Why,did you know already?
Mike Flemming
Doctor,I went to the sorting office
Are you a parcel
Sort of.
Doctor,I went to the Synagogue
D¨ýou?
No,I’m a Samaritan.
Doctor, I like Cheesecake
Thatś not a disease
But it might cause one
Doctor,I am a genius
Who told you?
Why,did you know already?
Doctor,I have no man to love
Be less choosy
Alright,I shall love a woman
Who?
Give me a chance!
Doctor,people never phone me
Where is your phone?
I don’t have one.
Well, there’s the answer.
An ansafone?
Doctor, shall I go out?
Yes, go now!
Doctor, are you married?
I think so.
You dress so well,I think you must be
Yes,I accept that argument.
Surely it’s easier and wiser to go home and look round rather than use reason
Good thinking!
Doctor, I love maps
Why tell me?
Because I have had a heart attack so I have printed out the route to A and E
Surely the paramedics would know
I don’t trust them.
Suppose you have one when you are out of the house
I shall have to use more GNT.
Don’t blow up a shop.
Alright,I’ll go into cafe first.
But how can you walk with a heart attack?
Unless I am dead I can still walk albeit slowly
Wow, what a vocabulary you have
I did spend 3 years in Cambridge
Doing what?
Listening.
Are you a spy?
Not now.
Can you prove it?
It’s not like proving pi is transcendental
You’ve lost me.
Well how about natural logarithms?
Please stop.
But you could learn.
I am a doctor
Just of medicine?
Just?
Seems plain to me
Now knitting, that is fun!
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The gravity of loss brought me to earth
The gravity of loss brought me to earth Beneath the rotting leaves, I lay with worms. I wondered if I were of any worth No more to be enchanted by love’s mirth, I with unnamed particles was turned. The weight of loss bears down the heart to earth. I could not rise alone but saw a path While I slept new unity had formed I learned I need not think of what I’m worth My sorrow brought no guilt nor fear of wrath I am both eagle and a twisted worm In my little grave, I loved the earth. Like the adder, shocked into rebirth. I from silent underworld had learned Not to judge my soul to be of worth. I shall not fear the flames of hell that burn When blackness is accepted, may one learn? The weight of loss breaks down the soul to earth With dusty shredded leaves, we then converse
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Beware of meditation
Extract
“I looked further into the literature. In 1992, David Shapiro, a professor at UCLA Irvine, published an article about the effects of meditation retreats. After examining 27 people with different levels of meditation experience, he found 63 per cent of them had suffered at least one negative effect and seven per cent profoundly adverse effects.
The negative effects included anxiety, panic, depression, pain, confusion and disorientation. But perhaps only the least experienced felt them – and might several days of meditation not overwhelm those who were relatively new to the practice? The answer was no. When Shapiro divided the larger group into those with lesser and greater experience, there were no differences: all had an equal number of adverse experiences. And an earlier study had arrived at a similar, but even more surprising conclusion: those with more experience also had considerably more adverse effects than the beginners.”
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Argument is pointless, love is key
Compare the BBQ on the hill to Nero fiddling while Rome burned
The burning road with buses overfull
Old and poor folk crammed ,Calcutta like-
The burning road objects ,its tarmac boils
Swallows a man’s leg,this is no fake.
With hammer and a chisel he’s released
While others picnic on the fire struck hill
They say they do not see the clouds of smoke
If the wind turns East, those fires will kill
As they ignore the fire above their heads
So we ignore what we don’t want to know
That we may envy,hate or wish to kill
That hidden rages make our mood fall low
So as we each choose what we want to see
Argument is pointless, love is key
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In good form
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/74593/in-good-form
“A well-turned line, a sparkling rhyme: craft is essential to the art of poetry, writes Poetry editor Christian Wiman in the October 2012 issue. He explains:
The sound and form of the poem are everything; they buffet it against its hard journey through time and indifference. Or, to change the metaphor, they enable it to insinuate itself into the hard carapace of our consciousness, so that the poem’s “message”…won’t just bounce off the glaze of us. Craft matters because life matters. Craftless poetry is not only as perishable as the daily paper, it’s meretricious, disrespectful (of its subjects as well as its readers)….
Why do you think craft matters? Do well-crafted poems hit you harder and remain with you longer, as Wiman suggests? Why might poems devoid of craft seem disrespectful—perhaps because they demand our time without rewarding us with pleasure, insight, or staying power?
The most recent issue of Poetry provides plenty of fodder for such questions. It offers several poems in received forms, such as Joshua Mehigan’s sonnet “The Professor” and Elizabeth Seydel Morgan’s villanelle “September 2011.” And it features invented forms as well. Take Marie Ponsot’s “Private and Profane,” reprinted from a 1957 issue:”
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Doctor?Hell!
Doctor,I feel terrible
You look terrible as well
Doctor I feel grey
Do you mean gay?
No,but if it helps I’ll be anything merry,blithe or gay
Doctor I am grieving
Well,you look charming
So you like crying women?
Not usually but I’ll make an exception for you
Will it comfort me?
No,but I’ll send you a teddy bear
I want something alive
How about a flea in your ear?
Are you really a doctor?
Yes, but in relativity theory.
So why do you practise?
My bad handwriting got me the job. MADPHIL written with a stick
So you are a psychiatrist?
No,I’m just mad,Phil
Be patient.All will pass
That’s what happened in the exams.They added 30 to all our marks so I got a first having scraped 41/100
So that’s why Britain is going down hill,Phil
If you knew more you’d go mad.
I’m mad already.
Are there degrees?
I’m sure there must be…. like Hell
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Everyone is blind when they’re in bed
Do you see me with a white stick pass
Are you looking inside your dumb head?
My lover loves me more without the glass
Everyone is blind when they’re in bed
I’ve loved so many people I lost track
Most of them were what are called “ill bred”
I prefer the ones with wit and humour cracked
Yet everyone is blind when they’re in bed
On my shut eyelids I see sharks blue
I’m glad I no longer see bright ,vicious red
I won’t ask you name your favourite hue
Everyone is blind when they’re in bed
Is it worse to be a fool or toy?
Come,my lady, were you never coy?
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Different letters
I thought I’d learn some Japanese,today
I’d write with different letters in my hands
Better then to capture moths and ghosts
Bits of life that fly past my own eyes
Moving places,moving plans then gone
Another island where strange humans dwell
Yet subtly different like a Plath and Hughes
The genius of this place is wide and shrewd
But Japanese is tortuous and inturned
No immigrant is citizen at all
Would not learning Russian add more play?
Tolstoy still waiting here unread
The language will construct the world out there
Inner tyres are tubes and filled with air.
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BBQ held on hill just below the Raging Peat Fire!
“We are continuing to receive reports of people having barbecues in the #winterhill area! This photo was taken last night when we discovered a family having a BBQ near to Rivington Barn.
We are satisfied there was no malice on this occasion and the family appeared completely unaware of the major incident ongoing above them! This could have had huge consequences! ”
As below.Could some family have a BBQ and not look up the hill? I suppose it may be like Repression……… that we can ignore or hide certain things even what is right in fronrt os us and might kill us /animals etc
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Doctor,I’m running up the walls
Doctor,I’m running up the walls
That’s good.Keep going and you’ll be fit as a fiddle
Doctor,I can’t stand it
I can’t understand it.
Who can overstand it?
Doctor,I’m at the end of my tether.
I’ll give you a prescription for a longer one
Doctor, I can’t go on
Well turn round the corner
Doctor,I have no appetite
Try soft porn
What, for my dinner?
No, have an egg whipped in brandy
That sounds like porn too.
Doctor,I can’t sleep.
Where is your bed?
My husband has his mistress in it
Tell him to buy a bigger bed then.
I don’t believe my ears
Shall I write it down?
OK
Doctor,I can’t walk
How did you get here?
I ran
Doctor,I am depressed
When you get better you’ll be amazed how good the world is
If I get better it won’t make any difference to Syria or the Yemen
You can donate money
What, and have nothing to spend on cigarettes and gambling?
Well, it won’t bother you so much
But some things we need to be bothered about!
Too many, that;s the trouble.Just pick two and do your best
Doctor, my neighbour is too noisy.
For what?
It upsets my cat
Get another cat and make them yowl.
Can I get a cat on prescription
Not yet
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Slavery and prostitution
The Oxfam error
A little black cat was staring into Mary’s kitchen through the glass door but when Mary went across the cat ran away
I wonder if that is Emile#s girlfriend .she thought to herself. Then she saw Annie crossing the garden wearing a lovely purple jumpsuit and black patent leather high heeled shoes.
My goodness Annie you look really amazing full stop where did you buy that jumpsuit?
I got it in the Oxfam shop said Annie it was only £3
Down in the Oxfam shop there was Big Trouble .A lady cold Molly Dolly had been inside a cubicle trying on a dress And her jumpsuit had mistakenly been hung on a nearby rack by one of the staff.
What will I do , she cried. I can’t go naked….. don’t worry said the manager I’ll give you three free dresses instead;the previous day a lady had been in and donated 10 dresses and 10 leather handbags.
Alright Molly Dolly said. I’ll cope. she put on a blue silk dress and put a red one and a yellow one in her carrier bag. That jumpsuit was quite old anyway
So Molly went off in a completely different outfit from what she had arrived in
I wish they had stolen my underwear as well she thought…. now there’s an idea!
Back in Mary’s kitchen Annie had put her hands into the pockets of the jumpsuit and found a letter from Mary to somebody called Molly
Dear Molly, I am very fed up with my neighbour Annie because she had an affair with my late husband and even though he is dead she still comes around three times a day Mind you she is very nice but even so I can’t help sometimes feeling a bit cross
bye bye for now Mary
Good grief Annie called, did you write this letter ,it looks like your handwriting
Oh no it can’t be me I’ll never write with a pen anymore
It is written with a pencil and her friend retorted
Stop nitpicking, Mary told her. you are not the only Alnie in the world and I am not the only Mary. in fact they are very common names in a statistical sense.
I suppose so Said Annie. would you like some coffee I thought I would go to that new shop at the end of the Market Place
it would be a change
She opened her red handbag where she had a powder compact with Max Factor cream puff written on it
She powdered her nose as it was rather shiny.
Not many women bother to powder rheir noses these days, but men like to watch them doing it.So I have observed.
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Valentines
Please be my Valentine
I love you so much
I’m also quite influenced
By knowing you’re rich.
I am anonymous
I bear you no animus
I love you but I’m shy like the Queen
I loved you till my cataracts were done
Now I see you look like Mrs Thatch
She is now long gone
And you are no man’s catch
I saw you looking in the mirror now and late
Look at me instead and we can mate.
I loved you more than Weetabix with cream
You did wonders for my self esteem
Now I’m feeling better
I’m writing you a letter
To say you’re still my love and my sunbeam.
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A rare interview with Philip Pullman
I recommend this interview very strongly.
https://aeon.co/essays/a-rare-interview-with-philip-pullman-the-religious-atheist
“‘I like to say I’m a complete materialist but…’ Pullman allows himself an English teacher’s dramatic pause, ‘matter is conscious. How do I know that? Because I’m matter and I’m conscious.’ Once again, Pullman opts for complexity and nuance, and you can hear the same dislike of hierarchies in his critique of some popular science. ‘What you often get in people of this stripe (and Brian Cox — the TV physicist — goes in for it as well), is a sentence of the formula “X is no more than/just/merely/nothing but Y.” For example: “The world is nothing but the action of molecules” or “Love is merely the movement of electrons in the brains.” Sentences of that sort are nearly always mistaken,’ says Pullman. ‘I would prefer they were put in the form of “Love is a movement of electrons in the brain, among other things.”’
‘Among other things’ would be a great motto for Pullman’s ambivalence (or should that be multivalence?) about matters of belief, fiction and science. He is of the old school of secularism which holds that faith should be kept out of the public sphere, but still refuses the kind of inquisition that seeks to root out mistaken beliefs: ‘What you feel and believe are private to you and belong to nobody else,’ he counters. ‘What you do in the public sphere is what’s important.’
Yet on one thing, Pullman’s faith is profound and unshakeable. He’s now in his mid-60s, and though he thinks about death occasionally, it never wakes him up in a sweat at night. ‘I’m quite calm about life, about myself, my fate. Because I knew without doubt I’d be successful at what I was doing.’ I double-take at this, a little astounded, but he’s unwavering. ‘I had no doubt at all. I thought to myself, my talent is so great. There’s no choice but to reward it. If you measure your capacities, in a realistic sense, you know what you can do.’”
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Poems are caught like music in the air
Poems are caught like music in the air
Passing by ,they float on a light breeze
To land upon a mountain side afar
Or in a desert hot and very bare
Written in stranger’s dreams with seeming ease
They do not come here in a motor car
Nor ride upon a motor bike like man
But on their way to earth they love to tease
They do not answer on their way to where
Who knows if they want to talk or can
Oh, lines bizarre
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Is it hard to write clearly
https://lithub.com/francine-prose-its-harder-than-it-looks-to-write-clearly/
Francine Prose: It’s Harder Than It Looks to Write Clearly
ASK YOURSELF, WOULD I SAY THIS?
By Francine Prose
If we are hoping to communicate something—anything—nothing is more important than clarity. The dangers of not being clear are obvious. Is that driver approaching the intersection signaling right or left? Is the brain surgeon asking for a scalpel or a clamp? One could argue that the consequences of writing an unintelligible sentence are not nearly so drastic as a car wreck or a botched operation. But it’s a slippery slope. Which one of the rungs in the ladder were we warned to watch out for? Was it the basement or the bathtub that Auntie Em told us to take shelter in when the tornado hit Kansas?
Explaining what it means to be clear should, in theory, be easy. But in fact it’s surprisingly difficult to define this deceptively obvious concept. The simplest definition may be best: To write clearly means that another person can understand what we mean. Someone (not us) can figure out what we are trying to say.
Of course, an intelligent seven-year-old could point out the problems with this. Maybe some people will understand what we mean, but some people never will, and inevitably someone will think we meant something entirely different from whatever we had in mind. Endless variables can affect what, and how, and how much we understand: age, class, language, culture, gender, history, and so forth. And perfect communication can occur without one word being spoken.
But let’s say that you have written something, and it turns out that no one has the faintest idea what in the world you could possibly mean—no one but you, the writer. And in the absence of clarity even the writer may forget the formerly obvious purpose that has somehow managed to burrow and hide beneath a fuzzy blanket of language. On the other end of the spectrum is the sentence or paragraph that the reader cannot only comprehend instantly but see straight through to the writer’s intention, so that reader and writer are communicating directly, brain to brain, like aliens in science fiction.
Obviously, it is easier to write a short clear sentence than a long clear one. One sentence that I (and I think most people) would agree is clear is the opening of Albert Camus’s novel The Stranger: “Mother died today.”
A more recent translation by Matthew Ward begins “Maman died today.” In a preface, Ward argues that Maman, more affectionate than Mother, better expresses the narrator’s feelings. “No sentence in French literature in English translation is better known than the opening sentence of The Stranger. It has become a sacred cow of sorts, and I have changed it. In his notebooks Camus recorded the observation that ‘the curious feeling a son has for his mother constitutes all his sensibility.’ And Sartre went out of his way to point out Meursault’s use of the child’s word “Maman” when speaking of his mother.”
Maybe we should venture deeper into colloquial English and say, Mom died today. Not according to the New Yorker blog post in which Ryan Bloom argues that Ward’s use of the French word may be helpful to younger readers unaware that The Stranger is set in French colonial Algeria. Maman, Bloom claims, somewhat contradictorily, is also preferable because the American reader will “understand it with ease, but it will carry no baggage.” So it won’t affect our opinion about Meursault’s response to the death of his mother. But, Bloom goes on, the translation of “Aujourd’hui Maman est morte” really should be “Today Maman died.” Beginning the sentence with today signals that “Meursault is a character who, first and foremost, lives for the moment.”
Click link for more
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Political possiblities
So I took myself off a writing schedule and just trusted that the poems would come. As I did this, my artistic concerns changed; I was able to approach all the notes I had taken at and about work and use them, judiciously, for new poems. And although there are plenty of strictly formal poems in Proprietary, I have, I hope, a growing sense of ease and trust in my work; I want to employ devices, such as rhyme, as appropriate, but always in order to move the poem as close as possible to the “lineament or character,” to quote Wallace Stevens, of the thing described.
ES: A poem like “Fashion” eschews some of your characteristic formalism. “Order,” too, though it recalls the mirrored form of “Poem Beginning with a Line by John Ashbery” from your first book, and “Fantasy Suite” from Straight Razor. Is such a move a result or a root cause of this relaxing of those formal, lyric restrictions?
RM: It turns out the airtight lyric, all association and inference, is not always now the right vehicle for my narrative; I found too much tension to be, at times, armor against feeling. The poem “Order” is a form, sure—a line-based palindrome, as a reviewer once called it—but the poem, in its mirroring, undoes itself (I hope) carefully, gently, the speaker admitting about his father, “we almost laughed / but not for years.” And “Fashion” is a sort-of-list of grievances against ex’s; I wanted the almost rhyming, almost playful accrual of damning details—damning for the complicit speaker, too—as clear as possible in meaning, but the ensuing pain suggestive, like bitters swirled in a glass.
ES: Undoing, undermining, take down—if the book has a thesis, is this dismantling (of a self, of a city, of a language) it?
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The mystical poet who can help you lead a better life
http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20170109-the-mystical-poet-who-can-help-you-lead-a-better-life
Shams-ud-din Muhammad Hafiz (c. 1320-1389) is one of the most beloved poets of the Persians, and is considered by many – from different cultures – to be one of the seven literary wonders of the world. Ralph Waldo Emerson and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe both agreed. As Emerson said of Hafiz: “He fears nothing. He sees too far, he sees throughout; such is the only man I wish to see or be.” And Emerson gave Hafiz that grand and famous compliment, “Hafiz is a poet for poets.”
Hafiz has no peer – Goethe
Both Goethe and Emerson translated Hafiz. And after Geothe’s deep study of him, simply – though remarkably – stated, “Hafiz has no peer.”
Hafiz poems were also admired by such diverse notables as Nietzsche and Arthur Conan Doyle, whose wonderful character Sherlock Holmes quotes Hafiz. Garcia Lorca praised the Sufi poet. Johannes Brahms was so touched by his verse he used several in his compositions. And even Queen Victoria was said to have consulted Hafiz in times of need – which has been a custom in the Middle East for centuries. The Fal-e Hafiz, is an ancient tradition in which a reader asks Hafiz for advice when facing a difficulty or at an important juncture in their life – treating his books as an oracle and opening them with a deep wish from their soul for guidance.
Read more by clicking on the link
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For cards
You are the sweetest girl in Britain
I am totally smitten
Love me, my kitten
Handsome,fun and keen
No better man has been
In my arms before
Love me some more
I wish you the best birthday possible
For someone so irascible
Why did I marry you?
I must have been overdue.
To the sweetest little sister in the world
Oh,my dear cousin
You are worth a dozen
You’re a genius at art
And you love folk so smart
Sorry about the missing ” ly”
I send you this card today
As otherwise I’d have to pay
My brother was walking past
I said, put it in fast
No other woman in the land
Has got a sense of humour
I send you an elastic band
To play with when you’re gloomier
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Diminishing verse
Photo by my sister EFLim of Lavenham,Suffolk UK
So in school it is good to be real keen and smart
Like I am when I go to the Mart
I’m so smart,it’s an art.
Later we need to know how to start
How to tell a steak pie from a tart
I shall start, smash my art!
Women in fur were said to look slink
But my mum said we looked like that damn missing link
I said, put that in ink!
Babies will die if they do not grow
Runner beans don’t like to stand in a row
When the doc pricked me, I cried Ow!Ow,Oh!
Can someone count how many times babies blink?
Can I put my poem at the end of a link?
My printer wants ink!
My father said girls should never be frank
Weeds that grow thickly are said to smell rank
In America, doubtless ,some men are called ‘Ank
I started my senility as a new blogger
As I was weak I could not be a logger
Now I’m an ogre.
I’m getting to have an addiction to swearing
My boy friend complains he finds me too wearing
An r makes an earring,
The induction hob cooks herbs and hot spices
What a shame there’s no s, pisces!
But it thaws out the ices.
I see a strawberry, oh what a device,hey!
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A liberal is…..
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Disguised
A noise unheard for weeks rushed to my ear
Puzzled and disturbed I looked outside
Where heavy rain was washing cars of dust
And tramps in demons’ coats from holes black leered
The weather man called sun, and so had lied
I see the general method and the thrust
The sword back in its scabbard ,so unused,
As gently as a virgin made forced bride
The hierarchy, choice of the august,
Disguised
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The peat rich moors by fire were over-run
The sound of thunder rain rapped on my ears
After arid dryness, what relief
To hear the sucking sound from dried up lawns
Though deserts of the heart are our worst fear
For Northern Britain, dryer than belief
The space for the Inferno’s ghosts had yawned
The peat rich moors by fire were over-run
Through mould of heather dry, and decayed leaf
No fear of rotting,under ripened corn
Yet still we ask, has Armageddon come?
What is its form?
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Bullies, by Robert Lee Brewer
Art by Katherine 2018
This is called diminishing verse
The many children in my neighborhood are glad
when all the adults chase around a certain lad
who acts the bad guy of an anti-bully ad,
but it’s ironic that any child who might stray
be knocked around like a cafeteria tray
when children only want to shine like a sun’s ray.
*****
Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.
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Your vocabulary shrinks daily
There are many different types of poems.In some metre is important whereas in others it is the number of syllables in the line.The first sort are more similar to songs like the poetry/lyrics of Leonard Cohen.In recent times the main forms of poetry have been less used in favour of free verse.This may be because if they are bad they remind us of those sentimental rhymes in birthday cards.Why not try free verse instead
On this day a very special day
A very special person was born
But it was not you
One day you will find your own metier
Till then,stay out of my way
You are hopeless with words
Your vocabulary shrinks daily
What crap, I think when I read it
Try to see it my way
I’
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Bonfire, by Robert Lee Brewer
A dizain
We talked briskly by the light of the fire
with our hands flying about like embers
using Shakespeare to disguise our desire
burning through the soft chill of December.
If there were others, I don’t remember–
lost in the flames flickering off your eyes,
my only passion was to memorize
every word and each quirky turn of phrase
leading me through a labyrinth of sighs–
to recall racing through a love-cast maze.
*****
Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.
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Poetic Forms
http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/list-of-50-poetic-forms-for-poets
Here are a few:
- Cascade. Variable length form invented by Udit Bhatia.
- Chanso. Five to six stanzas with an envoy.
- Chant. If it works once, run it into the ground.
- Cinquain. Popular five-liner.
- Clogyrnach. 6-line Welsh form.
- Concrete Poems. Shapely poetry.
- Contrapuntal Poems. Independent poems that get intertwined.
- Curtal Sonnet. 11-line sonnet invented by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
- Cyrch A Chwta. 8-line Welsh form with 7 syllables per line.
- Cywydd Llosgyrnog. 6-liner with internal rhymes and variable syllables.
- Decima. Various versions of 10-line forms.
- Descort. French form that makes each line special.
- Diminishing Verse. Poems that disappear one letter per line.
- Dizain. French 10×10 form.
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Freudian endings
-
Photo by Inge Wallumru00f8d on Pexels.com Live all ways
Ever tours
Love appals
Hours since Ely
Yours fatefully
Good light always
Never abuse
Ending hours as ever
Gotta woe now
Bee line for yours
Tease phone me
Glazed ever.
I long to be you
Yours within reason
Yours as the bees sting
Ants ate the letter.
I adore few forever
What did you say your game was?
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Caritas
Photo by Mike Flemming
https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/caritas
Synonyms
goodwill, compassion, consideration, concern, kindness, kindliness, kind-heartedness, tenderness, tender-heartedness, warm-heartedness, brotherly love, love, sympathy, understanding, fellow feeling, thoughtfulness, indulgence, tolerance, liberality, decency, nobility, graciousness, lenience, leniency
- ‘Simone Weil is writing about love as caritas when she defines it: ‘Belief in the existence of other human beings as such is love’.’
Extract:
This photo is Prince William in a Holocaust Memorial Centre in Jerusalem.I can’t recall where I saw it but it was a newspaper
- THESE ARE EXAMPLE SENTENCES from the above site
- though that the speaker, while identifying caritas in familiar, Christian terms, actually downplays its rich, religious significance.’
- ‘Democracy, so understood, arises out of mutual need, and finally points to the overarching necessity of a shared sense of democratic caritas, or charity.’
- ‘And there’s a long tradition that’s talked about this using the word caritas or mutuality, and, this is within the Christian tradition.’
- ‘Verwindung is not the repudiation of religious faith, Christianity in particular, but the response best correlated to Christian caritas.’
- ‘For Cicero, friendship involves genuine, deeply felt affection, which he repeatedly calls ‘love,’ using the Latin caritas and amor.’
- ‘They did this primarily by promoting new devotions, such as that to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, which celebrated a very medieval idea of love or caritas.’
- ‘The spiritual disciplines, like the Christian ideal of caritas, that lift human relationships out of the realm of the utilitarian seemed to have no place in the new world that commerce was bringing into being.’
- ‘Simone Weil is writing about love as caritas when she defines it: ‘Belief in the existence of other human beings as such is love’.’
- ‘Exploration of such issues as ritual, dietary codes, cleansing, communion, caritas and compassionate fasting are complemented by specific ‘spiritual meal guidelines’ exercises for readers to practice.’
- ‘Hospitality – caritas – became a duty for all Christians, whether the one to whom aid was proffered or from whom it was received was a family or tribal member, or a stranger.’
Synonyms
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Just one letter
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
How to write bitter
How to read quacker
How to undersand men
I want a wireless louse
I want a fireless house
I can read very past
How to happy when live
I am not a deceiver any more
She said she was my bother and always would br
How to seep better
I danced all tight
Why to change your bid weekly
How to gimble
How to spill gyre
How to look meat and too veg
How to mow the laws
How to cow lawns
Learn to like hating
Ride a bake quickly
How to light your limp after a fuse blows
How to use a sowing machine for men
Hygiene and its rusks
English is my tongle
What is a dongle fur?
