I’m getting some new glasses
To wear upon my head
I think they’re multicoloured
Better red than dead.

I need  a pair of new ones
In case I lose my this pair
I think they are transitional
Does anybody care?

I went to Cafe Nero
I could have been in Rome
The people were so beautiful
I’m reluctant to stay home

Then I went to visit Lorna
A friend with three degrees
She  has orchids on her mantelpiece
Thank God, they never freeze

 I left the heater in the hall
In case the cat was cold
Blacky cannot speak  yet
But he is growing bold

He runs out via the kitchen
When my back is turned
He’s like a  nuclear weapon
So fast he causes burns

I listen to Mr Cohen
I like Jenny Warnes
She sings  his famous songs  again
I feel like I’m reborn

Now it is the weekend
I   like the book reviews
I like to be with my old friend
Forget about the News

I love you Mr Cohen ,yes I do
I see you and hear you every single day
I have a secret passion just for you

I felt  deep sorrow ,I was feeling blue
I tried to see and hear it  in your  way
I love you Leonard ,yes I do,I do

The End of Love is never, in my view
I love your band when  you all  sing and play
I have a secret passion, it is you!

I seem to follow like you are a clue
If we met I wonder what we’d say
I love you Eliezer,  yes I do.

The puzzlements of love  and hate  are due
We who feel your questions ,feel half crazed
We  all have  secret passions just for you

I love Picasso,and I love Paul Klee
I love the blossom trees that bloom  in May
I love you Mr Cohen ,how I do!
I  cannot hide my passion, it’s your due

The only way out of the cycle of violence is to listen to the pain of the other.

Dr Chris L,Minnick

It is too often forgotten that the gift of speech, so centrally employed, has been elaborated as much   for the purpose of concealing thought by dissimulation and lying as for the purpose of elucidating and communicating thought. – Wilfred Bion

Freud and the Imagination

yt
“I should perhaps here state explicitly something that will, I suspect, already have become  clear; that I have no wish to dilate on the psychodynamics of the literary imagination. I must, however, state my impression, my conviction, that people who possess negative capability to a high degree seem not to conceive of themselves as opposed to an alien environment which they have to master by “irritable reaching after fact and reason,”    but   rather as a part of the universe which is capable of absorbing the whole into itself and then re-creating it by distillation in imaginative works; in other and psychoanalytical words, their relationship to “external reality” remains identificatory, without any drawing of impermeable ego boundaries between themselves and other people and other things. And secondly, they seem to be refreshingly free from the conventional notion that activity is masculine and passivity is feminine, and can therefore oscillate between active and passive states of being without feeling that their identity is threatened by doing so. As a result they can, for instance, imagine themselves into characters of the opposite—or rather other—sex as readily as into characters of their own.”

I wrote this in November but I reproduce it as it relates to my post about Dreams

This photo is by Mike Flemming 2020 copyright

Enlightened by  the    feel of  soft sunbeams
Knowing it is  stronger to sit still
The entrance  opens to the  hall of dreams

The eye grows wide. our vision   limpid leans
Until our  reverie has   got its fill 
The mind’s intentions and its wandering schemes

Warnings come in nightmares, how to heed?
The pain grows stronger like a workman’s drill
The pathway   leads to far more fearsome dreams

Are we  puppets strangling on our leads?
Who ‘s the master, who  must pay the bill,
Receive the mind’s intentions and its schemes?

High and low  let interact  and  tell
How  to find our way  and what   to kill
The entrance  opens to world of dreams
The mind’s intentions, its mutating schemes

You need a subscription to read all of the review below

 

FROM:

The Last Wilderness

Charles Rycroft

MAY 29, 1997 ISSUE

Private Myths: Dreams and Dreaming

by Anthony Stevens

Harvard University Press, 385 pp., $15.95 (paper)

 

EXTRACT

We must heed Liam Hudson’s (1985) warning that dreams are our “last wilderness,” to be protected with the same fervour as the rain forests, the ozone layer, and the whale. As the only natural oases of spiritual vitality left to us, dreams are among our most precious possessions and we must stand up to those who would diminish the value that we place on them.

Image by Mike Flemming 2020 copyright

So my copse has  ripened to a wood
How many living creatures dwell within?
The shades of green, the sunshine, and  the Good

Once we  had three apple trees,a glut
Today, too old to fruit, they stand there still
My copse has turned into a  little wood

Neighbours  hint that I get  my trees cut
Yet these leaves of green make my heart full
The shades of green, the sun the wind ,the gods

Once we read there was a total Flood
Now we have the bush fires and their will
Still, my copse has turned into a wood

Trees have their green sap where we have blood
They will never wound,  will never kill
The shades of green, the sun the wind ,the gods

Just like Eve and Adam we may sin
The maple waves away my mental pain
My copse has turned into my private wood
The shades of green,  the long path, come my Love.

I just saw a ridiculous term   a coat  “with a hint of wool” ?

Strictly speaking, would that not mean it reminded you of wool  while not being wool?

Other uses

Wool blend
A touch of wool
With wool for warmth [30-50%]
With wool …. could be 1.5%
Italian wool fabric [11%]
Winter warmer with wool [ a ball?]

1
Soup of the Prey
Onion Croup
Chicken Froth
Vegetarian Bean Duped
Ma’s Night Jelly
Avocado Prayers with Lemon and Olives (Boiled)

2
Corned Beef Crash with Lash
Toad on the Whole
Fish with Lips
Sausages Past
Beef Miaow and Ballad
Roast Pram and Lint Sauce
Holly Flowers Wheeze
Willy Fun Barmy

3
Iced Reams with Rasps
Mice Sudden and Fried Eyedrops
Fresh Foot Salad and Beans
Bilberry mule
Cart Blank Mange
Caramel Bastard
Tiger’s Pudding
Demo Scene Ah
4

Cheese and Whiskers
Toffee au lait
Free Bed and Butter thrown in
Chips with Bolt free for all rages

Pot of Tea free with any blood

Thank you to our customer for praying now and again

https://poets.org/poem/musical-instrument

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
 Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
 With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
 From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
 Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan
 While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
 To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
 (How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
 In holes, as he sat by the river.

'This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan
 (Laughed while he sat by the river),
'The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
 He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
 Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
 Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
 To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,—
For the reed which grows nevermore again
 As a reed with the reeds in the river.

How confusing keeping all the rules
What’s your gender, I’m pansexual, you ?
We don’t go to Mass, though bread is cool

Where do ladies store their fragile jewels?
I love you dearly, I will take a vow
How  disarming breaking a few rules

Where are men to keep their virtual  tools?
Will Picasso have to paint a cow?
We don’t go to Mass,  except at Yule

What if  there’s no oil and then no fuel
I  have got a fever, feel my brow
How confusing learning  any rules

Attacking people’s words is very cruel
Gender’s on  a bender anyhow
We  don’t pray though Jesus was no fool

The beauty of John Donne is sexist now
Whom I cannot imitate I sue
How  alluring when “they ” change the rules
We don’t go to Mass, we  do the pools