Is God unknowable?

 

 

Photo by Mike Flemming

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/belief/2013/jan/08/god-unknowable-faith

 

“The more you claim to know God and attempt to delineate his nature the less likely you are to have hit the bull’s eye.

It is only possible to escape from this impasse by re-orienteering our thought forms. Faith is not the progressive unearthing of God’s nature but a recognition that he/she is fundamentally unknowable. The signpost points not to growing certainty but towards increasing non-knowing. This is not as outrageous as it seems. An apophatic thread, a belief that the only way to conceive of God is through conceding that he is ineffable, runs throughout Christian history. Jan Van Ruysbroeck, the 14th century Augustinian and man of prayer, maintained that “God is immeasurable and incomprehensible, unattainable and unfathomable”. St John of the Cross, one of the pillars of western mysticism, put it even more succinctly: “If a man wishes to be sure of the road he travels on, he must close his eyes and walk in the dark”

“

The panthers in ths zoo

There’s a pandemic of shoplifting
There’s panic  and there’s flu
So will the  pandemonium
Affect  black panthers in the zoo?

There’s a lack of awe and wonder
There’s  no insight and no you
There’s only my big ego
And Sylvia Plath is overdue

She’s coming to see Lazarus
Now he’s a lady too
Sex and gender,  love and hate
Ted is feeling blue

She spoke Chaucer to the swans
And they   answered, Who are you?
She looked a  little frantic
Asylum seeker,Jew.

She got married to her Teddy
What other man would do?
The perfect other, shaman
But they ran out of glue

Her poetry was awesome
In bed she always knew
Ted Hughes was  just a messenger
He asked her what to do

The panther killed the lady
And ate her in  a stew
Now he’s back in Africa
And they closed the Zoo

Oh, what   does    ambition do now
On a dung heap you’re the   best
It’s ambition or it’s destiny
Tell them you’re a pest

If a  woman bites your face
And  leaves teeth marks as well
The very latest evidence says
Your love  life will be hell.

They’re running up the walls now
They  painted   all the lights
Who  knows who and why is why
Nothing is  no sight

T

Just the flower

fritillaria_pontica2016-1We are not  straight lines so why compare
The way we  look,  our reading age, our hair
How we pronounce words,  our accents broad
The way we skip or cross the  road, break codes
The speed of mind, imagination’s wit
God Himself and  his sweet Paraclete
Was Peter  better than  his friend St Paul
Who wailed  higher up the Wailing Wall
Was Jesus more than holy. was  he  God?
Bring the measure and its special rod
Is my  joined up writing   quite the best?
Do I boil my hankies  cleaner than the rest
Things that matter have no  linear scale
Ask Jonah if his was the  supreme whale
And if someone sticks a label on your  chest
Saying you are  the loser in the tests
Tell them   we are not a piece of string
Many aspects  make us just the thing

Lucky is the conscript with his pun

Oh,false Britain when the sun was low
Could you not bomb Auschwitz, torture den?
Light blinds our eyes  yet soon the world would know
I rarely see bare branches birch trunks, glow.
Yet here they stand  like candles , who may come?
Oh,false Generals  like the sun  you’re low
My mind feels  high as codeine , my heart’s  cold
Here the hare runs ,awed  by dawning sun
Light helped men   to kill  Jews  for teeth gold
This summer is a fake with  its mixed modes
Lucky is the conscript with  their pun
Oh,false summer light breaks ,blackbirds run
See the leader, envy  not their  gun
With all his weapons he can’t   fire the sun
Oh,false summer, light dance, fire may roast
We   turn  black with rage, oh holy ghosts  

Buy an e-pistol now

 

 

My Irish accent was so bad it perforated UIster
I asked for  Chicken Kerry in the chip chop
Do we really need Cork’s?
I said,Donegal, not, don’t call
The dentist  lanced my access.
She said I need evasive surgery on my left jaw.Is that right?
And on  the right side I need  to be removed from the legions
He said, try not to  brood but tell us if  it  gets Blogger.
She is  sure  of   chancers  in  the family.
I can get free radiation  from the sun not the NHS
Please  don’t kill Kenny.He’s eaten my dinner.Let him die jestin’
They keep taking  the add on  hordes off me
My phone never stings
Lord  have Mercia
I might be on  the Border after  they check mate me
She died rather than mention  her  vulgar
I’m in dire beet,Tess.Tell me you’re in sin
My book is here.It’s contented.
Have you read the e-pistles yet?
I prefer opera

 

Come with me

Come with me,I know a secret path
From Windermere  Train Station to the lake
We’ll run down  through the trees and   the lush grass

Coloured boats are sailing,see them pass
And there is a ferry we might take
Come with me,I know the secret path

The wildflowers look eternal in their grace
Here we heal our hearts. compassion waits.
We’ll  go down  through the trees and the lush grass

On these waves I see the Sacred Face
We are not condemned by   God   or fate
Come with me,I know a secret place

In  our time, we find the narrow gate
Open,   if we marry love and  hate
The sunshine  makes my body feel embraced
Oh, Windermere, where birds sing sweet in praise

 

 

 

Leave a message

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Mike Flrmming copyright 2020

Sorry I’m  not  hearing,Leave a message
I can’t  take calls this week,I have a deadline
My   ringer is on and off
I am in bed with a man.He reads  meters.Please don’t call him names
My phone bill is too high.Please  call another idiot savant
I  only skype now since the desktop broke
I don’t like your voice.Go elsewhere
Mother! I thought you had died.Please  ring 999  or  the Mail
Father, no  she is not here.
Neither are you
Thanks for calling me names
I can’t take any more calls.Please  email me at
2evil4you@.gmail.com
nasty123@tahoo.moc
coldheart 23@boho.net
iamfunnynow@harrowed.com
frantic22@ymail.com

The call

Hello.God here.We have a message
Please press 9 to continue
I am just going to put you on hold for a minute
Thank you we  value your call
Sorry, you are 24th in the queue
You can leave your numbet and we will call you back asap
All   calls are  recorded for  training  tortoises
Thank you for  quaking.We value your privac
I am God
Please dial 111 now
Thank yoi for phoning
Please ring 999  for  emergencies
Please hang up now and call  our Helpline at MIND

Songs of the Sixties and earlier

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If you’re going to ban Francisco
If they’re flowing to  random  outlets
The Sound of Sight Loss
The Sound of Eye Lids
The Pound is Eye Wash
I’ll be your eye tart
Ribchester Cathedral  you”re bringing my down
If you’re seeing the  massive shootings
Life  is what happens when you’re shaking a blue hand
Withering Heights
The bounds of silence
Scarlet Widows with no hair

Products

Ariel, as used by Sylvia Plath in her Bendix
Fairy Snow…. to wash  your knickers a whiter shade of pale.
Fairy Liquid … as passed by real fairies in  the  chanbers
Simple Soap  for people with IQ 65 and a higher degree in mathematics
Talcum Powder…  it’s your cervix  you’re wreckinge
Rock Buns purely from Great Gable,,,  what?

 

The truth  is hinted at by many lies

I  might have seen there are  a  dozen ways
Perceptible when  near the edge we lie
We take some steps but we don’t have to  stay

What if we don’t have the words to say
We have to go  or  hearts will surely die
I wish I’d  seen there is  another way

Of our life, how many are the days
Few or less with a loved girl or guy
We take some steps but we don’t have to  stay

The  highest form of art is the surprise
The truth  is hinted at by many lies
Could I  have seen there is  another way?

I was  startled when I heard  love’s prayers
The ones who speak don’t need to advertise
We take some steps but we don’t have to  stay

I  might have seen there are  a  dozen ways
Perceptible when  near the edge we lie
We take some steps but we don’t have to  stay

Every moment  now  a baby dies
We  gawp in windows  with our yellow eyes
We  might have seen there are   more caring ways
The anguished  start but why  will noone stay?

 

 

 

 

Won’t power

Willpower is a tool, but what’s its end?
Hitler willed to make a perfect state
The Jew, the gypsy and the gays he bound

Thinking must be based on solid grounds
If that is missing,madness is  our fate
Logic is a tool, but what’s its end?

We may will an evil that resounds
With efficient railways  never late
The Jews, the gypsies and the gays were burned

Oh,crazed efficiency,oh  Hitler’s gangs
Force of will was harnessed to distaste
Willpower’s just a tool, have we not learned?

God  wrote to the people with his Word
Stammering now, reluctant   he dictates
The  postman comes, the letter must be shared

Pride and arrogance  will  soon ignite
High IQ  is useless against  hate
Willpower is a tool, but what’s its end?
When wrongly used,the evil will ascend

 

 

To heal the earth

Hellebore_2020-5We are not the ones to judge our worth
God’s    attention is  for this alone
We  love and find vocation  on the earth

Some are born with what feels like a  curse
Others have  been keen to cast sharp stones
We are not the best judge of our worth

Accidents of time, of place, of birth
Lack of vision,nowhere to call home
Disrupt the  virtue of our life  on  earth

Important  to love God and  enjoy mirth
To  laugh at our pretensions, grin and groan
We are not the best judge of our worth

There is no linear scale. we should not stress
Some may discern value  we don’t know
Acceptance is the aim of  life on earth

And when we’re stricken by a heavy blow
Inside our little hearts is one who knows
We are not the best judge of our worth
We must love and  work  to heal the earth

 

 

 

 

 

Oliver Sacks’ autobiography

Photos by Mike Flemming 

 

 

Sacks says, “At times, the world seems rife with malevolence, chaos. I am almost overwhelmed, but then it suffices for me

to perceive the spectacle of quiet goodness, say the Little Sisters of the Poor, and everything is all right.

Fascinating

A Dead Sea Cruise

She was built like a brick shithouse
Ya, born with a silver spoon in her mouth
Her momma was like an old brown mouse
And her pa was just a slimy stuck up louse.

She was built like an old doghouse
On the top, sharp eyed vultures used to roost
Her brother has gone for a Dead Sea cruise
Her sister wants to let all hell break loose.

She was in for life with those smart  sharp spooks
A creepy horror in every nook
Her ma never learned her how to cook
She ain’t never even read a single book.

No aphrodisiac ain’t of much use
When the true Furies are on the loose.
Do what you can to cook thet goose
Ain’t so good to blow your own fuse.

No,those Furies are on the ball
They come looking for us one an’ all.
Keep  face hid and ego small…
What’s thet dark shadow on your wall?

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the  passing there

Had worn them really about  the same,

 

And both that morning  equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

I took the one less travelled  by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Poetry Pharmacy Returns 

The most stupid thing I’ve read for years

 

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https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/shortcuts/2020/jan/27/get-another-room-should-you-have-a-dedicated-sex-den-in-your-home

 

With many homeless people here and across the world, why does the Guardian say we may need a separate room  for sexx in addition to a bedroom? How many people have a house large enough?Who is  the Guardian writing for?
We already have the  fashion pages with ludicrously expensive clothes…… is it time to
Grexit?

Why not go into a wood if you want some thrill?

How we long to speak,why are we dumb?


How we long to   speak and yet we’re dumb
Fearing   we shall sound like ignorant fools
Waiting for our first   communion

When will  we feel safe, not quiet nor numb?
Alexithmyic,affectless,how cruel
How we long to speak, why are we dumb?

How we odd ones value every crumb
How we want to learn , to use our tools
Waiting for our first   communion

By the weight of politics undone
This was never taught in any school
How we long to speak, why are  we dumb?

Economic miracle,. God’s come!
No log  like this was ever made for Yule
Nor for our own first   communion

Stay away from Logic and George Boole
Poetic life needs metaphors not rules
How we long to   speak, why are we dumb
Struggling for  the lost communion?

In such a moment all thought dies

A beam of light passed through my eyes
And showed to me a world disguised
So near,yet far,we do not see,
Unless by gift of grace redeemed
That world is full of peace and calm
Its colors mingle,like a balm.
In such a moment all thought dies,
Revealing Love which underlies.
Colors caress my naked eyes.
Sunlight blesses new designs.
I stand enthralled,and do not wish
For one delight,other than this.
My breath slows down, and filled with joy,
I rove my eyes with bliss to toy.
Everything is just itself.
This is now my living wealth.
Beneath the noise of city traffic,|
This mellow joy,love soporific,
This depth and peace, is always near
When we choose Love and turn from fear

The secret self  shrinks and  the falseness blooms

Time when life divides, it has two streams
One is on the surface, one  below
The secret self, the other one assumes.

I  walk on as the gap grows wider,screams
One shakes hands and one hides,  stamping low
The secret self, the other one assumes.

Can I  link the two or must I dream?
Times when life was gentler and more slow
The unknown self,  the outer it consumes

Now one is riding high to crash and bloom
Will death be the outcome,I don’t know
The secret self, the other they assume

The longer I go on,  the  nom de plumes,
The silent axe, the present danger grown
The unknown self,  the outer it consumes

Cannot   someone sew  me ,mend my holes
Help me, Lord,I have no place to go
Time when life divides in its two streams
The secret self  shrinks and  the falseness blooms

 

 

 

 

Aching

My skin is aching,tender, loss  has pierced
My heart needs walls, its boundary has gone
I miss the touch of love from him so dear

A belt of metal pins  brought me tears
Why suffer this till I  am quite undone?
My skin is aching,tender,  by loss pierced

We forget that grief is close to fear
Then alone, we panic, what’s to come?
I ache without the love from him so dear

Psychotic with no unity, who steers
My head  is so remote,I have no plan
My skin is aching,tender, by loss pierced

Cursed be the One who made our sphere
Since Eden went,by  so called  sin undone
I ache without the love from  someone dear

I should   get my cell, like Julian
Hide inside the church wall, will Love come?
My skin is aching,tender, loss  has pierced
Uncaressed by him  whom I held dear

 

 

 

 

 

Thinking, love

Love thinking about you.

Love,thinking about you.

Love thinking,about you......

Thinking about you,love.

Thinking love about you.

You, thinking about love.

You thinking about love?

You love thinking about....

You about,thinking love?

About you,love,thinking.

About thinking,love you.

About.com,Love Thinking

Love About.com, Thinking

Thinking,love About.com.

Come love,stop thinking.

How come there's love about?

Think about it

Creating love from endless tiny sparks

First posted on August 25, 2017

Our roots are in another kind of earth
Invisible,  yet felt in guts and heart
Unlike the trees that bow down at our birth

Ignorant of our roots, now torn  and worse
We come to grief and all its  little parts.
Our roots are in another kind of earth

Our conception,  to the sperm, is merry mirth
The egg is eager for her life to start
Unlike the trees that, windy, flounce and curse.

We do not know what our deep roots are worth
Till sad we see our angels each depart
Our roots are in  some other kind of earth

We grow,enlarge, and learn a language first
Then in our home grown  narrative we star
Unlike the trees that bowed down at our birth

Creating love from endless tiny sparks
The form of every universe  must start.
Our roots are in another kind of earth
With fabled  trees entrancing every birth

Limericks on ladies

event fireworks shower of sparks pyrotechnics
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

There was a young lady from Barnet
Who wore no damn clothes, just a hairnet
When she was asked why
She said,I’m a spy
I write on my skin or the carpet

There was a young lady from Ealing
Who had glued her bed onto the ceiling
Her partner fell off
Disturbed by  a cough
Then he felt  drunk, because his head was reeling

There was a young lady in Venice
Who thought men were naught but a menace
Then she met one called Jack
Who filled every lack
Then they had lessons  in tennis

Why are you not narrow minded?

Mike Flemming 2020 copyright

 

 

 

Why are you paranoid
Well, my mother was.

Why are you Paranoid?
I was born there

Why are you not paranoid?
I have a trust fund

Why are  you sceptical?
I was poisoned

Why are you not  Voting?
I was born in Pakistan   though my dad was Voting.

Why are you Anxious?
My mother lived  with  an Anxy for ages

Am I French?
No,I want to leave.

In my  absence, posts will be written by ghosts
Are they writers?
Well, they  learned to  print well  enough
Can anyone print?
If they have a hand
Well, they can’t have mine
How mean
That’s not a sentence
Alright you can  go to jail for a  year.
Where is it?
Next you’ll be asking for sheets
What else can I print on?
Not my Egyptian cotton,for sure.
I prefer paper
How come?
I  can  offer the back of my hand
But we can’t sell that.
You can put me in a  Gallery
It pays
But please feed me.
You’re on  FB.
Take me down
Order,order

Why do they stamp on my feet?
They want to post you on a blog
I prefer letterboxes
Or pillar boxes
If they are not salt

 

Take me in your  hands ,  give me a soul

From  my fragments, what can be retrieved?
Is  my story finished and untold?
Am I real or have I been deceived?

Is there goodness,   will my pain recede?
On the art of life must one be bold
From  my fragments, what can be retrieved?

I am proud, and I shall never plead
Though my heart is saddened and grows cold
Am I real or have I been deceived?

What has any worth, what are my deeds?
Into whose heart might my heart unfold?
From  my fragments, what can be retrieved?

I did not suffer from the sin of greed
I posses no silver and no gold
Am I real or have I been deceived?

Oh God in whose name many goods are sold
Take me in your  hands ,  give me a soul
Of  my fragments, what can you retrieve?
Am I real and here,  are You  deceived?

 

 

 

La belle dame sans merci

Garrya-elliptica-2020-1

https://poets.org/poem/la-belle-dame-sans-merci

 

 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

John Keats – 1795-1821

 

https://literarydevices.net/la-belle-dame-sans-merci/ [analysis]

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
  And the harvest’s done.

I see a lilly on thy brow,
  With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
  Full beautiful, a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
  A faery’s song.

I made a garland for her head,
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
  And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
  And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
  I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
  And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes—
  So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
  And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
  On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried—”La belle Dame sans merci
  Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
  With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
  On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
  Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.