Is it wrong?

Is it wrong to hate him for his face
His temper  and his  vicious  comments  show
And we can read the lies he has embraced

No finger of my hand would wish to trace
The petulant smirk, the lines which rage has drawn
Is it wrong to judge him by his face?

Is my judgement  wrong  to see menace
Where others might see merely a man’s frown
Still we read the lies he has embraced

Yet is it not the people’s lack of grace
To give an Empire to an enraged clown
Is it wrong to judge him by his face?

Remember how a child will hide her face
When she’s down wrong and fears to be brought down?
Yet he hides nothing from his  bold fraught face

Our children reap what men like this have sown
There’ll be no help when we’re all overdrawn
Is it wrong to turn from his grim face
Where we can read the hatred he’s embraced

Poetry, nods and winks

adveniatregnumtuam1.jpg

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/jason-holmes/poetry-art-form_b_6031180.html

Extract:

“Poetry is about subtlety and signals, about nods and winks, so the minute somebody gets up and starts braying loudly in polemical terms is often the antithesis of what defines poetry,” he says. “The loud hailer approach doesn’t serve poetry well. Poetry is the art form that tries to think before it speaks.”

With poetry, one can also say the unsayable and make it be heard, and with the UK’s national curriculum embracing the form, Armitage adds: “Relatively speaking, poetry reading has been a marginalised activity of the British public. But this is one of the reasons I went into it. Most poets have made a conscious effort to step aside from something that’s more mainstream.”

His literary powers stretch to novel writing and theatrical drama, but he wants to concentrate on poetry because “it’s a rare form that delights and excites me”, he says, adding that poetry is a dissenting art. “I don’t see poetry and theatre as being completely unconnected. In some ways I think of theatre as the origin of poetry.”

Sue Townsend once described him as a celebrator of the real world, much like another English writer to whom Armitage has been compared: Alan Bennett. “We do different things, but I take that I’ve been compared with him as a huge compliment because he’s one of this country’s most gifted writers. He has strong political opinions which he transmits through continuous ongoing writing. He’s almost a Samuel Pepys-type character. I love his common touch and if that’s the area of comparison, then I appreciate it.”

In 2008, Armitage also strayed tastefully and with wry humour into the rock world when he wrote a short prose poem for Paul Weller’s 22 Dreams album booklet entitled The Missing Dream: “I was thrilled to do it,” he says of the request, but is quick to make a distinction. “Pop songs aren’t poems, they’re lyrics. Poems exist just as language. They don’t have vocal delivery, they don’t have a backbeat or harmonies. They’re just words. What you find when you take away the music from a song is that you have a bad poem, often with mixed metaphor and hypermetric syllables. But that’s not a criticism of their art because lyric writing is incredibly difficult, but it’s music that gives it its power.”

Growing up reading Ted Hughes, Larkin, Thom Gunn, Sylvia Plath and the Beat Generation poets influenced him greatly. “I was drawn to the style. I’m not sure poets have anything different to say than novelists, but it’s the manner in which things are said that makes them different. The attraction was the economy and compact nature of the language of poetry.”

 

Touching it kindly as with tiny open fingers,

Let your lips meet gently

the top one resting against the lower

touching with tenderness

your own  skin to skin.

Forefinger  propped on chin,

I let the others dangle,

like leaves on a branch;

how softly gravity  tugs them downwards.

Let heart beat quietly,slowly

as  the blood circulates carrying  its music ,

a river,following the path of least resistance.

How the blood vessels receive willingly this flow,

touching it kindly as with tiny  open fingers,

helping and being helped.

How the hair on the head floats

on the breeze,like tentacles of an octopus

waving goodbye.

Top  eyelid loves the lower one;

as we blink they touch

like lovers kissing swiftly

behind a tree.

and how the light comes in

we see a world.

Mine may not be yours,

but the blink of my eyelid

sends waves through the air,

so we’re all touching and being touched,

lips kissing each other,

kiss all living creatures.

skin to skin

air to air.

And inside us,the rich darkness

of creative night

transforms  in turn

these touches

into visions and dreams.

Radio 3 is playing far away

14993456_803616356444911_2244128012820919368_n.jpg

Digital art  made from my photo of a tree using Artweaver. Katherine

Radio  Three is playing far away
Volume low enough to suit a mouse.
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

The sun it shines,the wind with shrubs  still plays
I see it from  each window of the house
Radio 3 still playing far away

 

I’m writing with a pen from off E bay
Because the other pen  forgot to bounce
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

Twenty five revisions just today
My mind is like a tiger fit to pounce
Radio 3  is playing far away

I see a denim coat that’s subtly frayed
Bring my mind back to the present joust
I look around the room,I want  to stay

To all the spirits of the house, a toast
For helping when this heart  felt like a roast.
Radio 3 is playing far away.
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

There’s no test

To let go of expectation is  the best
The task that comes before and after all
Your image, your importance, there’s no test

The  life we lead ‘s to very few confessed
The birth, the growth,the life and then the fall
To let go of expectation is  the best

Who could ever want Eternal rest?
Every European builds a wall
Your image, your importance, there’s no test

The fact of being alive, we must digest
Some know zilch and others “know it all”
To let go all expectation is  the best

Like worms inside the earth,  we will undress
The readiness is all, a story told
Your image, your importance, there’s no test

Life ends for the weak and for the bold
By the dark earth we will be consoled
To let go of expectation is  the best
Your image, your importance never last

Down comes Love

Photo0180_001

Now I see the shadows on the wall
And in my heart. I feel the savage loss
Down I come, and with the dust, I fall

Once I scarcely saw the bad at all
And did not think of love and what it cost
Now I see the shadows on the wall

Down amid the weeds I find my call
And  mixed with dark green leaves I am compost
As down I come, and to the dust, I fall

Brilliance cannot last and life appals
In between my cells comes sudden frost
Oh, I feel the cracks within my walls

We  love between the lines with all we feel
Then broken by the cold we join the lost
Down we come, and into  dust, we fall

Must we live and what shall living cost?
Is it ours to judge the present past?
As I watch the shadows on the wall
Down  comes Love and  holds me as I fall

 

That there Paul Klee

I got water in my shoes again today
First of all it rained and then it snowed
So I shan’t be going out  in case I stray

I  bought myself some wellies on E bay
My feet are big,I wonder if they grow?
I got water in my shoes again today

I finally grew to love that there Paul Klee
I like the way his lines just seem to flow
I shan’t be going   out  for Shaw’s new play

In winter time the air gets rather grey
Which  matched with the darkness of the soul
I got water in my shoes again today

Life is  good and we drink tea all day
We get fun looking out for  barmy trolls
I shan’t be going  in the dark to play

On and on the endless waves  shall  roll
Then the church bell  answers with its toll
I’ve got water in my  eyes again today
So I shan’t be  putting on a Shakespeare play

Look, Stranger by Auden

https://allpoetry.com/Look,-Stranger
    Look, stranger, on this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.
Here at a small field’s ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
And the shingle scrambles after the suck-
-ing surf, and a gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands,
And this full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.,

 

 

We hear God howl

I learned a hymn in our old kirk.
I realized then that God doesn’t work.
I think he sometimes laughs and cries.
When one thing grows,another dies.
We went to church and we all sang.
The organ played and the big bells rang.
But we never heard the answer then
till a strange loud voice called out,”Ah! Men!”
I’m not sure if we were made to sing.
Yet, what but joy can we each bring?
The psalms will comfort us at night.
And in the dawn we see the Light.
Then we rise up and our songs float out.
The cats miaow as they run about.
The dogs join in to bark and growl.
And from the sky we hear God howl

Water colour love

W

Like two watercolour pictures  left outside in   rain
Our colours mingled till just love remained
Two watercolour paintings without frames,
Became  one picture  over time.
Yet two of us still there.
Our colours blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colours intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolour picture softened by the rain,
We may go, but  our Watercolor Love will  yet remain

How does my mind sound?

001.jpg
Cubism simplified by Katherine

I bet Saatchi bought Tracey Emin’s bed because he was  confused and thought he was in Harrods shopping for new furniture.
I could paint better than Jackson Pollock because I can’t see in 3 dimensions.So I would not hesitate the throw paint all over a  large rectangle of paper.It’s a bit like Jesus feeding the five thousand…. as if they were birds
Wow,I missed my vocation.To be  divine.
I like Picasso.He liked bulls so logically it follows I like bulls  yet that is false so logic is rubbish or I  am of unsound mind

How  does your mind sound?

The candle flares, the match ignites the wick

The candle flares, the match ignites the wick
The light made decorates the  Sabbath meal
Catch the moment,life goes all too quick

From the chaos, fragments must be plucked
Call it sense or do we have to steal?
The light flares as the match ignites the wick

From your fragment, make a  world of love
Do not question whether  it is real
Live the moment,life goes all too quick

Love is not created by the stick
Fear is what the little children feel
The light flares as the match ignites the wick

Watch children blowing bubbles and then kiss
The  happiness  before which saints might kneel
Catch each moment,life goes all too quick

From the inner eye the shutter peel
In that little space the world’s   revealed
The candle flares, the match ignites the wick
Catch the moment,life goes,ah, too quick

To strands of words

Can I be an addict to this form,
Not to drugs or drink but strands of words
The villanelle which enjoys many rhymes

How is it I give my little time
In making necklaces for singing birds
Can I be an addict to this form?

Well, writing many poems is no crime
Yet conversation’s better if it’s heard
A villanelle  gives voice by its two rhymes

I shall  wander round these capes and horns
Seeking solace ,nerves  still over-jarred.
Can I be an addict to this form?

Dare I say I write merely to warn
That gambling is not good unless it’s spare
Like villanelles  which have only half rhymes

My dearest love, I find my words unfair
When you never hear them nor refer
Shall I stay an addict to  your form,
The  man of humour,love and appetite.

 

 

What is a photon?

14595750_798175196989027_2325083202367244304_n.jpghttps://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/photon

 

photon

NOUN

Physics 

  • A particle representing a quantum of light or other electromagnetic radiation. A photon carries energy proportional to the radiation frequency but has zero rest mass.

    Example sentences

Origin

Early 20th century: from Greek phōs, phōt- ‘light’, on the pattern of electron.

Pronunciation

photon

/ˈfəʊtɒn/

The floor

My stomach ached and my rear end was sore
The book did not distract me from the pain
Weak as milk, I crawled across the floor

And there was no other through the door
If I fainted I would rise again
My stomach ached and my rear end was sore.

I grabbed  a book and read the words of Shaw
My nose bled brightly leaving a great stain
Weak as milk, I crawled across the floor

Oh, where was my cat Alfred  with his paws?
He could  sit  and never show disdain
My stomach ached and my rear end was sore

Would I were a worm without a brain
Would the good of humankind were plain
My stomach ached and my rear end was sore
Weak as milk, I cried upon the floor

Do not test  the patience of your friends

Do not test  the patience of your friends
You loved ones, your dearest and your foes
By silent drawing back when near the end

In any case soon darkness will descend
And into dust and debris we will go
Do not test  the patience of your friends

Stretch out your hand across the ocean wild
Despite the gales and fiercest winds that blow
Do not draw back when life’s near the end

Silence  makes us holy or defiled
Let that not be turned to evermore
Do not  try the patience of your friends

To those you loved and hated, your words send
Forget the  testing and the keeping score
And silent drawing back when fear doubt lends

Life can have an open or closed door.
Meaning is what  we humans are here for.
Do not despair  or  throw off your old friends
By silent drawing back when  near the end

No appetite

Shelves of well used books on food and wine
Stab me in the heart and in the mind
Now it is a task to eat at all
No appetite, no will,no hunger call.

The peppers red  have turned to mush and juice
Courgettes dissolve to water if left loose
The bacon looks as tempting as a toad
The bread is going green ,so a la mode

Yet Weetabix is not a dish to share
No man or woman’s tempted by such fare.
An egg on toast may pass for a real meal
One swallows it with no attempt to feel.

Yet starving is a slow and foolish way
Get a gun or from this madness  stray.

 

How the famous died

Hawfinch_Northmoor_2018-1Picasso: Got bored by a bull.
Elizabeth 1st:Died owing to not breathing any more
Monet:went dotty and fell into a deep bed of poppy seeds
Cezanne:Ate the wrong apple.
Mary Queen of Scots: lost her head.
Henry Moore:Got trapped in the Underground.
Michaelangelo:Fell of his ladder.
Manet:got confused with Monet and fell of his chair.
Kierkegaard:Trembled too much.
Bertrand Russell:Got stuck in a layer cake.
The White Queen:went grey and died of depression.
Pascal:His heart had too many reasons.
Descartes:He just  stopped thinking one day.
Plato:The cave entrance got blocked by spammers .
Socrates:He tried to dial Ogg thrice and the phone box caved in.
Wittgenstein:Became too late for his own good
The Siren:replaced by a foghorn and died of boredom and rage
Salome:Her head fell into the washing up bowl
Delilah: was strangled by Samson’s hair.

Babies speak Greek

Hawfinch_Northmoor_2018-2My biggest disappointment in life was going to school
How come?
I thought we’d be learning Greek
What in the Primary School when you could not even read English
Well babies here speak English before they can read anything
A good point.
Perhaps they speak Greek too but their parents don’t know.
Why not?
Because they don’t speak Greek.
An intriguing theory

How to speak Yarkish

How much is to Yark?
Where is it?
In North Yarkshire.
Why do you speak like that?
Like what?
Well how do you pronounce  pork?
Park!
And how do you say Park
Paheck.
Why the heck?
We love the word “heck” especially with no aitch
What’s an aitch?
It’s what we leave off until we pass the 11 plus
Suppose you fail?
Do you mean fehil?
Why the aitch in the middle?
To separate the vowels
You mean the vawls?
Now, you are doing it
On Ilkley Mohor ba’ht  ‘at
Be orf
You  must mean, be arf
To b or not to b
To h or not to h
Go and come no more
Frum Hilkley Mohor ba’ht ‘at

Power  destroys the lives  of all its whores

Whirling in the winter wind, dead leaves
Dry and brown and broken ever more
Send their substance to the souls bereaved

People pray and yet do not believe
Christ was born  and angels  him adored
On the winter wind float dying  leaves

By our spirits may we be deceived,
Even in the heart’s most hidden core,
Sharing   presence with all us bereaved?

Look into the sun and fire  perceive
Power  destroys the lives  of all its whores
On the wind float  lingering, burned out leaves

For men of power think they can  God deceive
Yet even kings will die despite their  force
To lie in marble graves,  of love bereaved

Wrapped in cloths of linen, cream and coarse
With no coffin, Jesus  high  is borne
With the wind, with ashes , with dead leaves,
The photons of his love  light  hearts bereaved