Lead us not into devastation

Our Unknown,dwelling in Heaven,

Helloed and helloed be Thy Name.

In Kingdom come, may Your Will be done

As it was not at 9/11

Give us this day,no more Dread.

Forgive us our Christmases,

As we forgive those who Christmas with us.

And lead us not into Devastation

But deliver us great acceptance and kindness

For Thine is the Wisdom,the Love and the Spirit,

As ever was, and shall be.Amen

You were doing the foxtrot and he began to waltz

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Language has different rules.A language can be looked at as a game with rules.But the rules vary,That’s why perfect translation is impossible.Many different perceptions are linked into the vocabulary of each language.And the rules for combination are unique to each.
Like dancing…each society used to have its own form of dance though here it’s died out.Irish and Scottish dancing still exist and are very similar.People entertained themselves by singing their unique songs and dancing together… and playing their own instruments.. violin,tin whistle,piano…
Sometimes you make a friend from another culture.Sometimes you hurt them because your singing and dancing may have seemed similar and then one of you took a step which was not part of any dance the other one knew…. so feelings are hurt or the mind is puzzled.Unless you have very deep trust
You may think they are wanting to hurt you.But it maybe you were doing the foxtrot and they began to waltz, feeling it would be lovely to waltz with you.
Then they tread on your toes,you slap their face and it’s the end of a good friendship.But thinking of it as a confusion of dances may give the event a different meaning which ascribes no blame,just confusion natural in such a case

Now the melancholy’s gone

Now I’m feeling kind of numb on this January day
The darkness came down sudden and I feel it’s here to stay
Shall I make some tea and pretend that you are here
I’m naked like the wood underneath that swish venee

I’m feeling kinda nothin’ now the melancholy’s gone
Should I be doing something that will give me, like, some fun?
The silence is not threatening, but neither is it good
Did you ever wish that you weren’t made of flesh and blood?

I’m feeling so damned stupid for falling on my back
My shoulder was in agony and there’s whiplash in my neck
The doctor, he injected me, but he said it’s down to luck
He may have missed the mark, he says,I wish I’d said,oh fec

Apparently the elderly are not in much demand
I heard a sorta whisper as my head went in the sand
We must keep the silence or we’ll frighten off the young
They don’t seem to notice
but the cat will lick my hand

I didn’t know how old I was till the clock flew off the wall
Isn’t it uncanny what you see before the Fall?

We do not want to hear their their poignant calls

Everything is whirling round my mind,
The lack of government ,  the words unkind
That the poor are  short of food and  clothes
We deny it, everybody knows

Sudden gusts of wind  mock  these old trees
Does the  lure of nature  disappear
When  the butterflies have gone away
Yet the stinging wasps are here to stay?

Once tortured  now abandoned refugees
Can’t make phone calls,  have no mental ease
We make our own defences into walls
We  do not want to hear their their poignant calls

Oh,Lord God take the beam from out my eye
I want to know the  truth before I die

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Find the very worst in some poor man

Unexpressed emotions never die.
We hurt the ones we “love “without a sigh
We fall downstairs and break a bone or ten
We find the worst in all the hopeful men

So now the awful feelings have increased
Someone else is joyful at the feast
We sulk and mope or crack the china mugs
Break our ankles stumbling on the rug

Now we blame the others for our pain
Why did noone notice yet again
We are not the centres of their world
Too proud to say we’re sad in a few word

Decent friends will give us words that heal
If we show emotion, show we feel

Love will need no trick

In my despair I felt that I was stuck
Paralysed by  grief and guilt I failed
By the end I had tried every trick

From prayer unthought to deeps of logic black
My  life, my engine ,juddered off the  rails
I hated God and of “his” Church was  sick

Starving  and alone I was in shock
The death of one I loved   had made me frail
By the end I had tried every trick

I felt  love’s arms around me,  death to block
I knew   this goodness,  why else would I wail?
I   thought I hated God  but Love had struck

Warm and golden light  that  did me hold
Where are you now when refugees  die cold?
Kind despair  that  made me long time sit

By the end I knew  Love needs no trick

The Nightmare Complex


To write a poem I dreamed an undreamed dream
The woods in France deformed by dead young men
A nightmare complex in its perplexed themes

In our dream the narrative has means
To make those killed communicate again
To write a poem I dream an undreamed dream

Later, in another war, trains steam
To take the “insect” Jew, no longer “man.”
A nightmare simple in its evil themes

The little pearls we half see, as we scheme
The evasions we ignored but which remained.
We read a poem, we dream an undreamed dream

Who we are and who we might have been
At 4 am in isolated pain
The Nightmare Complex, come to share your screams

Can any see the world as poets aimed
To recreate the moment where we change?
To write a poem embodies sufferers’ dreams
Nightmares dark and piercing,mobs that maim

Any postmodern poems accepted here in comments

107,279 Jesus Cross Photos - Free & Royalty-Free Stock Photos from  Dreamstime
107,279 Jesus Cross Photos - Free & Royalty-Free Stock Photos from  Dreamstime
107,279 Jesus Cross Photos - Free & Royalty-Free Stock Photos from  Dreamstime

Who am i
The one who writes?
The confluence of streams
Of DNA and lies
Breed evil in many hearts
Bust into the Capitol
Shots were fired
Let’s keep streaming
Out to sea.
I may not exist
But I have a view
I don’t like these actions
Nor mobs who would kill
The world in turmoil watches
Democracy is clear
Hitler didn’t have TV cameras
It must matter.
But see Jesus
No exemptions
The weak
Get it

Be on the wind

Flip the switch and turn malign
The devil has your new designs
In the mountains make your kill
You have got the nerve and will

When you’re done, don’t bother me
Yours the face I shall not see
You who alternate and swing
Like a bird, be on the wind

You could explain, you pity lack
Evoking memories too black
I forgave you three times ten
I won’t forgive your hurts again

You are not the only man
Who thinks the world for him is run

The dam burst

Yout letter seems to overflow with rage
The reservoir of hatred has emerged
The loving kindness vanished without trace

I cannot see the mirror of your face
You used me to contain your anger’s surge
Yout letter, wanton, overflows with rage

Why did you enact your Play in haste?
Why treat me so coldly , why me hurt?
Your act of love has vanished without trace

Do not tell me I was not your taste
You fantasised an image I dispute
Yout letter ,sadly, overflows with rage

I hate to see my love was to you waste
Free speech applies to both, you can’t refute
How could good, true love leave not a trace?

After this, I in my world was mute
I could not speak,my heart and soul pursued
Yout letter uses words to channel rage
You wished to see me naked,this the stage

Postmodern poetry with a poem in the comments

Katherine  March 22, 2018 

By Katherine


Postmodern Poetry

“Superior Lake” by Lorine Niedecker as an Example

  • Conte, Joseph M. Unending Design: the Form of Postmodern Poetry. Introduction.
  • McCorkle, James. ¡§The Inscription of Postmodernism in Poetry.¡¨
General concepts about serial & procedural formsSerial formProcedural form“Lake Superior”

Taiwanese Postmodern Poetry (an Outline in Chinese)Louise Chen, 11/26/1998

Postmodern poetics respond to the condition of the world. In an age of instant telecommunications and metropolitan life, the postmodern serial and procedural forms attempt to accommodate the overwhelming diversity of messages and the lapse of a grand order that is replaced by an arbitrary personal order.

I. Language

A.  In postmodern poetics, there is a paradigmatic shift from the idea that language is
transparent to the disclosure of its physicality, its intimacy, its obdurate persistence, and its
paradoxical fragility. (M 43)

B. Reader¡Xpoem:

The reader’s position is contingent upon the poem and the poem¡¦s existence hinges upon
the reader and the varieties of knowledge the reader brings to the poem¡KThe adequation of
thing and sign has lapsed with the realization of the arbitrary condition of language. (M 43)

II. Self

A. Contemporary poetry:

1. Contemporary poetry positions its perspectives from a persona (who is often autobiographic) within a defined narrative structure.
2. Contemporary poetry avoids self-criticism and establishes itself as a singled unified voice. (M 48)

B. Postmodern poetry:

1. Postmodernist poetics suggests an ongoing reinterpretation of the self in the context of others. It specifically investigates the ethical-or self-critical capacity of language and its relationship to identity. (M 46)2. The critique of the privileged and entitled ¡§I¡¨ is central to postmodern poetics. While not a wholesale endorsement of many theoretic claims to he death of the author or the abandonment of intention, postmodern poetry nonetheless insists on a re-visioning of the authorial voice and its reception. (M 46)

Her voice

The ice in the eye
Invisible glass
Splinters the vision
Light can harass.

Panic makes feints
Like dancing with skates
She passed out in angst
Traumatic the date

The clutch at the heart
Oxygen, gas
Loosen your grip
The glory, the waste

Where is the horse?
Where are the olives?
Where is her voice?

Words like stones

Now we are Great Britain all alone
Even Ulster may soon separate
Across the Irish sea and its bright foam

We have frenzied quarrels,not debate
Words are thrown with violence like sharp stones
The B ritish people are degenerates

OK you think the EU overgrown
You long for English culture that has passed
Why the hatred, why the shouts and moans

Now we can’t go out, the virus swarms
Isolation ends the Brexit War
Perhaps it helps our feelings , perhaps ends scorn

We hear the News and most of its a bore
Noone trusts the experts,Gove proclaims
In that case what are experts even for?

A “patriot” did kill Jo Cox,oh,Name
Before the Referendum, who’d have guessed?
Are we so at risk, who is to blame?

Is our devastation now our Test?
Is compassion stronger, even blessed?
Give the victims,Lord their welcome rest

What is a terza rima poem?


Glossary of Poetic Terms

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Terza rima

An Italian stanzaic form, used most notably by Dante Alighieri in Commedia (The Divine Comedy), consisting of tercets with interwoven rhymes (ABA BCB DED EFE, and so on). A concluding couplet rhymes with the penultimate line of the last tercet. See Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind,” Derek Walcott’s “The Bounty,” and Omeros, and Jacqueline Osherow’s “Autumn Psalm.”

Browse more poems in terza rima.

Our bodies and their songs

Your breath became my spirit,made me live
You touch me as I breathe air in and out
I feel your presence in my heart’s inside

You have made our bodies, there’s no doubt
Growing from two cells, the urge is strong
The body’s wishes are not sinful now

In the schizoid era, flesh seems wrong
The intellectuals are the most admired
Yet we need our bodies and their songs

Ideas, more than loving, are desired
Sex and our poor bodies make us sin
Yet th damned chaste sing in Hell’s own choirs

Breath of God, the clay made into flesh
We continue in the holy work
No creation can be kept suppressed

May our lively bodies be well blessed
Loving into being all the world
Breathing in and breathing out God’s dust


Too old for cold,I stand, now ,against the hedge,
Watching the snowflakes in the glare of neon street lamps.
Darkness has come early,and 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?

Bill,Bill,my mother’s dad

Bill.Bill.my mother’s dad
Down the coal mine he did dig
When he was but a young lad

He was never very big
He spoke in the old dialect
He had a dog, a pipe, no cig

Silent,smiling, starving wrecked
He sent kids to a soup kitchen
Learned to read, but knew few facts

Went to London,saw Big Ben
Still angry from the General Strike
Aye,he were a silent man

He walked at night, he had no bike
To the coal mine with his cat
The cat sat waiting till first light

Then they walked, he did head maths
His wife had died, the son was born
When he got home, he had a bath

His father worked in fields of corn
Peasants on the Chesire farms
The pay was poor, were up at dawn

He himself were on good terms
With his neighbours, Irish, torn
He went to Mass,so Latin learned

My mum was th’eldest of those born
She had me,my own dad died
She went mad, she was forlorn

Lost her mother, then she tried
To help her Dad with all her heart
Never wept and never cried

Then she made a different start
Met my dad and married late
So I am here with my own charts

Is it destiny or fate
Why am I down here, d’you ken?
I see you grandad, is it late?

Whistling in the dark

I went up to the blackboard and I wrote there, x,y,z
But the lecture room was empty, they were still in bed
I was feeling angry, so would you.I guess
I had written 20 lectures, I hoped for some success

I tore up all the handouts and threw them on the chairs
I rarely lose my temper, but why should they keep theirs?
I longed to explain Calculus, but noone ever did
Nor why Eve was neatly made, just out of Adam’s rib

I went into the Staff Room,I got myself some tea
I think it was the only thing that lecturers got free
Except those pens for whiteboards, and paper for our notes
Cheapest type of ballpens, sweets for our sore throats.

I got onto my bicycle,I went for a long ride
I could have has a wedding dress, if I were a bride
I could have had a coat of fur with matching hat and boots
But I went down to Foyles again where they might cook some books

Then I was in Dillons and then I went to Heals
I have got no furniture but I do know how it feels
I went onto the Underground to get to Finbury Park
Alas, when I got out again, it seemed to have gone dark

I came back home and drank more tea, the house seemed very quiet
I heard Leonard Cohen whistling in the dark

Emile’s nerve

Stan was happy for a few moments when he woke up.Then he realized Emile was not anywhere to be seen.Mary had already gone out as she wanted to catch a very early train to London.She needed to visit the British Library.She urgently wanted to find evidence that Wittgenstein wore a hat in bed.
Stan went searching around the house but Emile had vanished.Usually at 8 am he would be dashing about pretending to chase flies and giving a balletic performance worthy of Sadler’s Wells.
I wonder who Sadler was, Stan muttered as he filled the kettle with fresh water and put some Earl Grey tea into the teapot.
Then, a strange feeling came over him.He looked up and there was Emile
crouched on top of the highest cupboard in the kitchen.
Emile, he cried, What are you doing up there?
I’m training to be a spy, Emile replied nonchalantly.
But how could this kitchen be of interest to the Intelligence Services?
Well, the cat murmured, I am practicing hiding.
You gave me a terrible shock, Stan said.I had this feeling I was being watched.I wondered if it was paranoia.Then I saw your gleaming eyes.
So, you need to get some dark glasses, Emile said.
No ,I would still feel that horrible feeling.And how were you planning to get down from that high ledge?
I’m not sure, the cat meowed faintly
Well, the first lesson for a spy or even a detective is,
Never go anywhere unless you can make a quick exit,
As it is ,I may have to ring 999.
Just then the front doorbell rang.There stood a man with a white beard and moustache.
Hello ,he said holding out his hand to shake Stan’s.
I am called Peter Fried.I have just moved into one of the new flats across the road.I am a psychoanalyst.
I have taken on another flat to use as a consulting room and a waiting room
A psychoanalyst! Do we need one round here?
Well, Good morning, I have just brewed some tea.Would you like to join me?
How kind, said Peter.
I say, old bean, did you know there’s a cat on top of your cupboard?
Yes, that is Emile.Today he has surpassed himself in wickedness.How I will get him down I don’t know.
My training analyst used to say, What goes up must eventually come down.
That seems a bit weird for an analyst.To what was he referring… something to do with sex I don’t doubt.It’s all sex with you people.
Yes, some of us are very peculiar…that’s why we enter the profession.
What I meant was, if Emile got up he can get down.How did you get up, Emile?
I leaped, answered the tense animal.
Can you leap down?
I’ve lost my nerve, replied the poor creature softly.
Well, as it happens, being a therapist, I always carry few spare nerves with me.I’ll climb up this step ladder and pass you a new nerve.
And without waiting, Peter climbed the ladder.He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a golden thread.
Here you are,Emile, Catch this in your claw.
Emile caught the golden thread and wrapped it around his neck.
Can you leap down now? enquired Stan.
Emile leaped down and landed in a bowl of hot water in the sink.
It’s a good thing I wasn’t making chips, laughed Stan hysterically
Come here, Emile and let me dry you on this old towel.He put Emile
in front of the fire and he and Peter drank mugs of Earl Grey tea.
I have got a mistress, Stan told Peter.
Well, do you want therapy for your conflict?
Oh,no.I’m far too old for therapy or indeed for a  mistress.
She liked helping a man ,making tea, typing notes, calculating averages and calling the ambulance.. you know what I mean.She likes the paramedic, Dave ás well.
Is she not married?
No , her husband fell into the wheelie bin during the night and alas he was taken away with the rubbish.
That is a strange story.Are you certain?
No, it could be he grew tired of her and ran away.Then she invented this story,
Well , this may be a quiet suburb but I can see there is plenty of material here for me to write my next book:
Deceptive appearances and the fascination of apparent dullness.
Oh, that sounds very unusual.
Well, I’ve never believed in true dullness.There is always a story.
See, I’ve just met you a man of 98 yet you have a wife, a mistress and a crazy cat.. and I’ve only been here for one day.Imagine 

what else I may discover here.
They heard a siren.
Oh, no!We’ve not even rung 999 and here is the ambulance….
Mary will be so angry.You see Dave is bisexual
My goodness, are you having an affair with him.
No way, shouted Stan.My life is tough enough already.He can be bisexual or even trisexual but I’m not interested.
What does trisexual mean, enquired Emile.
I have no idea but I thought it sounded good, admitted Stan.
Peter stood up.
I think I’d better go home and start to see my patients.
Now Emile, put your nerve somewhere safe.We don’t want you to lose it again.
Thank you, darling cried Emile.I think I’ve formed an erotic transference with you already.
Peter rushed out.
Is it me or is it them?he wondered.
I thought it would be quiet here on the edge of Knittingham but I think now wherever you are there will always be something unexpected happening.But I hope Emile will not begin to follow me around.I shall have to buy a lady cat and then Emile might fall in love with her instead.So off Peter went whistling a Bach cello suite and wondering how to cope with life in a suburb.. clearly it was not as dull as he had imagined


midsummer days evoke the trancelike past
where children played in joyous, daisied fields
with buttercups so bright the memory lasts
a freedom that our conscious growth will steal.

those stones and leaves and many coloured flowers
were gathered into images that glow
yet later we forget those treasured hours
when for a while we lived in life’s deep flow

we did not look and see,but felt at one
we lived as did the birds high in the trees
now we write , experiencing has gone
we cannot live like flowers filled with bright bees

to lose ourselves in nature is a joy
which to our adult selves we must restore

Why did Jesus have no shoes

Why did Jesus have no shoes?
He had sent his soles to be heeled.

Why did Jesus not wear trousers?
Jewish tailoring had not got that far 2,000 years ago.

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Did Jesus drive a car?
Drive a car what?

Did Jesus write letters?
They had no Royal Mail then and soon we shan’t either.

Why did Jesus go to a comprehensive school?
He wanted to widen his appeal.

Did Jesus iron his clothes?
It was before the Iron Age.

Am I sure I’ll go to heaven?
Stop going to sex shops and wearing red bras and you should be ok
How about this atom bomb here in my pocket?
Please, let it drop,I beg you

Marry a domino

Why did the Iraq War begin in 2004?
Because the Iraq Goverment had made too many Mass Suggestions
Because George Bush wanted to play with his toy boys

Why did WW1 start?
A wrong turning in a taxi
They forgot about aeroplanes

How about WW2?
Because Hitler was suicidal
Because there were not enough jobs
The home fires stopped burning
WW1 never ended
It does young men good to learn how to behave
Because Europe wanted to commit suicide
Then Japan did

Why did Edward the 8th abdicate?
His mother didn’t like his beloved.
Vice versa.
He wanted to marry a domino
He wanted to commit a terror
He was impotent
He was impatient
None of the above?

A Faux Happy New Year

Do you like my new coat,Annie asked Mary?
Ye Gods, where have you got that from?
I got in online in a salea
The shoulders are too wide for you so the sleeves cover your hands completely
Well, it did say “relaxed fit” and ” dropped shoulders” and I won’t need gloves
You look terrible in it.It’s like an oversized tweed balloon and it’s very long
I don’t mind long
You look as if you are pregnant with triplets

Well, since I murdered my husband I’ve had no man in my bed.
How about in the shed?<
Mind your own business.I am not with child
I was just saying how you look that’s all
Just saying!Where is your coat from?
Marks and Spencers
Does it have a touch of wool?
No, it said:with wool
And was it?
Yes, there was a ball of wool in the pocket
Are you sure it’s not “faux wool” ?
Where’s that from?
Faux sheep.
What are they?
Dogs with acrylic coats
Do they alter their genes?
No, just their faux jeans
What are faux jeans?

The opposite of real jeans
And how can we tell the difference?
You need Faith like when you believe a piece of bread is turned into God.
I agree with that
So why don’t you go to church?
There’s only a faux Church here
So it looks like a Church but it is not?
Yes, they believe in Quaternity
Four persons in one God?
Or four gods in one person

Or are they demons?
Yes, they crossed the Channel in a bath
Did the police find them?
Not as far as I glow.

Deep down in the earth

Cold dull winters bring us close to death
The blood grows thick and scarcely does it move
The worms may shudder deep down in the earth

This damp coldness presses out our breath
The frost and ice, the memory delude
Cold dull winters bring us close to death

Do we need the sun to give us worth?
Low in oxygen, the mind’s confused
The worms have nightmares deep down in the earth

Should we pause, these issues to address?
In this Lockdown, where should we confess?
Cold dull winters bring us close to death

Wonder now what makes our voices terse
With no priests, who shall this poor world bless?
The worms may sleep deep down inside the earth

On each other,let us not intrude
Let all loving kindness be our food
Cold dull winters bring us close to death
Like worms that slumber deep down in the earth