https://www.tikkun.org/acknowledging-the-others-suffering-a-psychoanalytic-approach-to-trauma-in-israelpalestine/

O

This practice of acknowledgment (the act of dignifying and validating others’ suffering with our attention) is often impeded by reactions of denial and dissociation. As a result, the very fact that some people are subjected to great suffering and helplessness makes them and their injuries appear less worthy to those who are safe. The challenge lies in working to overcome denial so that more people can acknowledge their own responsibility for that suffering. come together in a third space that honors the struggle of both?

I wish I were in Lancashire again

Pendle Hill the pike of Rivington

The mountains of North Wales , the Cheshire plain

I will never climb, my legs are gone,

Dear home, the cobbled Street my skipping rope.

The end wall of the house my mother’s face.

The tree she planted and her helpless hope

The love ,the feeling sad, the lost embrace..

I wish  I were in junior school once more

The powdered ink,, the brass the desks of oak

Children’s laughter to the sky can soar,

Skipping fast and how our arms would a àche

I wish I were a child and has no cares

I miss the. Freedom, bonfire night the War

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/ng-interactive/2024/jul/04/did-that-really-happen-14-years-of-chaotic-tory-government?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

It seems that the number of people using food banks is 75 times as many now as it was in 2010.

Did we think that one day we would die
That energy and strength would always be ?
Now you are gone and hope is no ally

From the Cleveland Hills sailed butterflies
Bee filled heather made for you and me
Did we think that one day we would die?

A moment of eternity goes by
From Langadale Pikes we see the Irish Sea
Now you are gone and my heart asks me,why?

On the road from Tees-side we would drive
Admire the shape of hills, their pageantry
Did we know that one day we would die?

We might die but Love has its own time
No tears should wash my heart this savagely
Now you are gone and hope is no ally

Oh, let green nature take me for its tree
Festooned with blossom and with poetry
I did know one of us would die
Now you are gone and I sit here and cry.

Walking on the beach at Redcar Bay.

The Cleveland hills are not so far away.

The cliffs begin at Saltburn we walk there.

Filling up our lungs with North sea air.

The pier is long whenever is it used?

In my mind, I see it far away

Cliffs begin and seabirds will amuse

The super structures wear into decay.

David Hockney Bridlington

sea views

I walk on this wet sand without my shoes.

I wish we were on Sutton Bank again
The Cleveland Hills with heather, home of bees
We lay down in the heather in the sun

We hitched a lift, Osmotherley, a van
Another day was Whitby and the sea
I wish we were on Sutton Bank again

I wish that you were near, my loving one
Your suffering face was very sad to see
We lay in purple heather in the sun

What shall I do, what am I to become?
I waken up too early, make my tea
I wish we lay on Sutton Bank again

Our backs ,warm earth , our faces smiled as one
The heather a warm bed, no shady tree
We once lay in the heather in the sun

I miss your face, your eyes, their loving plea
The sun above, the windswept leafless tree
I wish we were on Sutton Bank again
We‘d lay down in the heather but you’ve gone

Little plants that grow near to the earth

By storm and tempest rarely are destroyed

They hold themselves to be of little worth

They do not wish to bully or annoy

These little plants will flower and make their seeds

As beautiful as any garden rose

Every living thing is made to breed

The wisdom of the humble we must know.

Walking on the paths across the hills

We trample on these flowers but don’t destroy

These wild flowers revive they are not killed

By walking boots that still this earth annoy.

These little flowers are holy and they say 

The proud may be in error in their way

I wish we were on Easby Moor again

Or looking down the hill of hasty bank

The feel of scented flowers where we had lain

We closed our eyes and into bliss we sank

I wish we were near Saltburn on the sands.

I wish we were near Redcar on the coast.

The butterflies, the seagulls and the Band

Your mother liked the sea and sand the most.

Your father liked the hills and heather moors.

You were torn between them, now you’re gone

Your mother bough some honey for her store

Breathing northern air my loving one

When we got to Stamford you were low

Suburban London where no waters flow

I wish we were in Cleveland on the hills

We have to work in London for the bills.

I remember days of sunshine on the moors

On the Cleveland hills the larks still sang

I remember love we were not poor

No living presence now no open door

Yet wildflowers in the silence seem to sing

I remember days of sunshine on the moors

I have many images in-store.

And kind friends nature photographs will send

I remember love, we were not poor.

Keep your heart benign and never sour

It is good to borrow and it’s good to lend

I remember sunshine on the moors

I could feel the sunshine of the moors

Let let the feelings run and never cower

Remember what is good and and then it tend

If you remember love you are not poor

To the poor the riches will descend

If your love is broken let it mend

If you are alone, stretch out your hands.

Of your own possessions make them fewer.

The dust itself will glow with sacred power

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/article/2024/jun/28/labour-nhs-fit-for-the-future-can-it-cut-waiting-times?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

A small river but a broad valley

The field are covered in iced grass

The sun iz sparkling across the whole

On the other side the hills rise up

I like the line of the hilltops

I like the old stone houses in this lane where I deliver post

It feels like Christmas again; it is Christmas.

A full silence envelops me and it’s kindly y grip

My feet are numb again I think I’ve got chilblains

Soon I will be in Oxford and I won’t have chilblains again

And I won’t see this wide valet with a little river and the hills

In the morning sun and the frost sparkling

I won’t see the frozen puddles on the pavement which I like to crack with my heel.

I won’t be a child again nor even an adolescent.

Of course there is Port meadow.

That’s a completely different place from this beautiful bare valley

This is good for solitary walking even spiritual meditation

That is for ice skaters lots of people and fun

Which would you prefer?

I thought that I knew grief: I knew it not

I thought that I had walked its many roads.

But what we learn in pain we can forget

If  grief were a wild beast it’s not a pet

If it has a language there’s no code

I thought that I knew grief;I knew it not

Would I read the clues their alphabet?

If grief is just a trail,it is not broad

Yet what we learn in pain we can forget

Would I die by hanging or be shot?

On our shoulders we must bear the load

I thought that I knew grief I knew it not

See the devil gambling,shall I bet,?

What we learn in grief we can’t forge

Who inscribed our hearts with loves own laws?

Who will be the see and who the saw

I thought that I knew grief I knew it not

When it comes again I won’t forget

https://www.thepoetryhour.com/poems/september-1-1939

Those to whom evil is done do evil in return

W H Auden

https://mg.co.za/world/2024-03-12-care-workers-trapped-in-uks-modern-slave-trade/

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2024/feb/06/uk-care-firm-charged-workers-from-africa-thousands-more-than-cost-of-visa

Since rishi suhak became prime minister last year nobody has ever said a word about the colour of his skin or his origins or his ethnic group

The news…. a supporter of Nigel Farage has  called him an effing Pakistani

I hope that will deter some people from voting for the Reform party. Unfortunately it might have the opposite effect.

When the mayor of London waselected some years ago one of my neighbours said,

I didn’t come to live in this country to be ruled over by a Pakistani. I came to learn the language of Shakespeare.

Well,  sadik khan is a British born man. He is a British citizen except we aren’t citizens

I think that many people hope that brexit would mean that all the Indians would go back to India and the the Celts would go back to Ireland we and all the black people here would go back to China where they came from many years ago by some cruel deception

If the Chinese could go to Africa and we could all stit here and call each other effing British something  or others.

I felt a bit sorry for the prime minister. I hope when he finishes his time as leader of the conservatives etc that he will not go away wi thinking that people think he’s a Pakistani he might be accused of seducing school girls etc it’s a strange world when you can rise to the top of your profession over occasion or job and mix with the higher mighty and then deep down he wonder if people accept you as an equal.

I know  bit about it because I’m a woman

I wonder what Mrs Snatcher would have said if someone uncalled her an effing woman ,?

She wouldn’t be asking for our sympathy unless she was imprisoned for murder.

A poet is not a computer

Neither is she here as your tutor

Learn if you wish

Catch your own fish

Then you will find your own future

Rich deep silence brings pleasures unique
From  peaceful green of  trees where small  birds  hide.
The work within the mind  may be complete

About our souls, we each must be discreet
Even to those  living by our side
Rich deep silence brings treasures unique

Happy to do nothing,nothing seek
Innocent as young, beloved bride
The work within the mind  may be complete

Ignorant of Latin,Hebrew,Greek,
The heart needs no such learning to decide
Rich deep silence brings pleasures unique

I listen to the  world around me speak
Underneath the turmoil,love’s alive
The work within the mind  may be complete

In our world  the sensitive may writhe
Yet, by our intuitions, we may guide
Rich deep silence brings treasures unique
The work within the mind  may be complete

Love and grief have wet my eyes again.

You  abandoned me for the rest I feel alone

Tears run down my cheeks like kind,cold rain

In my heart I feel the bite of pain

I feel it in my flesh and in my bones

Love and  grief have wet my eyes again

My heart is burning in hell’s fiery flames

The torment is alive, your love was home

Tears  run down my cheeks like summer rain

Yet there is no Island, all  is Main.

Would this little heart but turn to stone.

Love and  grief have filled my eyes again

I hide myself, rejection feels like shame

Can  hellfire  drymend what heaven broke?

My tears have formed a sheet of living rain

Every being needs a fitting home.

Yet those we love are only here on loan

Thus love and grief will wet our eyes again

Tears run down my cheeks like love,like rain

https://www.forgottenbooks.com/en

London based firm which has lots of e-books free and also can print books for you as well.

A number of books about art

https://www.thefriendlymind.com/emotional-endurance/

Died while waiting for a wheelchair in the North Middlesex Prison Hospital

You have to wait for an hour for a wheelchair to take you from the entrance to the clinic and then when you finish in the clinic you have to wait to take you back to the door

The wheelchair department has been outsourced to a private company.

Which people are most likely to need wheelchairs?

The elderly

The disabled

Your health does not depend just on your lifestyle and what you do to help yourself it depends on how you are treated by society; without a younger man being with me I would not have been able to access my treatment today.

It certainly makes me less keen to go to the hospital in the future especially as I’ve not recovered from the trauma of my last imprisonment. But that fear of the hospital is bad for me and is it my fault? is it m fault I haf to wait for 36 hours in the corridor on a trolley in April?

https://guardianbookshop.com/weathering-9780349015163

https://nurturingnatures.co.uk/the-lost-joys-of-playing-and-just-being/

Children who are lost in play often evoke a sense of awe in adults, play just has intrinsic value; we do not do it to achieve anything else, although there are often rewarding by-products. We can get lost in play, be taken over by it, and it is no coincidence that the psychoanalyst Winnicott  [5] contrasted play with reality, and argued that the capacity to play, to symbolize, and creativity in general are fundamentally linked.  Harsh realities can sometimes come crashing in to destroy fragile moments of play. Think of the little girl who puts on her mother’s shoes and hat to and is pretending to be a teacher until her mother comes in and harshly asks what she thinks she is doing.  The teacher who has to disrupt children’s game to ask what that colour is or how many beads there are will just kill the play stone dead. Play produces benefits in its own right for the player, spurring other developments, yet it is generally undertaken simply for the joy of it.

https://www.thearticle.com/on-being-bored-and-being-boring

https://www.journal-psychoanalysis.eu/articles/boredom-an-uncanny-guide-to-something-unknown/

I wish we were in Silverdale again

The meadow full of flowers,the nettle’s sting

The boarding house,the hedges rich with song..

The sketch pad,ink, the birthday pen

My brother’s humour and his wacky games

I miss his buoyant face, his eyes untamed

At least he’s not in prison doing time.

I liked the way he misprounced my name.

I wish we were on Windermere today

The bouncing sun,the blossoms rich display

Come back now I love you anyway

My heart was stabbed with death,you went away

I saw your shadow cycling in black rain.

May we help each other with the pain?