demonized foreign powers and idealized America. His America first policy is textbook paranoid- schizoid: “We must protect our borders from the ravages of other countries making our products, stealing our companies and destroying our jobs.”

 

The Trump phenomenon shares much with many other nationalist politics on the rise around the world, but mostly an inability to tolerate difference and loss, including loss of a romanticized past or idealized future. Hence our politics today needs something that psychoanalytic theory has tried to offer: an understanding of how to work through trauma, loss, and persecutory phantasies. A politics of working through difficult choices and misrepresentations of others in our midst could help allay the paranoid politics that dominates politics today.”

 

After giving an account of the concept of working through in Freud, Klein, and Kristeva, I turn to the Trump phenomenon and then close with a brief account of a politics of working through.

 

 

I.

 

 

But because of the sadomasochistic nature of he drives, the adolescent’s belief in the ideal object is constantly threatened. Accordingly, Kristeva argues, “theadolescent is a believer of the object relation and/or of its impossibility.” [11] This gives rise to the ideality syndrome, the belief that there is a Great Other that exists and can provide absolute satisfaction. This is not just a syndrome that plagues teenagers: “We are all adolescents when we are enthralled by the absolute.” [12]Just as anyone can regress back to a paranoid-schizoid position, the temptation of ideality or its flip side of nihilism can tempt any adult as well as political bodies.

 

II.

 

Trump and many of his followers are perfect examples of both the syndrome of ideality and the repetition compulsion, caught up in playing out over and over an attempt to undo what they imagine they have lost, whether a good mother or a perfect country.

The cry Trump repeats at every opportunity—“Let’s Make American Great Again”—taps into a dual wager: (1) that those who imagine themselves as the dominant and quintessential “American” people need not mourn the loss of their presumed dominance at home and abroad and (2) that those who are undermining the old status quo can be undone, thrown out, excised from the body politic, making possible an ideal and perfect state. Those who will not mourn their losses nor tarry with indeterminacy, uncertainty, and democracy demand a politics of black and white and good and evil; and they presume that those who oppose them are the enemies of all things perfect and true.

 

Let me offer a psychoanalytic, though hypothetical account of the genesis of Trump’s character:

 

Just after his second birthday, his mother gave birth to a baby brother and then she almost died. After childbirth she got an infection, had to have a hysterectomy then several other surgeries. What trauma. First there was this brute fact that his mother was going to give birth to a rival, then there’s possibly some murderous rage for her doing this, then after that murderous rage she does in fact almost die, and then she’s gone—for how long?—in the hospital, almost dead, almost gone. The boy’s one true love has first defied him, then in fantasy been killed by him, then almost dies and is gone, perhaps he felt terrible guilt that he could not repair and so he could not internalize a good mother.

He grows up to be a bully. At his private school where his wealthy father is a benefactor, he becomes a troublemaker and tyrant, and eventually his teachers persuade the father to send him elsewhere. At military school, the boy learns the lessons that he is special and great and, in the course of this, he almost kills his roommate for not folding the linens correctly. He becomes fastidiously neat and develops a fear of germs, of anything that might invade his body. He goes on in life to purge any imagined invaders, including in his fantasies Muslims, Mexicans, and those who’ve deigned to ruin his imagined perfect kingdom.

And he imagines that he is the king! He takes up the great defense of undoing. This is the defense against felt harm that involves trying to do something all over again in a way that turns out better. How to undo mother’s death from his life when he was just beginning to become a little self? Maybe he could be a big self, maybe he could be so perfect and important and big and great that she would finally notice and love him. Maybe he could be so important and smart and wealthy that she would love him more than anyone else in the world.

Maybe also he could avenge his father’s loss, his father who had to grow up and take over the family business as a young adolescent when his own father died, the grandfather who made his wealth as a poor immigrant by setting up brothels where fools went looking for gold. And in the process maybe he could avenge his mother’s shame, a poor immigrant “domestic” from Scotland, leaving home at 17, arriving at 18, with only $50 in her pocket.

So the child who suffers these losses and sets out to avenge and to undo the harm. He cannot help himself; he isn’t even conscious of what he is doing. His loss turns into narcissism and grandiosity. At his rallies, he throws out protesters and crying babies. He doesn’t see his effects on other people, though most everyone around him is painfully aware of this great malformation. There’s an immense disjunct between how he acts and how he thinks of himself.

Something is terribly wrong. In public he makes great proclamations about his greatness, intelligence, and bigness, and has no sense of how bizarre all this sounds. He insults other people for their “smallness,” and seems totally oblivious that he is exhibiting his own obliviousness. In this respect, he is delusional.

He has no tolerance for criticism, no ability to appreciate other points of view, no capacity for self-reflection. He is like a person play-acting being a person, a person who is big and great and wonderful, whose enemies ought to be purged or imprisoned.

In all his attempts to purge his imagined perfect world of invaders, he purges his own internal shames and demons: the mother who entered the country as a poor domestic servant, the grandfather who made millions by prostituting land and women, all those immigrant foreigners who are trying to infect us. He purges anyone who interrupts him. He befriends those like him, other authoritarian figures. He belittles anyone who doesn’t try to be as strong as him. And because of his appeal to all those in his country who harbor similar wounds, who feel cheated, infiltrated, abandoned, and wronged, the people project their own anxieties into his anxieties and identify with his ways of acting out. He does for them what they cannot do for themselves. Where they are trapped in powerlessness, he can be their power player, their avenger, their hero. And so they nominate him to be their candidate for the presidency of their country.

 

The Trump phenomenon taps into a global political problem: a lack of public and shared means for working through ambiguity and loss, for coming to understand the strangers in our midst, that is, for moving from a paranoid-schizoid politics to and through a Kleinian depressive kind of politics.

 

 

The broken-hearted,  insaneness of words

The creation and destruction of a world
Slowly built  but rapidly laid low
Emptiness replacing what was shared

Each lover to the other lover bared
But trust reveals what can be overthrown
The creation and destruction of the world

With  one and zero all the world’s engaged
The letters Greek and Hebrew stand alone
Emptiness revealing all we shared

I do  not live in our old world absurd
In the ruins of my loss, I mourn
The broken-hearted,  insaneness of words

Life was peace and death was like a war
Where, by defeat, folk helplessly transformed,
Were seeing bones  then knew death of the shared

The madness of  our hope of love lies torn
No expectation  is one  way we may learn
The creation and destruction of a world
Bleakness  covers what was  by love shared

Dirac’s mug

A cup of tea, a hot and damp reward
For housewives who bring theses untoward
Against the sign of Dirac,  be prepared.
A cup of four dimensions, what a card
In quantum theory, light is seldom stirred
Rocked by ages, particles feel jarred
A cup of tea  with sugar, neat reward,
For all  of us who write as well as care.

We exist as singular selves, yet can only know them through our relations

By Emily Warn

“Does the social function of poetry vary so wildly that we cannot generalize about it? What can be commonly said about a skeptic who turns for clarity to a Rae Armantrout poem, a plumber who searches on Yahoo for a wedding toast, a harried person who seeks in poetry refuge from a grueling job, or a Guantanamo prisoner who, denied pen and paper, uses pebbles to scratch poems on Styrofoam cups?

I’ll hazard an answer. Poetry binds solitudes. It enacts a central human paradox: we exist as singular selves, yet can only know them through our relations. A poem creates a presence that is so physically, emotionally, and intellectually charged that we encounter ourselves in our response to it. The encounter, which occurs in language, preserves and enlarges our solitude and points out our connections. Pyrotechnic poets, such as Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes, and Adrienne Rich, set a charge that reverberates among multitudes, changing the shape of our social relations and, inescapably, our individual and collective consciousness. “

Often silence is the better choice

Often silence is the better choice
When your soul’s at risk, why invent lies?
But if you speak, make sure it is your voice
Often silence is the  wiser choice
Rudeness hastens many to divorce.
We  feel that Satan’s minions roll the dice
Often silence is the only choice
When your soul’s at risk, why proffer lies?

 

A triolet defined

Photo0187t

A Triolet is a poetic form consisting of only 8 lines. Within a Triolet, the 1st, 4th, and 7th lines repeat, and the 2nd and 8th lines do as well. The rhyme scheme is simple: ABaAabAB, capital letters representing the repeated lines.

Make writing a Triolet more challenging! Make each line 8 syllables in length (4 metrical feet), written in iambic tetrameter (the more common way), or try it in pentameter (English version) where each line only has 10 syllables (5 metrical feet)

Talking to myself

 

The tender words invented as we loved
Now have no other speaker but myself.
Lost, unique, the husband, so beloved
And special words called forth by touch and love-
In my speech , these words no longer live
I cannot use our words, our loving wealth.
The chosen words invented as we loved
Now have no other listener but myself

The social function of poetry

11998867_613825758757306_6080048193100925661_n.jpg

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/68755/does-poetry-have-a-social-function

 

Major Jackson:

The function of poetry is that it does not have any function beyond its own construction and being-in-the-world. For this reason, poetry makes everything (and, yes, nothing) happen, especially in a consumer society prone to assessing and dispensing value to everything from lap dances to teachers’ salaries. Whether as a form of witness, as a medium which dignifies individual speech and thought, as a repository of our cumulative experiences, or as a space where we “purify” language, poetry, like all imaginative creations, divines the human enterprise. This is poetry’s social value.

I hope this does not sound like an exercise in ambiguities. If so, let me add another: one of poetry’s chief aims is to illumine the walls of mystery, the inscrutable, the unsayable. I think poetry ought to be taught not as an engine of meaning but as an opportunity to learn to live in doubt and uncertainty, as a means of claiming indeterminancy. Our species is deeply defined by its great surges of reason, but I think it high time we return to elemental awe and wonder. Such a position is necessary to our communal health.

I try to teach my students the full magnitude of what can happen during the reading of a poem. The readerly self, if the music and strategies of the poem are a success, fades away to assume the speaker’s identity, or the poem’s psychic position. Once a reader has fully internalized the poem’s machinations, she collects a chorus within her and is transformed. This ritual generates empathy and widens our humanity. These might seem like grand dreams, but it is just such a belief in the power of poetry that spurs my pen to action, whether I am getting paid or not.

Emily Warn:

Don’t you go

I hear him in the  morning yet he died
I think I’ve got a phantom husband, oh!
I feel an instant touch when my eyes close

His funny faces made me laugh out loud
I called him India Rubber, flexed his nose.
I hear him in the  morning,  though he died

At night I hear him whisper, don’t you go!
Yet the worlds of dreams and image forward flow
I  hear him say my poetry is prose

His sense of humour  was  both deep and wide
He used to  rub my feet  and my bent toes
I hear him every  morning, he’s my guide

I overwhelmed him with my rapid voice.
Up in Hebden we  all speak to go.
I feel  his hand on my silk underclothes

We were children playing, did we know?
A phantom husband  can’t play dominoes
I sense him in the morning as I breathe.
I feel his careful touch, I do believe.

How to read and write poems Matthew Zapruder

Photo0075.jpg

https://thecreativeindependent.com/people/matthew-zapruder-on-how-to-write-and-read-poems/

 

Your new book is called Why Poetry? and it speaks to why so many people don’t read poetry now and why perhaps poetry isn’t valued in the same way it used to be. Can you give me the short version of why you think that is?

It’s a complicated question. One reason is that people think poetry is hard and their idea about what’s hard about it is wrong. They think it’s hard because you have to decode it, but that’s actually not what’s hard about poetry. What’s hard about poetry is just accepting what is actually being said and not doing what we’re taught to do in school all the time, which is to translate things or decode them or try to unpack what they really mean. It’s not about that.

The other thing is that people think poetry is hard because we have a mistaken idea about what it’s for and what it is. We don’t understand why people make poems at all. We think, or we’re taught to think, that there are basically these riddles or messages that are hidden inside these containers called poems, which makes the poems just these annoyances and distractions. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this: Why don’t they just say what they mean? Why do they make it so complicated? I think that would be a completely reasonable question if poems were what people typically say they are, but they aren’t what people say they are. They’re not. They aren’t riddles. Those are really the two things that keep people from reading poetry: This idea that they’re hard, coded messages and this general confusion about why people would make them at all.

The irony of it is that most people I know have had an experience at some point with poetry, either with reading it or writing it, where they cut through all that stuff. They have this personal, individual encounter with a poem and they forget to treat it like it’s a secret message, and they totally understand why it’s necessary, because clearly it says something in some way that could never be said otherwise. That’s something I try to touch base with a little bit in the book–remember that experience, that is the real experience. Not all this stuff that’s in your high school English class or that you’re taught in order to get the right answer on the test.

Students are often uncomfortable with the ambiguity of poetry. They want to know exactly what it means. They want there to be one correct interpretation.

It’s not their fault. They’re taught to treat poetry that way. I spent an undue amount of time looking at the textbooks that students have to read and the standardized test they have to take. The way those things talk about poetry is just horrendous. It’s no wonder nobody likes it. If this is what they say poetry actually is, then I don’t like that

And now I’m late

I wandered  lonely in a crowd
That wars all night  so untranquil
When in a trance, I saw  heads bowed
And march   on these green, rabid  bills

Confused by the stairs  we climbed
I saw an escalator bend
Then two mechanics  served their time
I pressed the bell and did descend

I heard my brother on the phone
I don’t know how he turned it on
His favourite phrase was : oh, don’t moan!
The kettle boiled, the  liar  has come

At the  bottom of my blog
It tells Old Pests to press right here.
Then will we hit them with  a log
Before we steal their dark brown beer?

He asked me if I’d love to hate
And envy Wilfred Bion’s gun
But I prefer to  have a date
Although they make my bowels run

Fantastically ghosts  sit here
And look upon the sky refined
They have no bodies, do not fear
They are real but undefined

So I lay down and felt my love
My man, my mate, my inspired date
Flutter o’er me like a dove
I fell asleep and now I’m late

When I go out I am no longer me

When I go out I am no longer me
Not a woman, not a poet nor clown
My stick confers invisibility.

My singing voice is now an enemy
“Talking to herself ” is written down
When I go out I am no longer me

Madness, crime and sin are easier
Like entry into studies labelled brown
My stick confers invisibility.

And if my grooming is what some call free
It stops me  spending money in the town
When I go out I am no longer me

I drink sherry, wine and Earl Grey Tea.
Before I get the habit, a nun’s gown
My stick confers invisibility.

Yet if by chance I wear a sullen frown
The bus conductor says I put him down
When I go out now, dead men stare at me
My stick confers invisibility.

 

Thinking about sin: definition

Photo0056.jpg
noun: sin; plural noun: sins
  1. 1.
    an immoral act considered to be a transgression against divine law.
    “a sin in the eyes of God”
    synonyms: immoral act, wrong, wrongdoing, act of evil/wickedness, transgression, crime, offence, misdeed, misdemeanour, error, lapse, fall from grace; More

    antonyms: virtue, good
    • an act regarded as a serious or regrettable fault, offence, or omission.
      “he committed the unforgivable sin of refusing to give interviews”
      synonyms: scandal, crime, disgrace, outrage

      “the way they spend money—it’s a sin”
verb
verb: sin; 3rd person present: sins; past tense: sinned; past participle: sinned; gerund or present participle: sinning
  1. 1.
    commit a sin.
    “I sinned and brought shame down on us”
    synonyms: commit a sin, offend against God, commit an offence, transgress, do wrong, commit a crime, break the law, misbehave, go astray, stray from the straight and narrow, go wrong, fall from grace;

    archaictrespass
    “I sinned and brought down shame on us”
    • offend against (God, a person, or a principle).
      “Lord, we have sinned against you”
WORD ORIGIN

Etymology –Wikipedia

The word derives from “Old English syn(n), for original *sunjō… The stem may be related to that of Latin sons, sont-is guilty. In Old English there are examples of the original general sense, ‘offence, wrong-doing, misdeed'”.[3]The English Biblical terms translated as “sin” or “syn” from the Biblical Greek and Jewish terms sometimes originate from words in the latter languages denoting the act or state of missing the mark; the original sense of New Testament Greek ἁμαρτία hamartia “sin”, is failure, being in error, missing the mark, especially in spear throwing;[4] Hebrew hata “sin” originates in archery  and literally refers to missing the “gold” at the centre of a target, but hitting the target, i.e. error.[5]

Monads and me

IMG_20171023_123201.jpg

Dear All

Well, I must get on with this or it will  be Xmas before I know where I am.In fact I do not know yet where I am but Leibniz’s theory that we are all monads is looking good.Don’t ask me what a monad is.Just invent it.It means we have no community, no connections, no sharing.A bit like bricks.You can build a wall with them but they never talk and but for the cement, they would all fall over and make a big mess.
You could say, the government is removing the cement as that is the wish of the people.When we all fall down then they will have us made into dust.
Which reminds me, why not try Philip Pullman’s  new book as a Xmas gift? It’s about Dust but not as we know it.I loved his Dark Materials.No, that is not his suit!
Anyway, have you noticed how brilliant geniuses also seem odd? Newton invented Calculus but never told anyone until he heard Leibniz had done it too.So he was very put out.He managed to get most of the credit
That reminds me, don’t use a credit card at Xmas.Because then someone in  MI6 will be able to see all  you have bought and where… see what I mean? You may have quite accidentally bought all the ingredients for making a bomb.For example, an alarm clock seems innocent but if you also bought some Christmas Crackers it points a suspicious finger at you.Don’t buy any gunpowder.
The best way to shop is to go to the Bank and draw out some cash!Yipes!Money… then nobody will ever know what you do with it.
For my  New Year Resolution instead of going shopping on Saturdays, I am going to get £100  in notes and throw it out of my bedroom window when a gale is blowing.I might as well do that as buy all sorts of rubbish that I don’t need

However if you can’t control your buying, do this: only buy little cheap things like soap bars, socks, biros, tissues etc.That’s cheaper and just as satisfying as buying a down jacket and ten pairs of shoes.I should know as I have 24 down jackets and an infinity of shoes.I have even got some yellow shoes and a yellow down jacket.That’s one way of ensuring no man is an island.
Well, time to feed the twins.My daughter has gone to Australia and I have them for 3 weeks.They are only 8 months old and I am very anxious.The cat will be sad if  they die but she does have a singleton as well so here’s hoping I can get them onto Carnation milk while Genny is away.I didn’t really agree with her breastfeeding them but she liked it apart from the biting and scratching.Why they are almost human which is more than I can say for her.Her father might have been a milkman but that’s no excuse
Byeeee

Kristy

Our little games

In the past,  we thought the world  our own

Created for  us by a loving Lord
So on its lands, we played our little games

Existentialists  claim we have no home
Dislocated, life can’t be enjoyed
In the past,  folk felt  the world  their own

Hell is other people, Sartre claimed,
Dividing us to monads  deeply flawed
Yet in  the  past, community was sane

Why do we feel lost with lone hearts maimed?
Are we shocked by new techniques and awe?
In the past, communion  was our  own

Spirit lost in wars, what is our aim?
If  God is dead, who shall declaim the Law?
We’re  ” civilised “, how mute Ethics  forlorn

The tablet  Moses  found  has been disdained
We submit  to nothing but our toys.
Machines and war destroy communal aims.
Who can raise us; how can debts be paid?

 

 

 

 

Bereavement may not utterly destroy

Bereavement left me  lonely and distraught
The maps I  used were no guide for this time
So love  seems dead, the left  feel mute, betrayed

The place where love once lived is now a void.
Yet even here a poet  can find new  lines
Bereavement left  me low, I felt destroyed

The thought of making love fills with distaste
To our own death, we seem to be resigned
For love  seems dead and we are mute, betrayed

Though we eat, our food has no real taste
Our meals  unbalanced lose thir past design
Bereavement leaves us lonely and destroyed

Yet on what narrative are such thoughts based?
The axioms can change, create new times.
Is love dread and how were we betrayed?

There can a meaning other than divine
Love’s down low  between these very lines
Bereavement   may not   totally destroy
Love may touch my heart , no demons’ toy