Category: Thinkings and poems

I copied some leg exercises

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Fly on your black, with your legs stretched back and hands by their sides or floating like wings
Bend the left knee and tape it to your chest then write a note
Put an electric brand around the ball and then hold both the ends by the hands.Now draw an image in Paint on the ceiling
Slowly straighten your West foot up towards the ceiling and bookmark your own toes.
Make sure your hips and the grass you brought are firmly pressed into the beloved earth.
The right foot should be kept afraid and the toes vexed, pointing to the ceiling.
Count till 20 while in this position and then faint sideways onto that grass we met before
Do the same routine on any other legs.
Do 3 Frets and two moans and you’ll be a different person.
You’ll be arrested.

De mortuis nil nisi bene

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Philosophic  [from wikipedia]

We assume a special attitude towards the dead, something almost like admiration for one who has accomplished a very difficult feat. We suspend criticism of him, overlooking whatever wrongs he may have done, and issue the command, De mortuis nil nisi bene: we act as if we were justified in singing his praises at the funeral oration, and inscribe only what is to his advantage on the tombstone. This consideration for the dead, which he really no longer needs, is more important to us than the truth, and, to most of us, certainly, it is more important than consideration for the living.[3]

And looking at the world with gratefulness

The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm
They have their form, their shape, their wistfulness
What is dead no longer does us harm

Thus being dead is no cause for alarm
There is no need to suffer loneliness
The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm

As they age, they look like a dead palm
The sort we got in church had comeliness
What is dead no longer does us harm

The secret of long life is keeping calm
And looking at the world with gratefulness
The dead flowers in the vase have their own charm

Meditation on dead flowers is balm
We fear no longer our own death’s fullness
What is dead no longer does us harm

Waste not time in hateful wilfulness
We sing with love our own dawn choruses
The dead flowers in the vase have certain  charms
What is dead no longer may  alarm

Diary poems by Anne Cluysenaar

Sunrise in winter

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2014/may/12/poem-of-the-week-anne-cluysenaar-diary-poems

 

 

 

January 13

Hunting the Higgs

No wonder they love a laugh, the physicists.
What ever they find or don’t, it’s OK.
Symmetries of the world just remnants
of those which, if perfect, would only have led to

no world at all – anti-matter, matter
would have cancelled each other out. Maybe.
Or maybe not, if the theory is at fault.
And if it is? More exciting still.

Whatever we’re made of, it wants to know
how it came to be what it is. In us,
for a while at least, the stuff of stars
gets a glimpse of its own precarious life.

Like a single life, that will soon be gone.
Universes before, maybe, or after
our own, we won’t ever get to explore.
They make up what is, though. And here we are!

I do believe I’m feeling underwrought

Epimedium-latisepalum2017

The villanelle won’t jell, I feel dismayed.
I know they’re hell, but they distill my thoughts
A triolet would work if I could play.

I boiled the villanelle  to sell    today
I do believe I’m feeling underwrought
The villanelle won’t jell, I feel dismayed

I planned to sell the whole lot on Ebay
But someone threw a hint I never caught
A triolet would work if I could play

I appreciate the values of wet hay
My teacher never mentioned  poems  caught short
The villanelle won’t sell, I can’t  display.

Some will plight  their  troth and others  pray
The teacher saw the writing  she’d not taught
A triolet would work if I could play

I wrote a poem with words I had not sought
Is it vice to pay when we’ve not bought?
The villanelle won’t jell,I  say,hurrah
A  violin would work if one could play

The End by Emily Berry

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/118582?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=PMAG_MAY_09_2017&utm_content=PMAG_MAY_09_2017+CID_81ba1eb43cddc435e618fa33b180458d&utm_source=Campaign%20Monitor&utm_term=The%20End

 

The End
BY EMILY BERRY
I believed death was a flat plain spectacular endlessly
Can you distort my voice when I say this?
My scared ghost peeling off me
Distortion, she says, as if she has just made it up
And then she is quoting a line from a poem
Or is it a whole poem, I wish I could remember
My voice opens and calls you in
I don’t know if you can hear me
I said, I carry inside me the trace of a threat that I cannot discharge
I said, I want to ask you things you can’t ask a person who doesn’t exist
She said, Why can’t you ask them
If we can’t have everything what is the closest amount to everything we can have?
She said, Why can’t you have everything
Well, you know, when you’re looking for a person, sometimes they appear
And a light goes on and off in the opposite window, twice
Yes, you say, that was a sign
Strange love for the living, strange love for the dead
Listen. I don’t know who you are but you remind me of —
I wish you would put some kind of distortion on my voice, I tell her
So people don’t know it’s me
They know what they know, she said
I told a story about my shame
It got cold when the air touched it
Then it got hot, throbbed, wept, attracted fragments with which it eventually glittered
Till I couldn’t stop looking at it
Exactly, she says
And then she is quoting a line from a poem, I don’t know which one
In my dream she reached out to touch me as if to say, It’s all right
How I began to believe in something
Are you there?
The wind called to the trees
And then it happened
And they said, How do you feel?
And I said, Like a fountain
Night falls from my neck like silver arrows
 
Very gently

When he woke up he looked the same

 

He was always very adamant
He could not change his mind
So I soaked his head in old red wine
Because I am so kind.

 

When he woke up he looked the same
But he spoke so tenderly:
You may have tricked some other guys.
But you ain’t trickin’ me.

 

I said I knew  no other men;
He was my heart’s desire.
He threw his water glass at me
And said I was a liar.

 

So then I realised with dread,
My love was utter folly.
I gave him 20 English pounds
To buy himself a lolly.

 

Adamantine’s good for jewels
But not for picking men.
I shall learn my lesson now.
Pray I’ll never sin again

With my footprints on the back

He was wearing the wrong kind of clothing
His awkwardness  gave him away
He wore a white mac
With  my footprints on the back
Where forever they will rightly stay,

He went out to Mass on  a Sunday
And confessed all his sins well before.
He  suffered from pride
And many women he eyed.
Whom he gave a warm welcome and more.

The religious folk seem to get tempted
By the sins that they wrongly fear most.
They think of smart asses
And lasses in glasses
When  of their salvation they boast

We tolerate what once we could not bear

The pain of loss grows gentler by the year
Less jagged and destructive to the heart
We  tolerate what once we could not bear

We soothe ourselves by satisfying care
We let the dear one’s image separate.
The pain of loss grows gentler by the year

Sometimes grief feels like a panic fear.
We wonder if we chose the best of charts
We  tolerate what once we could not bear

There are folk of whom we must beware.
Gossips and audacious, head-less tarts
The pain of loss grows gentler by the year

Do not let the wolves boast of their lair
Evade the poisonous and their arrowed darts
We  tolerate what once we could not bear

Without will, the healing process starts
Slowly  pain and anguish will depart
The pain of loss grows gentler by the year
We  tolerate what once we could not bear

The isolating loneliness, the fear

The  widespread  scattering of the Jewish genes
Caused by pogroms, wars, and holocaust
A Russian mother, Father, German seems
Now all of them, have turned to earth and dust.

Then the city French called Montreal
Safe home  to refugees of every sort
Here Leonard found his path, he heard the call
And learned to bear the suffering of the heart.

Where many leave this world by their own choice,
The isolating loneliness, the fear
Instead, he struggled, strained, gave us his voice
Even after death, we feel him near.

A man descended from Aaron, the priest,
The same  genetic group that gave us  Christ

 

 

Yet to these gaps, wildflowers will be allured.

Life is like a  Northern drystone wall
The limestone’s perfect balance is designed.
But take one stone out and the whole will fall.
For every stone was to the next aligned.

Maybe its new form is strong, secure
But often it collapses, leaving gaps.
Yet to these gaps, wildflowers will  be allured.
And little pools  form, home to frogs  perhaps

As life goes on, our complex structure grows
And in some part, we see collapse contained.
Not just contained, but new life comes and goes.
In the end,  love’s willingness remains.

The journey takes us through a strange terrain.
We are a  whole, though parts are misaligned

Off the villanelle

I must get off the villanelle today
There are other forms that I might like
Then I can eat and read and love and pray

I could make a sculpture like a Klee.
Get new tyres upon my folding bike
I must get off the villanelle today

 

The thing is, writing rarely pays.
Ted Hughes  did it with his dream of Pike
Then he could eat and read and love and pray

Once upon a time my world was gay
Leisure was a  pleasure, heart was light
I may get off the villanelle today.

Sometimes I feel like just one shade of grey
The heart is numb and all is tinged with blight
Can I eat and read and love and pray.

Life is generous with its dose of fright.
The politicians’  tigers fight and bite
I must  write off the villanelle today
Then I can eat and read and love and play

Shopping

I made an error in my online shopping
I only got one litre of fresh milk
I got eight trifles and a dozen jellies
Cress in an interminable wilt.

I got two large  and multi-seeded loaves
Some eggs and bacon,not yet cooked I fear.
I thought I’d bake some  pizza  with bananas
While they’re reading Shakespeare’s King Lear.

Oh,I forgot to get a few tomatoes
It’s muddling looking through their lists of goods
I’ll have to make a sauce from old  potatoes
Do you think the Italians ever could?

I stand alone surrounded by these foods
No doubt they will enter my dear flesh
But there’s noone here I want to talk to
I feel my mood is going into Crash

Eeh by gum, I wish that I was here

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I went visiting a rather silent neighbour
I thought that I could manage fine
After sitting feeling blank and boring
I went home to get  so drunk that I could dine

I had a problem with the oven settings
The sausages were as black as  grandad’s skin
The batter turned to biscuit thin and hardened
I ‘ll never  ever want a Toad again

I sat down, it was only Sunday evening
Six more meals to cook this coming week.
I must buy an oven thermometer
If only they made one that liked to speak.

What are all the quiet people feeling?
Would they like to talk but can’t for fear?
I find it hard to tolerate  their total silence
Eeh by gum, I wish that I was here

I had six scrambled pages of my notes.

I had six inky pages of crushed notes.
From a villanelle I tried to write
Corrections,edits, what I thought, I wrote.

Some of it was cliche or was quote
It was a very private, hidden sight
I had six pages of cramped inky notes.

Should I  reveal the work I  do, first thoughts,
Or keep you in the dark about my rites?
Corrections, edits, what I thought, I wrote.

There is  no answer only many “oughts”
Should these hidden jumbles come to light?
I had six scrambled pages of my notes.

My first thoughts of a theme are scarcely taut.
The   process opens windows shut and tight
Corrections, edits, what I thought, I wrote.

First, the  buried feelings must be caught
For my deeper thoughts, I watch at night.
I had six scrambled pages of my notes.

Passionate the feelings that ignite
The work of  poets with  their fiery sparks
I had six inky pages of handwritten notes.
Corrections, edits, what I  caught at night

 

Befriend me, each one seems to say

All the fears we push away
Will come back later in the day;
Or when we go to bed at night
They will waken us in fright.

Befriend me, each one seems to say
Like small children fallen at play
When mother’s come a sweet sweet kiss
Returns small children to their bliss.

But where is mother now,we think?
As from our eyes the tears we blink.
Let the bag of tears be drained
Let them ease our awful strain.

Be your mother, be yourself.
Be kind and careful of your health.
Mother lives inside our hearts
If we feel then that’s a start

What we see is partly who we are

 

What we see is partly who we are
In winter snow we see the beauty white.
To homeless people, it may bring despair
At night the cold and frosty air will bite.

Flowers of startling beauty now bloom here
Yet even these will make some people ill.
A scent which an asthmatic man may fear
Is most desired as perfume by the well

The adverts which may irritate the rich
May start up envy’s poison in the poor.
Good and evil to our wealth are stitched
All is context, virtue is not ours.
The world I see’s constructed by my mind
And to the worlds of others we are blind

The flowers

They are cutting down the flowers with a scythe
They are taking love and all who may survive
Months of nurture tainted
Only just acquainted
Who will live and who will fail to thrive?

The flowers have lived, have seeded and have died
Another generation comes behind
Broken is the pattern
Bloody are the phantoms
Unspoken all the centuries of lies.

See the blind  men  preaching, absent eyes
The nomads are required  to cease their rides
The destruction of an era
The many years of terror
The paranoia flourished till love died.

 

There can be no sacrament of lies
Jesus lived, the Trinity has died.
On the cross, he hung,
While the masses sung.
The devil’s handing out six million cries.

About autism

My husband, a programmer in an arcane computer language (AS400 if you’re interested) was asked to give an example of one of something I’m good at. “She’s relatively computer literate” he said carefully. “Relatively.” Fine praise indeed. As a child I learned simple coding on a wobbly ZX81 which would randomly lose all its […]

via Autism and Minecraft.  — It Must Be Mum

Never go where politicians go

I wonder should I write a villanelle
Should I write a sonnet or  rondeau
Or how about a walk upon Snaefell?

They say only free verse will now sell
I could break the formal up if I am slow
I wonder should I write a villanelle

We don’t hear much today about the dell
And do eternal waters ever flow?
How about a walk upon Snaefell?

The curfew may sound once more the knell
And into bed, we lazy people go
I wonder would I   blight a villanelle?

 

My husband used to like a mackerel
The smoky taste gave him a  certain glow
He could not walk as he was over-full

Never go where politicians go
Do not let your depression grow and grow
I wonder should we write, not kiss,  and tell?
Or how about a walk through living hell?

I am feeling just slightly upset.

I need to go back to the doctor
I’ve been looking ills up on the Net
I’ve got schizophrenia.
AIDS and anaemia
I am feeling a little depressed

If I read all the newsletters I signed for
I will find I have got more things wrong
I’ve got an ache in my bladder
I fell off the ladder
The hypochondria has got into both lungs

My bedroom is full of potatoes
As the kitchen has run out of space
Is this a disorder
Where is the border
Between creative ideas and disgrace?

The bathroom is covered in toothpaste
Why’s it so hard to remove?
My teeth still keep breaking
And my right hand is aching
I use  alcohol to get soothed

But the wine merchant rang up my doctor
He told him a drank to excess.
My credit card bounced
No money to advance
And they’ve stolen my email address.

I guess I could  eat baked potatoes
And fill myself up with baked beans
Money ain’t  everything
But it’s the next best thing
Heinz has been blessed by  the Queen

It’s your own fault

 

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From the Daily Telegraph

A man was murdered while walking down the High Street.Police say it is his own fault  as he looked like Jimmy Saville.
A woman was raped behind the Post Office.Police said she is so attractive they blamed her for the attack.
A  man who was taking photos up women’s skirt was not punished.The judge said women should wear trousers  while  out of the house
A boy using a Windows phone was beaten up by a gang.The police say he should have known they only want iPhones and asked his Dad to get him one.He said they are living on Benefits and can’t afford one.The police blamed him for not being a coal miner anymore.
A man who put a cat into his washing  machine got a 5 year sentence for cruelty

I was feeling a trifle excited

 

I was feeling a trifle excited
The meringues were all stuck to the plate
The jelly was yellow
The custard was mellow
And the cream was too thick to inflate.

I was feeling a tart in the market
I hardly knew which slice to bite.
My heart felt like sponge cake
With jam and cream in a lake
I’d a hard nut to crack in the night

The potatoes were smashed like my spelling
The chickpeas have tried to lay eggs
Yet the bacon was green
Unsmoked’s what I mean.
My larder is full of old nags

I did not know I ran to see her face

I did not know I ran  in a long race
I only sought to find a starting place
I loved to run forever, ever chase

My motives were cut off but never base.
I wished to ease my mother’s frowning face
I did not know I ran  a startling race

I saw that nothing I did  quite could erase
Her sorrow, rage, the shame of all her days
I thought I’d run forever, ever chase

I tried to alter course in various ways
I took to drink yet made my grades all As
I did not know I ran  a pre- damned race

I took flute lessons; earned gargantuan praise
I  got a lover; lay with her all day
I thought I’d lie forever, never chaste

My mother said she had been well disgraced
Saw all  her daughters who had been misplaced
I did not know I ran  to see her face
I wished to learn  but  did not want to race

Why not have a bath?

 

DSC00078Emile loved the new purple bath that his owner and father Stan had just installed and longed to bathe in it.He indicated as much to Stan but Stan was not convinced.
“It’s rather large, Emile.And you can’t swim.”
So Emile , always adaptable, asked if he could have a bath in a bowl of warm water as a trial run.
Stan got a spare plastic bowl and filled it with warm water and some lavender bath salts. Emile climbed in cautiously.Cats don’t like to get wet usually but Emile was always happy to have a go.He stood in the water which came up to his chest.”Can you lie down?” Stan asked him.
“It’s too deep” Emile replied.So Stan took out some of the water with a jug and Emile lay on his back with his muzzle projecting from the water and his large amber eyes closed.The water began to turn grey.”This is relaxing”Emile miaowed

.”I think therefore I am.”
That’s Descartes.” murmured Stan
.”Fortune favours the brave” miaowed Emile
That’s better” said Stan.”I love Pascal.”
“My goodness thought Emile, this man is woman crazy.Now he wants Pascale as well as Annie and Mary and he’s 98.Will he ever stop?
So to prevent further thought, Emile leapt out of the bowl and onto a large soft towel Stan had put beside it.As Stan dried him Emile purred rapturously.
“Would you like a blow-dry?” Stan inquired humorously.
“Not tonight Stanley, enough is as good as a feast!”
Stan emptied the bowl down the sink.
“My sainted aunt, look at this dirt and to think that cat’s been sleeping with me for 17 years.”
Stan wants to get Emile some swimming lessons.He’ll have to look on google or yahoo to see what’s available.
Meanwhile, he goes downstairs to make supper for Mary and himself.Fried corned beef in batter with suet dumplings and sauteed potatoes followed by apple crumble and clotted cream.Just what the doctor ordered! Stan’s doctor is rather odd.He thinks fat is good for us.