God of nature changed to devil wild
The cause of sin was flesh of pleasured fame
From the Devil, tempting envious bile
The world, the politics, the evil games
The Armies of the West, their grand parades
Killed one God, gained power to us beguile
Was most of sin our flesh and pleasure gained?
The devil dwelled our genitals, priests claimed
Sex was bad unless it made a child
The vulgarity, the lowlife loving games
How we feared the overwhelm,were tamed
We did not see our Father´s cold strained smile
Most of sin was ignorance, hearts maimed
The cloven hoof of Pan, his foot arraigned
God of nature changed to devil wild
The world, the gambles and the snake filled games
Is every human soul born dark and soiled
As Adam plays, the great serpent uncoils
The cause of sin was flesh, its pleasure lamed
The views, the politics, the old,sad games
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It’s the lies in your words.
“
Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about deflating yourself.
The most important thing is to destroy your lies
I have found that if you love strife, strife will set you back a long way
Life is simple, but we insist on making children learn algebra while Britain is ruined and Trump squeaks
In the end, it’s not the words in your life that count. It’s the life in your words.
You will cheat in life when you have a gun at your head
Society tells you what language you speak but not what to say
Rules of grammar were unknown to the first humans to talk 5 milliom years ago
The first humans were illiterate yet see what they have ultimately produced:war,famine,genocide,torture, books, newspapers, fountian pens,AIDS, leprosy, blogs,humour ,love and sorrow, the Vatican,Brexit,madness, murder.
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Disgust and contempt in the White House
“It hasn’t escaped notice that Donald Trump is easily disgusted, Not as much has been made of Trump’s inclination to contempt, a related but distinct emotion. Donald Trump liberally uses both the sneer of contempt and the psychic heave of disgust to define his place in the world.
When Mr. Trump calls an opponent “loser,” “basket case,” “moron,” “clown,” “third-rate,” “dope,” “pathetic,” or “desperate” (NYT, March 4, 2016) while at the same time portraying himself as a hugely loved and successful winner, he is talking contempt, not disgust. When he refers to another as “grubby” (NYT March 4, 2016) or he talks of the awfulness of imagining his female adversaries’ body functions, he is expressing disgust, which he communicates with his face as well as his words. Can psychological insights about the nature of these emotions allow us to elaborate on why a person might be so quick to feel and express them and how they might serve the person’s psychological balance and influence his leadership behavior?”
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From self published to mainstream
Even very gifted artists and writers suffer from fear of reviews
I very much like the psychologist/writer Kenneth Gergen and especially his book
,” The saturated society” which helped me to understand what post modernism is
http://www.qualitative-research.net/index.php/fqs/article/view/553/1198e”
I think it’s beautifully written and explains the bad side of post modernism but also how differently it could be used.He got a very good review on the Washington Post but later got a terrible one in the New York Times
In an interview he told how this affected him badly until the man who wrote the review died ten years later,
I’ll put a link in here .http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=SweMLEe6TpgC&pg=PA294&lpg=PA294&dq=kenneth+gergen+the+saturated+self++washington+post+review&source=bl&ots=_lKF4I_lVi&sig=VEbgQl1ZpIwcLgfw3S5M5sI9__U&hl=en&sa=X&ei=JJ_VUtfLEeaP7AaviYHwCA&ved=0CGwQ6AEwCA#v=onepage&q=kenneth%20gergen%20the%20saturated%20self%20%20washington%20post%20review&f=false.
!He used to wake up at night with thoughts of what cruel things he’s like to do to this person.This shows how even a writer of very high quality can be wounded easily
Most people who read English novels have heard of Virginia Woolf. She was highly acclaimed yet had breakdowns whilst awaiting reviews .Eventually she committed suicide during WW2.Her husband was Jewish and she was afraid of what would happen if the Germans invaded Britain.
But her mental health was fragile after losing her mother and favourite older sister in her teens and also possibly being sexually assaulted by her half brother.Despite all this she had much happiness and is one of the most highly acclaimed women writers of the 20th century…not much good to her of course
Sylvia Plath a great poet a generation after Woolf also committed suicide and later became known as one of the best poets of our time
http://www.neatorama.com/2008/03/18/writers-who-suffered-from-the-sylvia-plath-effect/#!scilW
Would you like to be a tormented genius and enter the literary canon or just be an ordinary,moderately happy person? Most of us are not so gifted in any case.
Some of us believe that others with more gifts,more money, more winning personalities are much happier,but it’s not true.Many geniuses are troubled.
On the other hand being troubled by itself will not make you a genius,alas.Everybody is troubled at times.Sometimes a poet may use it to visit places where most of us prefer not to go,
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When did labour units ever wish?
No longer human,nor two gendered flesh
Just numbers in equations’ tight knit net
But when did numbers eat, make love or dress?
In friendship or in love we tightly mesh
But this cracks open for the dealers’ bet
No longer human,nor two gendered flesh
Now we can fulfill erotic wish
Without the need , the other in our pit
But when did plastic eat ,befriend or dress?
Turn the current off and what a mess
For nothing now remains of holy writ
Nor human beings ,nor two gendered flesh
See vibrators cancel love’s access
Then two hearts can scarcely ever knit
But when did dildos eat, make love or bless?
As in mindfulness we senseless sit
The soul is ravaged in the wild bear pit
No longer human,nor two gendered flesh
But when did numbered labour pray, confess?
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Poems for peace
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69592/poems-for-peace
Extract:
And how to overcome—in ourselves, in the poetry world, and in all the wider communities in which we situate ourselves—our own resistances to an engaged poetry that stakes specific claims about the world, a poetry that could be partisan and provocative and even utopian? After all, many of us feel as John Keats did, despite his friendship with the partisan poet Leigh Hunt: “We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us—and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great & unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself but with its subject.”
And if the poetry that presses “palpable design upon us” were not challenge enough, then what to do about poetry that proposes something about peace, the very word of which veers into a kind of New Age ganja haze and evades the pungency of real life; or, to let Keats muse on the subject, “for axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.”
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History, undigested ,splits and cracks
The nearer peace,more savage are the acts Abhorrent to the atheist in us all. History, undigested ,splits and cracks As we whites did evil to the black With little difference, hate for glory calls. The nearer peace, the more savage the acts All of us can disremember facts Israeli hands have gripped and then appalled. History, undigested ,splits and cracks As ,with Bomber Harris, Dresden packed Burned like grass the refugees to ghouls The nearer peace, the more savage the acts We deny the healing we have lacked For Jesus' Jews we let be killed ,de-souled History, undigested ,splits and sticks Palestine’s own Arabs are ill ruled And in return, explode like stubborn mules The nearer love, the more the hatred whacks History., inconceivable, directs
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Hallelujah
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Stan and standards
Stan was trying to teach social statistics to a group of elderly neighbors.Since he was 109 it gave them all hope to see him demonstrating his prowess with various techniques.He was planning to do some logic and philosophy too.
Annie his mistress was sitting by the door so she could answer the bell if any paramedics turned up for tea.
“I’m not going to calculate the standard deviations” he murmured.”I just want you to grasp the general purpose.”
“Deviations,they’re not normal are they?” enquired his neighbor “Henry,an ex-English teacher.
”So how can they be standard? It’s confusing..”
“Are you thinking of deviants?” Stan enquired calmly yet firmly
”Certainly not,at my age .I’m a bit past that!””Still , it adds a bit of excitement to the class.” he thought.
How do words in ordinary language relate to those in Statistics?”asked Henry kindly
“They are just more precisely defined in statistics.To say someone is a deviant is a rather vague term.”
“No,it’s not!My neighbor is a deviant.He dresses entirely in yellow.”
“Well,that must be hard to do.Certainly unusual.” Stan agreed boldly.
“But in another country that might be the norm.So it’s a matter of context.
In statistics, it’s more boring.There’s a formula.It’s totally independent of context.Have you ever wondered why so many mathematicians have more than a touch of Asperger’s syndrome?”
“No,it’s not something that wanders through my mind much”replied Henry
A shudder passed through the room at hearing the word “formula“, which perhaps they considered something of a deviant!Anything with letters and numbers mixed together is certainly not welcome in many people’s minds, along with their more unusual sexual tastes, desires ,and inclinations which were kept secret even from themselves in many cases.
“Time for tea.” called Annie,hoping to divert their attention.She carried in a platter of mouse sandwiches kindly donated by the local ambulance service and some iced Victoria sponge she and Stan had made the day before while Mary was giving a lecture on doughnuts and algebraic topology.
“Just a quick word about next week.We’ll take a look at ratios and proportions and maybe see how that relates to the concept of rationality.”
“That sounds fun!” Annie called encouragingly.Henry decided to act on a deviant desire and fell onto her lap.
”Oh,dear!” she gasped loudly as the chair collapsed under her.
”Why can’t you be deviant at home?”
“My wife won’t let me!” He kindlily answered.
“And look,” Stan continued,”we’ll have to ring 999.This chair is in fragments.I thought for one day we’d be able to avoid calling them out!”
“Well,life is not controllable.” said a quiet but fierce looking lady with sharp green eyes.
”That’s what makes it tolerable“
She then greedily consumed a large piece of iced cake .
“I can stand the thinking if the cake is good” she whispered to her shy friend Amy.
”That’s rather a feeble argument,”Amy retorted.”You can’t really compare cake and statistics.”
“I’ll compare anything I like!” the green-eyed woman snarled loudly.
“You do what you like but you must keep a sense of proportion!”
“Now then,have you rung 999?” Stan queried of Annie.”Yes,here they are,and they’ve got a stretcher for the chair!”
“Well,that’s certainly unusual,even deviant“,Stan thought anxiously to himself.
”Where do they get their funding? Is there a fund for distributing money to help chairs which are not fit for purpose?
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In my lowness wait
His gentle touch conveyed what words might say
But skin to skin we feel, we learn, we know
That in my heart I felt what he displayed
Into this heart he softly made his way
As if he had a map, to quickly go
His gentle touch conveyed what words don’t say
Like apple blossom in the month of May
The love. the beauty and the breeze that blows
In my heart I recognised his play.
Like a husband loving and still chaste
His hands were guided well both high and low
His gentle touch conveyed what words cant say
Should such love be aberrant,lay waste
Death may come to hearts that overflowed
In my heart I recognised his ploy.
So I kneel down and in my lowness wait
To give new birth alone in desert grey
His lying touch spoke truthfully to cry
That in his heart he aches and cannot pray
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Present with memories
A day of sudden changes.Clouds cross the sky like whales swimming North in rows. The sun was bright,dazzled my eyes with gold and silver. Wind cut across my face like a slap from an angry father.. Those who love can also seem to hate us too.. The lure of that small childish body tempts them to divert their anger towards it. When the ones who hurt you are also the ones you love, it’s hard to know which direction to run in; but it usually turns into a circle. Retreating turns into a new arrival. Straight lines might be better. though On a spherical earth difficult to find. Even parallel lines meet In their Riemannian geometry. So we can never get away Sometimes the best we manage Is to increase the circle’s radius. Though how is hard to know. Do you love me or hate me? Do you want me to stay or go? What do I want?Do I have a me? The memory of warmth draws me back Like a cold lonely beast leaving the jungle To lie down with a what appears to be a lamb, Surprising the farmer up early to milk his animals Finding a strange new one Looking with tender,puzzled eyes into His Human Face.
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Europe took their human ash within
In Bedzin and in Krakow they breathed in What they denied in conscious thought or word. The ashes of the Jews, the shades of skin Penetrating lungs so deep within The dead unburied mixed, in air secured In Bedzin and in Krakow, mortal sin. The nearby people turned to burial urns. The human dust by breathing was allured The ashes of the Jews, the shades of skin. So Europe took their human ash within. A graveyard we became unknown, impure. In Bedzin and in Krakow, more of sin. And who they thought destroyed lived on in them Controlled their lungs, their hearts their minds uncured, The ashes of the Jews, borne in their skin. Like a mass communion without words We ate and breathed the Jews, the gays, unheard In Bedzin and in Krakow we walked in The ashes of the lost, the glades of skin,
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To wit, to woo
Wurve yew been?
Ah fell of’t buzz
Owcome?
Mi glasses wer wet
Y?
There wur a thunderstorm
Did weeavit ‘ere?
Did y’ear awt?
Ah can’t say adid
Wot wer ye doin’
Ask ye dad.
Ah feel shy
Oh,my.Is it social globia?
No it’s quite flat
Up ‘ill down dale
That must bi Yorksheh
It’s a metafor?n
Matter fr oo?
Metaphor ah meant
Ha.ve ye bin studying again
Ah can’t stop
Y az the mind no switch?
It’s not electric
Well what izzit, Gas?
That might expiain ‘tbill
Too Woo
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She frightened the hearses
I unthinkingly trod on his con-technology
Marriage is window dressing for the unfaithful
On all my worldly goods she love endowed
Shall we have breakfast instead?
My honeymoon was a state of kind
I never liked the holes in truth.
I’ll be judge,I’ll be jury, we’ll persecute Fury.
She lost her wits to the owl, Too Woo.
I like to share my bed with animals,vegetarians or criminals
Why do I look a fright?
She frightened the hearses
Did she say where her purse is?
New curses for sale.Any offers inserted.
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Un-think your poetry
http://writersrelief.com/2009/11/09/un-think-your-poetry-how-to-write-better-poems/
Beginning{
1. To write better poems, turn off the part of your brain that is conscious of what other readers might think of your poetry. Let your subconscious do the writing. Don’t go chasing after the words you want to write; instead, follow the words as they come from within you. Don’t censor, second-guess, or hesitate. Just open your mind so that it can make connections that you might not consciously see.
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You slipped away
When you are far, so far away, The longest night, The shortest winter day, will be places where I might die. The heart's interior no-one else Can view. When you are lost, I cannot find your face... Its outline on the pillows, My fingers shaped to trace... The new design, the stellar rhyme, Where have you gone? You slipped from out my arms. You slipped away. Was night or day Ever cut by such a narrow line? In your embrace I lay. You seemed so strong. Yet,sighing, took the path away. I can't see where Is it night? Or is it day..? I tried to write to bring white light, It's dark, and still. I long for you to come. Oh,will we ever quite Find out our way? Or is that pure illusion? As we stagger through the wandering furrows in the fields They shoot us down. What is this confusion? The war goes on The world goes round The mirror gapes at each new clown. But in a crack, a seed may grow.. I can't see you, But yet,I know. |
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Mary darns a moth hole
Drawing by Katherine using Microsoft Paint, for her little brother
Mary took out her easy threading needles and some blue thread so she could darn the holes in a favourite old sweater.Not only had a moth been living off it but she had to cut a little more off when her mini shoulderbag had got its buckle stuck in the sweater.
What are you doing,Annie asked her?
Annie,I didn’t know you were here.How did you manage to get in.Have you got a key??
No,I climbed on my flat roof and in through your bathroom, window Annie admitted furtively
But why, cried Mary, as she noted Annie was wearing a blue jumper rather larger than normal, covered in a print of ladybirds and spiders.
I just wanted to feel young again,Annie told her.
I never knew you were a burglar!
I didn’t steal things,I did it to keep fit!
Supppose the government advised people to break into houses just to get some exercise?Would that be moral? asked Mary
Well, it would make us close the windows ,I imagine.I admit if Donald Trump climbed through my window I would be very anxious Annie admitted
Oh, don’t worry.It’s just cats he like to grab,Mary informed her
Cats? Is Melania a cat? asked Mary
I expect she is catty with him , Annie whispered
Well, thank the Lord he never assaults women,Mary muttered
Why does the Lord allow other women to be raped or to have their clitorises cut off?Annie pondered
I say, thank the Lord, but I suppose I don’t mean it.As you say how can he allow all these evils?He must be less omnipotent than we were taught,Mary decided
Can one have degrees of omnipotence?~Annie enquired
I am unsure.I shall have to muse.But you can get a degree in omnipotence,Mary said roguishly
How?
Well, how much maths does a third class degree confer on a person?
They got 40 % in their exams, Annie murmured
So if we have a third class degree in omnipotence, we are omnipotent about 40 % of the time! First class about 70 %.Mary stuttered
I find it worrying that a doctor might qualify when she or he has only got 40 % in anatomy or in heart murmurs.Not to mention the brain.
Do they even have to know where it is?
Probably not, the women decided.
Emile was smiling his cat grin because he had phoned 999 and here was Dave running up the garden path wearing a jumper exactly like Annie’s over a red spotted skirt from Cotswold Connections Sale and some purple trainers from TKMaxx with socks covered in squares a la Mondrian.
Will Mary be angry?Will she want a blue jumper too?
Well so will all of us
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The memory of Dunwich Heath:a triolet
The memory of Dunwich Heath
The birds so rare, the sea so near
The broken marble on the beach
The inner fires, the burning Heath
The trees that hunch, the wind so East
The savaged,polished rocks now dear
The sacred life of languid heath
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The words we heard when we learned how to swear
The pleated skirts that teachers used to wear
The tight permed hair, the handbag and the pearls
The words we heard when we learned how to swear
With words we threw out what we could not bear
Then simpered by the window lips uncoiled
The fleeing minds that we dare not declare
The worst came out and everybody stared
My head was turned, inside my mind still whirled
The muck we heard when we first had to swear
Now we wear our jeggings, pleats are rare
Yet there’s elegance in skirts that swirl
Depleted teens with beauty gone awry
We did some Hardy and into Shakespeare tore
Now we read Ted Hughes and Sylvia’s pearls
The midden reeks,hate makes the goldfish swear.
The gold rimmed glasses in the mist and murk
The hairnets, the control, the constrained smirk
The worn out books, the turning of the years
The words of joy and woe, we learn our prayer
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Wendy Cope-British poet
https://www.newstatesman.com/blogs/helen-lewis-hasteley/2011/11/cope-poems-british-poets
Extract:
3 DECEMBER 2011
Wendy Cope: “I can’t die until I’ve sorted out the filing cabinets”
As Wendy Cope donates her archive to the British Library, is the literary world at last taking her seriously
WENDY COPE, PHOTOGRAPHED BY THE NEW STATESMAN.
“Let’s go back to this thing about there being a story,” Wendy Cope says as we sit on a bench by the canal in Ely. “There’s a story of how a depressed primary school teacher became quite a well-known poet.”
She is being characteristically understated. Cope is one of the best-known and among the bestselling British poets of recent decades. Her first collection, Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis, was full of “the kind of poems journalists enjoy”. As a result, it became, by her own admission, almost too successful. “I’ve never been more famous than I was, suddenly, in 1986,” she says. “I did find it very difficult to cope with all the demands that were being made on me.”
She quickly decided that she didn’t want to become “some sort of media personality, always on radio quiz shows”, and retreated to her study. She observes, with a touch of pride, that she is one of the few poets who don’t need to supplement their income by teaching creative writing courses.
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One Catholic priest who did give his life to save another man:Maximilian Kolbe
Extract [ please read the whole article]
Wartime Effects
After WWII had broken out, Kolbe and a few other priests remained in his hometown monastery where he organized a makeshift hospital. He was arrested in September 1939, briefly held for several months, and then released in December. The Germans gave him the option to sign the Deutsche Volksliste as he was half-German by birth and, could claim rights as a German under Nazi rules. However, he was very adamant he would not do so. The Germans allowed him to continue his publishing work although, on his release, he used it to begin printing anti-Nazi publications.
Kolbe set about doing more work to save his people, but this time, he did much more than establishing a hospital. He and other monks at his monastery worked to shelter refugees from the rest of Poland, and they hid as many as 2,000 Jews during the Nazi invasion.
In February 1941 the Gestapo shut down the monastery and arrested him and his fellow monks. He was sent to Pawiak Prison, before being transferred to Auschwitz.
A Priest in Auschwitz
During his time in the concentration camp, Kolbe continued his role as a priest, but it caused problems for him. There were many instances where he was subjected to harassment and violence, including beatings and lashings. Once he had to be taken to the prison hospital.
In July 1941 several prisoners escaped from the camp, so the deputy commander picked ten men to be punished, to discourage others. They were placed in an underground bunker and not given food or water until they starved to death.
One of the men chosen was Franciszek Gajowniczek. He was a Polish army sergeant who had been captured in Slovakia. When learning about his fate, he reportedly cried out, “My wife! My children!” Kolbe volunteered to die in his place.
The assistant janitor at the camp later reported that Kolbe led the other prisoners who had been chosen in prayers when in the underground bunker.
Kolbe outlived the other nine prisoners. He remained calm throughout the experience and was found by his guards to be either kneeling or standing in the middle of the cell at all times. The guards eventually tired of waiting for him to die, and gave him a lethal injection of carbolic acid. He calmly took the injection, and his remains were cremated.”
Note:
At that time cremation was not allowed for Catholics so it is a double injury to deprive his family or religious order of a Requiem Mass and burial for him in a Catholic graveyard
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Who gives meaning?
What gives meaning to our love and pain?
Love is missing,sex is cheapened now
The values of the heart have been disdained
What a laugh, we lit eternal flames
Fascism rides again, we had no clue
What gives meaning to our love and pain?
Marriage is demoted, life’s a game
If we see, whatever shall we do?
The values of the heart have been disdained
The doctor’s here, he limps in , he is lame
He has no wisdom, no goods to endow
That which may give meaning to our pain
The still,small voice is now by actors feigned
The mighty Tempest has no eye of calm
The values of the heart have been disdained
Where are they who’s hearts can feel, can warn
Whose minds are wise, who notice with alarm?
Who gives meaning to our love and pain?
The values of right minds, we have disdained
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I write well.yeah super Nell
What the hell,a villanelle!
It looks too hard for such as me
Still I will write ,yes,I write well
I have a story I can tell
It’s from the English who love tea
What a hell,oh villanelle
I saw a man with a sea shell
I asked him for a pod of pea
I write well.yeah super Nell
I often wonder if I smell
As I drink so much greenish tea
What’s s to tell ,my villanelle?
But worry makes life into hell
And it’s bad for those who see
I write well,but who can tell?
I must take much charity
If you ask, what is your fee?
What the hell oh villanelle
I write well but life is hell.
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The Tiller
Come back to me, my sweetheart Don’t leave me all alone. Come back to me, my darling I can’t believe you’ ve gone. I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again. I’m crying’cos I’m falling like a stone.
Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty And my voice forever young. Let me tempt you with my spirit My laughter and my songs. I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong. I’m crying ‘cos with you I still belong.
I thought maybe I’d follow, To see where you have gone But there’s a hand upon this tiller That is not mine alone. I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song. I’m crying ‘cos I’ve been lonely for too long.
The hand upon my tiller The mystery of the dark The unknown one who lives in me And sings like a skylark. I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song. I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue.
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We love your form and elegance ,oh both
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
A poem both dignified and full of play
I love your form and elegance ,oh both
In your form I’ll never insert oaths
Neither will I boast of making hay
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
I’ll take you in my boat to the North Coast
From you I expect no reward or pay
I love your form and elegance ,oh both
You are a welcome visitor to host
Though you look both diffident and fey
To you, dear villanelle, I plight my troth
And when my friends come round we’ll drink a toast
To wordsmiths and to poets on their way
We love your form and elegance ,oh both
On my bed at night I gently rest
Knowing that I wander as your guest
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
I love your form and elegance ,oh both
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Poetry and the future
https://www.huffingtonpost.com/patricia-lockwood/poetry-future_b_5071308.html
- poetry that THINKS it is about nature, but instead is about the simulation that all of us are living in.
- Poetry as facehugger, chestburster, Queen Mother, and sticky disgusting egg.
- Postmodern poetry is succeeded by posthuman poetry.
- Grace Jones is now required by law to make an appearance in every poem ever written. If she is left out, then the poet is killed.
- In Grand Theft Auto 47, you don’t steal a car… you steal a poem, which is a vehicle for the imagination.
- Perverts are now allowed to marry horses, the Eiffel Tower, their pillow-wives, and poems.
- Poetry is more machine now than man, twisted and evil.
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We freeze our soul
Like the threatened frog or timorous toad
In a bowl of water by the path
We play dead,we keep our profile low
Until a sense of safety is restored
We freeze instead of exploding with crazed wrath
Like the threatened frog or timorous toad
Our cowardice makes the withered soul erode
And who can weep all day and never laugh
We play dead ,we keep our living low.
Feelings frozen in burst , explode
We will kill the best with poisened pus
Unlike the threatened frog or wise old toad
We discover patience when bestowed
Or we shout an aggravated curse
Even risking killing by those we loath
Patience is like money in a purse
We fill up the lacks with our sweet love
To our frightened self we love bestow
We live now accepting that we’re low
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The holy, the desire , the deep deep dark
The unconscious is the home of image stark
The faces of our love and of our hate
The holy, the important and the dark
The cat that bit, the black dog with wild barks,
The bills ,the charge, the passive, irritate
The unconscious is the cave of image stark
The Northern moors the heather and the lark
Old letters torn up when they came too late
The holy, the important , the deep dark
The marvelled fire, the glowing light, the spark
The holy place immune from every State
The unconscious ,oh the home of image stark
Here too dwell envy and malicious hearts
Yet in that space we must a soul create
The holy and its candles light the dark
Time has gone, there is no day or date
We are never early or too late
The unconscious lives, the home of image stark
The holy, the divided , glossy dark
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Washing Day in Knittingham
After the unusual November sunshine, Mary was happy to discover her underwear was dry. She took it into the sitting room to fold up, ready to go into the drawer.
Although by nature she was very untidy, she did try to keep a bit of order in her drawers.
As she sat musing, with the pile of knickers and bras nearby, the door bell rang.Quickly she pushed the heap of lingerie under a large cushion and opened the door optimistically with a brave laugh
There stood the Vicar with a beaming yet sultry smile, like a sun ray on Hellvellyn in winter
Do come in.I’ll make some fresh Ceylon tea, she murmured politely
She carried in a tray of tea and cake and sat on the sofa, after placing the tray on a small table nearby.
Why are you here, Father? she said anxiously as she sucked her thumb
That was what God said to Elijah on the mountain, he anwered shyly
Well,I am not God but we all wonder now and then why we are here and think we should be somewhere else , like in bed with Leonard Cohen.
That never worries me, said the Vicar.I can’t marry a Jew, Leonarda Cohen or whoever.
So if Jesus was here you would not let him marry your daughter?
Even though he was the Son of the Most High?
Definitely not.He wasn’t a Christian.And imagine what it would be like when he was never at home helping with the chores, but was fishing in the Sea of Galilee all day.And feeding hungry people.Not to mention getting killed…..
But he must have been very loving, Mary muttered nervously
God loves those who love themselves, cried the Vicar.
Er, that’s a bit narcissistic,Mary told him.I’ve never heard anyone say it before.
Well we ought to love ourselves or why should anyone else love us?
For our beauty, our mind, our kindness, our humour, our cooking or our money.
Yet some a people are sadists and some are masochists.
Well, that is unfortunate but, if they are willing, it seems acceptable to me.I won’t criticise them if they enjoy it
Suddenly Annie,Mary’s neighbour,ran into the room in her dark purple velvet trenchcoat and shiny green vinyl boots which matched her eye shadow and contrasted well with her terracotta lipstick and matching earrings.
Hi, she shouted.I’m here.Well, they all knew that.
Where is that lipstick from,Mary quizzed her pensively
It’s by Lambscombe of Wigan and Ilkley. Annie revealed furtively
I didn’t know they made lipstick,Mary answered.It’s an unusual colour
Is it made from old bricks?
I don’t know, Annie cried petulantly.She started to snivel and felt under the cushion in case Mary had left a hanky or tissue there.
Her hand reappeared clutching a pair of bright blue lace knickers
It was hard to decide who looked more embarrassed ,Mary or the Vicar
What’s going on in here, Annie demanded
I’ve never seen them before, the Vicar told her manfully
Surely your wife must wear them, Annie said knowingly
My wife wears underpants.
Well, it takes all sorts,Mary mused.Is your wife a man ?
I don’t know.We live a life of utter chastity.We have therefore had no children.We could have adopted I guess.
What a waste,Annie whispered.
You are a very charming and delightful person.~
I can’t believe you are innocent.You persuaded Mary to take off her knickers so you could play Mummies and Daddies but I came in at the wrong moment.
Mary fainted silently onto the rug
Emile mewed loudly and rang 999 on his Nokia1
In ran Dave, the fluid gendered, transsexual and well dressed paramedic.
What’s wrong ?Why has Mary fainted and why are there knickers on the floor? Is this an orgy? Why have you called me?
The Vicar went bright red with embarrassment and shock.
No, it seems Mary keeps a pair of knickers near her in case she runs out of tissues.
Dave made some Ceylon tea in the bijou violet and emerald green kitchen and used Mary’s art deco mugs to serve it along with some chocolate biscuits he found under the sink
Mary rose up from the carpet and asked where she was.
Still here,in the EU….until Scotland goes independent and Ireland gets more Troubles and how about Wales getting big idea?
Oh, for goodness sake, shut up.I am sick of Brexit cried Emile.
Where is my tea? Where are my sardines in olive oil?Where is my pudding?
And so ask all of us.
How my heart speaks 