In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones
The man was old and small and  used a crutch
Letting bitter rage scream from my bones

Oh, better it would be to utter moans
Than let my anguish out in feet or inch.
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones

What a person is may soon be known
He  turned and smiled as if I’d brought him luck
Letting bitter rage  scream from my bones

So this old man’s mature and fully grown
And will not cause me pain by any trick
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones

Can I ever call my soul my own;
I, unfit, his ancient boots to lick
Letting bitter rage  scream from my bones

I seemed  colder than a stone or brick
His love made my own errors feel antic
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones
Letting bitter hurt scream from my bones

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/70036/freedom-in-poetry

Extract:””Impulses, swerves, collisions, flights, descents, gags, indirections, surprises, exploding cigars,

“”Impulses, swerves, collisions, flights, descents, gags, indirections, surprises, exploding cigars, non sequiturs: all are allowed or encouraged, and all in some sense begin to create their own principles.

There are no rules, but uniformity in art can make it feel as though there are rules: the more unconscious or unperceived (as with widely accepted fashions), the more confining.

A reigning style can feel tyrannical: the assumptions behind it so well-established that there seem to be no alternatives. But there are always alternatives. How might a resourceful, ambitious artist get past or around a perceived tyranny? European painters early in the twentieth century, challenging the academic norm, found something useful in Japanese cigarette papers and African masks.

The past can offer a useful way of rebelling against the orthodoxies of the present. The early modernist poets revived interest in John Donne and Andrew Marvell, not because they wanted to correct the academic reading lists—that was a side effect—but because they were impatient with late-late Romantic, post-Victorian softness. They craved models of hard-edged intelligence and lightning wit.

In the 1970s, a young poet I knew described the manner most prevalent in the magazines and writing workshops of those days as “just grooving on images.” I remember that poet—now a considerable and innovative figure—introducing me to James Shirley’s “The Glories of Our Blood and State,” praising the poem for the force of its statement and idiom, the cogency of its propositions, and its cadences. Those elements carried along the effectively minimal imagery: swords and laurels and breath, even the conventional “icy hand” of death.”

I used to have a husband, how we played!
He was funny, kind and caring in sweet ways
I think he’s in the other room today

He hated Mervyn Stockwood, unsure why
Ian Paisley was another who dismayed
I used to have a husband  and  he prayed

He  never comes to see me,  since last May
Nor brings in our old tea pot on a tray
I think he’s in the other room again

I think I hear him walking night and day
He opened up the window  for my eyes
I used to have a husband in my Play

So I played being Missus B  today
But he did not ever enter, as he’s fey.
I think he’s in the other room again

He was quite an artist of the wry.
He liked Bacon, Freud and yes he loved Paul Klee
I used to have a husband, I feel grey.
I think he must be moving rooms today

What she wore was a striped cat and a  classic navy dress with creme spots
Then later she wore bride legged jeans and a slogan T-shirt saying, I combined
At breakfast, after her first night of married fuss she wore a racy negligee covered by a long Burberry branch
She always looked very keen and tidy.
However, he was put out as he looked like the cat who found the clean.His pyjamas had no mutton at all.
For visiting Torquay, she wore her Alex and Co wavey slacks and a  lime sweatshirt saying, I’m your man.Signed, Eliezer HaCohen.Amen.

What is the placebo affect now
When schizoids alienated do not care?
The feelings that you have might cause a row!

Keeping  mobile faces stiff and how
When the eyes of that  potato are unbared.
Where is the  more pleasing affect now?

He let his affect uneffected show.
To the spectral like myself, it seems unfair
The feelings that I have will cause a row!

The spirits I had lost began to glow
Wittgenstein  said he believed in prayer
How does the deceiver’s affect know?

Come my lonely heart and take a bow;
Before the phallic symbol stands and stares
The feelings that I have will cause a row!

Come my little heart from compressed lairs
Unconstricted love is all  we share
Love is my placebo affect now
The feelings that I know will cause no row!

1. For Older Pests, click Here.

2 Tagged as morbid, eerie, never can tell.

3.If you wrote this well don’t. Congratulations

4.This blog is co-ghosted with my brother, Liked

5. If you think I am no God, I don’t mind.Give me sore specific details

6 I loved your roast today.Much better than  poor usual

7. Did WHO write this?

8. You are a wood grater in my loo.

9 This poem is so good I read all of it.I am trying tonight I ran out of men’s prankies.So no more poems are allowed by  Word Press, Police.

Butterflies can light upon a rose

And sparrows miss the prickly holly leaf

https://www.merriam-webster.com/news-trend-watch/ivanka-an-otherwise-incredible-day-20170920

Although to us the past may seem well known
Reading in the library or the net
The future’s fiction and the past has gone

We cannot hear the murdered as they groan
We cannot meet the folk our mothers met
And yet to us, the past may seem well known

Visit the old street which you called home
See the house now strangers’ habitat
The future’s fiction and the past has gone

See the Synagogues’ and Mosques’  fine stone
Infinite our perspectives and the facts
And  absent thought, the past may seem well known

See the Vatican  where pigeons roam
Showing like the demons, lack of tact
The future’s fiction and the past has gone

Yet, in the  timelines of our facial web
The past is here and not with  people dead
Although to us the past’s imagined, known
The future’s fiction and the past a stone

The age of  all-out war, an accident
An Archduke shot. an Empire on the brink
In a narrow street, an incident.

Nobody stood up as a dissident
In their games, did leaders wish  to pause
The age of nuclear war, by accident?

In many narrow streets, coincidence,
Since apples destroyed Eden, Newton  caused
In a narrow street, an incident.

Inevitably none  get all they want
From mother’s milk to dolls and other toys
The age of  all-out war, and infants’ rants

The time we have got left is rather scant
And there is  threatened bombing every day
In a narrow street, what incident?

There is no peace, just space between the wars
In her pram, the baby ignites toys
The age of all-out war, an accident?
In a narrow street, what incident?

Wilipedia: Shooting of heir to Austro-Hungarian Empire 1914

Fatal shooting

The aftermath of the assassination^[73]

Princip’s FN Model 1910 pistol, displayed at the Museum of Military History, Vienna, 2009

After learning that the first assassination attempt had been unsuccessful, Princip thought about a position to assassinate the Archduke on his return journey, and decided to move to a position in front of a nearby food shop (Schiller’s delicatessen), near the Latin Bridge.^[74] At this point the Archdukes’ motorcade turned off the Appel Quay, mistakenly following the original route which would have taken them to the National Museum. Governor Potiorek, who was sharing the second vehicle with the Imperial couple, called out to the driver to reverse and take the Quay to the hospital. Driver Lojka stopped the car close to where Princip was standing, prior to backing up. The latter stepped forward and fired two shots from a distance of about one and a half metres (5 feet) using a Belgian-made 9×17mm (.380 ACP) Fabrique Nationale model 1910 semi-automatic pistol. Pistol serial numbers 19074, 19075, 19120 and 19126 were supplied to the assassins; Princip used #19074.^[75] According to Albertini, “the first bullet wounded the Archduke in the jugular vein, the second inflicted an abdominal wound on the Duchess.”^[76] Princip was immediately arrested. At his sentencing, Princip stated that his intention had been to kill Governor Potiorek, rather than Sophie.^[77]

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?

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/books/authors/the-best-british-political-insults-rows-and-putdowns/robert-peel/

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69592/poems-for-peace

“Yet we Americans live in the most powerful country in the world, whose adaptably postmodern empire is marked by what William James calls Pure War, a state in which the real war is the constant preparation for war. Though our poetry has ably represented the traumatic and unmaking operations of war—from the rage of Achilles on to our present day—it has also often unwittingly glorified and perpetuated a culture of war. We have yet to give adequate attention to how our poetry also contains the seeds of other ways of dealing with conflict, oppression, and injustice, and how it may advance our thinking into what a future without war might look like.

How to imagine peace, how to make peace? In our conversations on the Peace Shelf, three general subcategories emerged, though these were full of overlap and contradiction: Sorrows, Resistance, and Alternative Visions. It’s simple enough: we need to witness and chronicle the horrors of war, we need to resist and find models of resistance, and we need to imagine and build another world. Even if modern poetry has been marked by a resistance to the glorification of war, vividly shown by the World War I soldier poets and many others, the important work of poetic dissent has been, too often, via negativa—resistance to the dominant narrative, rather than offering another way.

Even Denise Levertov—one of the self-consciously anti-war poets on any Peace Shelf—found herself at a loss for words at a panel in the 1980s, when Virginia Satir called upon Levertov and other poets to “present to the world images of peace, not only of war; everyone needed to be able to imagine peace if we were going to achieve it.” In her response, “Poetry and Peace: Some Broader Dimensions” (1989), Levertov argues that “peace as a positive condition of society, not merely as an interim between wars, is something so unknown that it casts no images on the mind’s screen.” But she does proceed further: “if a poetry of peace is ever to be written, there must first be this stage we are just entering—the poetry of preparation for peace, a poetry of protest, of lament, of praise for the living earth; a poetry that demands justice, renounces violence, reveres mystery.” That Levertov lays out succinctly what we ourselves, the Peace Shelf collective, took some weeks to arrive at, illuminates the challenge of the peace movement and of the literature that engages it; our conversations, our living history and past, are scattered, marginal, unfunded, and all too easily forgotten.”

I
” A poem about memories of love ”

I miss your hand that used to hold my hand
I miss your eyes that used to smile at me
The needs of love don’t feel like a demand
I miss the hand that caressed my held hand
I miss your love and miss you as a friend.
When you gazed, your eyes lit what you’d see.
I miss the hand that used to warm my hand
I miss the eyes that used smile at me.

Dr Adams was a very kind man

He never fried sprats when they were soaked in jam

I’m wondering how much more our world will change
Out of Europe, gambling with the knaves
While North Korea flaunts missiles near the stage

Donald Trump seems mad in his exchange.
He spends his nights on Twiller in a rage
I’m wondering how much more our world will change

What nasty horror’s waiting off the page
When stupid people choose to immolate?
Has North Korea got missiles just off stage?

Have all the wise gone off, are they estranged?
Is thought now something to eradicate?
I’m wondering how much more our world will change

Where’s Nigel and his Huguenot Garage?
Where’s the careful mind so delicate?
Will North Korea let missiles be our fate?

Where is  the Father who can confiscate
Where is Mother and her grip on fate?
I’m wondering how much more our world can change
North Korea flaunts missiles, Trump ‘s upstaged

The parasol to shield friends from the sun
Has fallen backwards in the autumn winds
Goodness flew away and  Europe’s done

There is no birdsong, thieves  have been and gone
An autumn gold has fallen on my mind
I live here like an ancient, tied to none.

Yet I must declaim the harm we’ve done
The referendum’s fruits  leave  blight behind
Cordial neighbours scorn us, where’s the plum?

I see some little weeds  make up a crown
I must enjoy their  greenness, love of mine
Before  machines  shall trample all  growth down

I still admire the  blades of grass in towns,
Between the flagstones, there they have their reign.
Civil life has flown, the sun falls down.

As Oracle, disaster I proclaim
The minds of Europe tolerate no pain
The parasol did shield us from some sun.
Summer’s  died and   Brexit is no fun

A silence rich with love and full of joy;
The silence after waking at the dawn,
May be both an anchor and a buoy.

Yet often we don’t know what we seek for:
The latest dress, the perfect English lawn?
We forget this marvellous essence, full of joy

We murder by ignoring  love’s own core
We do not see the buds which are new born.
We want an anchor yet we want our toys.

What is most arresting is the awe
We feel when we survive deep grief again
Find  silence rich with love and full of joy

Out of Nature, its Creator calls
Taking in her arms what caused us pain.
Being both an anchor and a buoy.

The silence underneath the silence calms,
Stills our breathing with reviving balm
Perfect silence rich with love and  joy
Shall be our an anchor and shall be our buoy.

Like watercolor pictures left out in the rain
Our colors have mingled,yet the originals still remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colors blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colors intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolor picture painted by the rain,
We shall go, but our Watercolor Love will still remain

http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/themes/writing/historic_writing.aspx

“The earliest form of writing

The earliest writing we know of dates back to around 3,000 BC and was probably invented by the Sumerians, living in major cities with centralised economies in what is now southern Iraq. Temple officials needed to keep records of the grain, sheep and cattle entering or leaving their stores and farms and it became impossible to rely on memory. So, an alternative method was required and the very earliest texts were pictures of the items scribes needed to record (known as pictographs).

These texts were drawn on damp clay tablets using a pointed tool. It seems the scribes realised it was quicker and easier to produce representations of such things as animals, rather than naturalistic impressions of them. They began to draw marks in the clay to make up signs, which were standardised so they could be recognised by many people.

A wedge-shaped instrument (usually a cut reed) was used to press the signs into soft clay. This gave the writing system its name, ‘cuneiform’, meaning wedge-shaped.”

Mary sat down on a garden wall to  enjoy the sunny heat.On rising she discovered that the wall was not what one might call “a drystone wall”.To be blunt,it looked as if she had wet herself.
Her light green silky jacket and pale blue trousers were somewhat blighted by this event but Mary paid little attention.She was on her way to  the Newsagent to terminate her contract
She had sat on the wall also to chat to a neighbour.
How was your heart scan?
Sorry,I’ve never had one.
But you told me before you couldn’t talk because  of it
I said,I am in pain.~
Oh,said Maggie quietly.I misunderstood

Hello, she said to the Newsagent.I want to cancel the newspapers.
Don’t you  like to read the weekend reviews? he said with surprise
Yes,but my eyes can’t seem to focus on the news print any more.And I am very annoyed that Trump is always on the front.
OK. the delightfully charming Indian man replied.Did I tell you I am doing a Ph.D . on  what kind of people read the Guardian and the Telegraph? I collect my data using the customers who call here
I do hope I have not ruined your research Mary remarked languidly.
Not yet, he replied manfully.But if you’d like to try you can call round at 8 pm.I have made a chicken korma
Is that a  new dance, she asked wildly
You must know korma and chips is Britain’s favourite meal, he said in a hurt tone
Please forgive me , she begged.I was trying to make a joke.I am not good at it.
Alright, he said.Why don’t you do a Ph.D? When you live alone it passes the time
I see what you mean, she said tersely as if someone was holding a gun to her head.
But where do you do it? she continued.
The Open University.The trick is to use something you already have written or data you already have like I am doing
Don’t  you need a theory  for that level of research?
Of course, he replied.I usually invent that after I have done the main work
Why, how many Ph.D’s  have you done?
Twenty five,he cried gleefully.Oxford,Cambridge,Edinburgh… a bit cold there
But why bother, she enquired.You are still a newsagent.Do you not want to get an academic job?
I might but shall I be a chemist,mathematician,Lacanian psychoanalyst, English literature professor or just  take it easy being a cleaner?
Why are you asking me,she cried.It’s beyond belief that  any man could  be so learned.
Beyond Belief…. just the title for my new book.Thank you so much.I’ll give you a copy when it comes out.
Alright,Mary answered as she tried to run out of the shop.
Indians are extremely clever.They invented a symbol to represent zero.That is much more difficult to conceive of than is a whole number like 2, she told herself
Shut up, her inner child answered.I am fed up with that bilge.I want to have an icecream cone  and a jacket potato.
Both at once, she joked?
Well,maybe not, her inner child exclaimed.I just want more fun.I bet Emile feels the same.Cats are like people in a way
Well, if you feel such empathy for Emile, why not marry him
I am only three,her inner child cried.I can’t get married yet?
Tough said Mary as she got onto a bus and went to buy a loaf  and a pair of knickers.Whatever would Stan think if he saw her now with short hair and wet trousers?
Thank goodness we will never know.As for him,would he stop playing the harp to look at his wife as she carried out these mundane tasks?

The Single Girl’s Guide to Art

II. BALANCE

A woman must continually watch herself. —John Berger

In line, position yourself near the possible
object of your desire. Pay with plastic,
sign with a flourish. Think of your life
as one well-wrought performance piece,
and be sure to get the little pin; position it
above your breast, on your best side. Always
think ahead! You’ll thank me later—a fabulous
conversation piece, that pin, later at the café.
Remember, your entry into his frame must be
oblique, cause tension. Move to the corner
of his eye, but don’t linger, if he is to engage you
in what we will call the gaze.

https://www.theguardian.com/society/joepublic/2009/mar/23/mental-health-poetry-words-on-monday

Extract:

Sylvia Plath is on record as saying that when she was writing she was accessing the healthiest part of herself. That strikes a chord with me, too. Her joy in the act of writing is evident in her BBC interview with Peter Orr which was recorded in the autumn of 1962, shortly before her death. I think it’s available on You Tube. Well worth listening to.

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/the-first-poets-by-michael-schmidt-61344.html

“But, perhaps most important of all, The First Poets makes it crystal clear to us that there was at least one moment in partially-recorded history when poets really counted for something. They were really needed in ancient Greece on all kinds of religious and secular occasions. So every poet should buy a copy of this book to keep on their bookshelves. And, when the occasion arises, they should throw it at the cynic who may try to ignore or demean them. ”

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