Poet versus Novelist
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/05/24/my-novel-finally/
“With my fiction I focused on chapters and overall conceptions, while in poetry I crawled along in the trenches of each sentence, examining every word for a sign of a deeper significance. Each finished poem felt realized, arrived at directly by way of an inner struggle between whatever emotion had inspired it and the nuanced thought needed to both express and propel its forward movement.
Was I on some unrealized level granting permission to the poet that the novelist was being denied? In any case, The New Yorker magazine, the place I most wanted my fiction published, started taking my poems when I was 28. When one, “Like Wings,” generated a great flurry of letters (including marriage proposals and requests for advice, equaling a record at the magazine, ….”
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Why not boil the kettle?
When Mary got home,she took off her coat and put the kettle on the fire!She got the tea caddy out and put some tea into the pot.Suddenly the door burst open and Annie her exuberant neighbour fell into the kitchen
Are you ok,Mary asked her gently.Those 4 inch heels are rather dangerous.
Annie was wearing a sky blue track suit,red stilettos and a big green pashmina. Her make up had melted all down her face as she was so warm with running.She had some waterproof make up but had the feeling it might be dangerous to clog the pores.So why had she bought it?
Where have you been?she asked Mary curiously.You were ages.
I forgot to get off the bus as I fell into a reverie.
That sounds like a black hole!
I was daydreaming so I ended up by the river and a policeman asked me for a date,sort of.
Did you have any dates with you?
No,I only had Stan in my bag,alas.
Where is he?Have you put him into the wardrobe?
It’s already full.He’s still in the bag at the moment.
The two women fell into a sad mutual silence realising Stan would never now teach Emile to swim in the bath nor return his overdue library books.
Am I liable for his fines,Mary wondered.
I can pay if you like,Annie,said generously.She got out some home made biscuits and gave one to Mary who was wearing a long black dress from Lands End which resembled a nun’s habit.
Are you thinking of retiring to the cloister soon ,she continued.
No,I don’t believe in Christianity any more.Christ.yes,Christianity ,no.
What about Xmas? Will you celebrate?
I shall pray and do out the kitchen cupboards.
Are they that bad,asked Annie curiously, twiddling her ringlets with her fingers.
Possibly,Mary giggled!
They didn’t teach domestic science at Oxford!And Mother was always busy cooking and cleaning the grate after she got home from work.
Talking about grates,I’d better look at the kettle.She lifted it off the fire and held it up in the air.It was very black on one side,just like the one Mary’s mother had had so many years ago.
Why don’t I make some tea,she asked.
I don’t know,said Annie.Is this the Xmas quiz?
No,you don’t understand.It’s a rhetorical question.
Oh,do stop showing off,Annie told her.I only went to Knittingham Polytechnic and we never did Greek,just Aramaic.I have forgotten it now.
Mary poured out the tea into two pint sized mugs and the women sat silently warming their hands on the mugs and meditating on the wilful backwardness of the local poly which now only taught Latin,Hebrew and chemical engineering.The latter was an error as the professors thought that was what Wittgenstein had studied before finding Bertrand Russell more attractive.
Russell’s paradox had taunted Annie ever since those unhappy student days.Whereas she being a lady with a very high libido would have preferred Russell to his paradox if she had been given the choice.Alas, he was already dead.But why let that stand in the way of fantasy.
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She said,I love you rabid, yes,I do
I thought he said he would import a loo.
What else would a virgin like me think?
He said,I love you,baby, yes,I do
I thought grandad had died when he caught flu
I knew his health was always on the blink
I wrote, you said you would import a loo.
I fight off men by spitting super glue
I wondered why the Queen had pressed my link
She said,I love you rabid, yes,I do
English people always take the cue.
And peer into homes through a little chink
I say, you have a super portaloo!
What makes any English virgin blue?
It’s cold enought to make a polar blink
I thought you said you would, in part, be true
I wonder why the Pope says crosswords stink
And God stares down to watch him using ink
I thought John said he would import gold too.
Then said,I love you greatly, yes,I do!
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I like my solitude,I fear the mob
I have no microwave nor special hob
I make good food for people whom I like
It may be buttered corn upon the cob.
Into my kitchen you may lemons lob
I’ll freeze them with my magic lemon spike
I have no microwave nor special hob
I always cooked well though I had a job
I rode to work upon my ancient bike
I may have buttered corn for Uncle Bob.
I like my solitude,I fear the mob
I never smoke though I can strike a light
I haven’t microwaved induction hobs.
I like a handle better than a knob
I like conversing if I’m feeling quite.
I fry men battered horns to fill their gobs
Oh,kitchen unfit, what a dreadful sight!
Send out the men to buy me dynamite
I have no microwave nor golden hob
I always say good morning with my love.
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Poetry and politics
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/detail/69080
“Indeed, the only other areas of American life that have similar inclinations are probably religion and philosophy. Religion is no longer attractive for many poets for reasons that are historical and beyond the scope of this essay. Philosophizing remains a popular endeavor in the poetry world, but only so long as it’s a poetic sort of philosophizing (Nietszche, Heidegger) and not complicated, logic-y stuff that involves formulations like ◊∃xφ→∃x◊φ. Since Anglo-American philosophy has been dominated by the latter sort of thinking for decades, it’s no surprise most poets don’t go in for it.
Which leaves politics as the most favorable non-artistic arena for a certain type of poetic sensibility. In his essay “Absolute Poetry and Absolute Politics,” Michael Hamburger argues that this sensibility, which he connects with the Romantic-Symbolist tradition, “presuppose[s] a high degree of isolation or alienation from society.” Hamburger believes that poets who work in this vein have “a private religion, a religio poetae irreconcilable with the exigencies of the public world,” and that such writers consequently are attracted to “absolute political creeds, mistaking their monomania for a dedication akin to [the poets’] own, and seduced by promises of order.” It’s an interesting point, but we can be satisfied with a more modest related argument: any brand of politics—”absolute” or not—has a vision that supports and sustains it, and in which some poets may find reflections of the structure they seek in their writing. Even a responsible American citizen-poet has a flicker of the old Romantic-Symbolist fire in his belly, and this may cause him to feel a connection to contemporary politics that is often no less intense than Pound’s affection for Il Duce. When Jorie Graham takes on global warming, that’s more or less what’s going on.”
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Oh,lavatory,w.c or loo
Oh,lavatory,w.c or loo
Without your china, what would people do?
I hate to use a closet filled with earth
And weeing in the garden I feel cursed.
And by the loo we wash out dirty hands
In a shining basin where soap stands.
My soap is grapefruit scented not by choice
But priests say it’s good for sinners’ voice.
For when we sin ,we lie to our own souls
We self deceive and make pretend we’re whole.
Our voices falter and we lose our breath;
While God is looking down on us, we laugh.
While closeted for private needs each day
Be careful when you ,inadvertent ,pray
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To a kettle
Oh, lidded kettle boil me water fast
I cannot live without your heated blast
Your spout is small but perfect for its use
And, as your lid is hinged. it can’t get lost
An electric kettle made by Russell Hobbs
A teapot with a spout and lid with knob
Are what the English need in times of storm
If crisis comes, we need tea hot,not warm
I don’t object to diverse kettle brands.
We had a coal fire once with kettle stand.
Its metal black from soot and burned by coke
We made our neighbours tea which seemed to smoke.
Ah,kettle ,instrument of civil life
We cannot boil our water on a knife.
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And inside grace, an airy well lit space
On the other side of suffering there is peace
Whether by a death or such relief
I hate the moment when I start to fall.
Wish I lived inside a stoney wall
Through the foaming river we must go
And embrace the other we don’t want to know.
Inside a hermit’s cell there may be grace
And inside grace, an airy well lit space.
For me, it is the river and its deeps
I have to journey, even as I weep.
But, if for you, it is the tiny cell,
Therein your soul will comfortably dwell.
For different souls have different ways to take.
God is as generous as a the world he makes.
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Poetry writing tips by John Hewitt
http://www.poewar.com/poetry-writing-tips/
“Listen to criticism and try to learn from it, but don’t live or die by it. When I was in college, I would always take my best reviewed poem from the previous class and submit it to the professor for the next class. Invariably, the next professor hated the poem, and could provide good reasons why it failed.
When you write a good poem, one you really like, immediately write another. Maybe that one poem was your peak for the night, bit maybe you’re on a roll. There’s only one way to find out.
The bigger your theme, the more important the details are. A poem with Love, Destiny, Hate or other huge themes in the title already has two strikes against it (and I like love poems).
Say what you want to say. Let your readers decide what your poem means.
Feel free to write a bad poem.”
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How to take off in poetry
“In a recent Newsweek article, “Poetry is Dead. Does Anybody Really Care?”, Bruce Wexler wrote, “”Poetry” is the only art form where the number of people creating it is far greater than the number of people appreciating it. Anyone can write a bad poem.” Oh, so true. When I was hosting a poetry forum and chat, this is the thing that bugged me most about the so-called poets who posted and chatted there. They didn’t read poetry, which meant they had only a vague idea what a poem was, let alone a good poem. Few owned a book of poetry and most were hard-pressed to name a living poet.I simply don’t understand this. Why would anyone want to write in a genre they don’t enjoy reading? Who’s ever heard of a mystery writer who doesn’t read mysteries?
If you want to have any sort of credibility as a poet, you must read poetry. Hokey verses in greeting cards don’t count. Focus on contemporary poetry, just as you’d read contemporary novels if you were a fiction writer. Many would-be poets, if they read anything at all, seem to stick exclusively to classics. I surmise this is because most pre-twentieth century poetry rhymes, and they see rhyming poetry as being “real” poetry. Reality is, poetry is comprised of many elements; rhyme is but one.
A good place to start is Poetry Daily, which features a new poem every day, culled from literary journals. Many literary journals have online versions, some featuring excerpts from the latest issue. We have an extensive listing of journals at Mustard & Cress. You can find print versions in the magazine section of most bookstores (keep in mind that most lit mags have small circulations, so which ones are available will depend on where you live).
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I dreamed I was not a Catholic last night
I dreamed I was no Catholic last night
I was in a church,unlit by candlelight
The clergyman had got no vestments on
She gave an extremely lengthy, long and Lutheran sermon
We had no Consecration then at all
But later we had Tizer and played ball
Apparently we have Communion now and then
After an extremely lengthy, long and Lutheran sermon
We don’t kneel in a Confessional and admit
We kicked our little brother in the butt
So we have got no penance then to come
After an extremely lengthy, long and Lutheran sermon
We sang these great old hymns by Bunyan
I loved them each and every single one.
But where had all the ceremonial gone?
Instead it’s extremely lengthy, long and Lutheran sermon.
We mayn’t pray to Jude for hopeless cause
Nor ask Our Lady’s aid from hellish maws
We speak direct to God when we feel glum
On an extremely stunning, Lutheran mobile phone .
So God must have got a lot pairs of ears;
Lots of eyes to weep about what he hears
He can’t have any helpers, even nuns
What an extremely lengthy, long and trying carry on.
I woke up in the middle of the dream
And gave a loud and penetrating scream
My boyfriend said he knew sex was a sin
He rang St Francis on his mobile phone
Now I go to Mass on weekdays if I can
Although I’m so attractive I’ve been banned
But any ritual is really better than
That extremely lengthy, long and Lutheran sermon.
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Oh,Alfred,my beloved,do not go
Oh,Alfred,my beloved,do not go
Do not leave, but warmth to me bestow,
Lie beside me in my bed all night
Succour me when stormy dreams affright.
Oh,Alfred,-tis your eyes that turn me on
The green and golden light is never gone.
Affection constant, touch and feeling shared.
I am not embarrassed when you stare.
For you , the gallant male, have ever seen
My naked form well lit by Jove’s sunbeams
And if I wear a gown of wincyette
You love it ,,as it’s made for paws of cat.
Alfred ,we can’t marry yet I fear.
Cats can’t read the Book of Common Prayer.
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A poem by Tom Paulin
Emile enjoys a swim
Mary was in her oak panelled, blue walled dining room sitting in her old fuchsia coloured rocking chair reading “The History of God” by Karen Armstrong while the washing machine was doing its best to wash all the clothes she had found on her large bedroom chair.She decided to make some more coffee.
As she opened the walnut and maple kitchen door she saw Emile swimming in a large pool. of water He was as happy as a duck on Hampstead Pond in sunny August
Good heavens, she cried baring her small white teeth in horror.
As she looked at the washing machine she saw a strap from her brown silk petticoat was dangling through the door.Water was running down it as the machine spun.
Surely the door should not have closed with something hanging out,she told Emile who was still bathing in the water.
She ran upstairs two at a time and fetched some bath towels.
Emile was somewhat angry
I like having our own pool here in the kitchen and I love this Persil Silk and Wool Wash.All I need now is a spray on hair conditioner.
Mary dialled 999.Hello I need a paramedic.My cat is disobedient.
After a few minutes Dave the bixexual ,transvestite paramedic arrived wearing a denim dungaree dress over a striped Breton Top and a pair of wellington booots
It’s great that we are so tolerant here,Mary told him.The NHS let you wear anything at all>I quite fancy a denim dress myself.
Well,said Dave, being a transvestite is my way of life and my knees are very nice.
Mary made no more comments but led him to the kitchen
Emile,you must come out of that water,he said sternly.
I think I’ve had enough, the naughty cat replied.Put the gas fire on to dry me,please.
I am glad Annie is on holiday,Mary told Dave as they spread the towels on the red and blue lino floor.She would get very agitated as she fears being electrocuted like Thomas Merton the famous Catholic monk and mystic who took an electric fire into the bathroom in some moment of madness whilst in Asia at a conference.It seems odd unless it was the rainy season.
After their efforts Mary and Dave had coffee.
I’m reading Ted Hughes’ letters he told her.I wonder why some people keep all their letters for ever?
I kept a few of Stan’s she said but I think I’ll destroy them to stop my relatives reading them if and when I die.
I read Ted Hughes and I really enjoyed the letters and other prose works
I suppose I’d better go back to work Dave said,Shall I pop in tonight.
Yes,do,Mary told him.I’ve made a beef pie and I can make chips and fry a few dozen eggs too
Lovely,cried Dave as he jumped into the Emergency ambulance and disappeared.
Mary put the towels into the washing machine with some Tide.I guess a hot wash is best,she told herself.Where the dickens am I going to dry all this stuff and iron it too.I think I’ll enter a religious order and wear a nun’s habit.It’s like a school uniform
Come to think of it,I could invent my own uniform.
And so say all of us.For he’s a jolly good pillow
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What art has twisted branches to this form?
What art has twisted branches to this form?
The beauty makes my eye feel satisfied.
This power affects us all like a wild storm.
The beauty speaks like hidden poems
Important to see nature dignified
What art has wrestled branches to this form?
I take my camera out as I sit warm
By this stone wall my eye is gratified
The power is like a god in his fierce storm
What would I do if gods bent these, my arms?
So human lovers could not in them lie.
What mystery twisted branches to this form?
What is the power by which the trees are calmed?
Where is that being in whom I can abide?
The power affects my heart like a sweet balm.
With my infant hunger gratified,
I see the world with no fierce greed allied.
Whose the heart that twisted all to form?
This art affects green nature like named storms.
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Snails
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Abandoned and lost?
http://www.thebookoflife.org/how-to-get-over-someone/
“Fixation on an absent other allows us to be publicly committed to love while privately sheltered from any of its more arduous demands.”
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Horrible thoughts
http://www.thebookoflife.org/why-we-sometimes-hope-the-people-we-love-might-die/
Quote:
Being close to someone necessarily involves a high degree of what therapists call ‘ambivalence,’ a blending of deeply negative and positive thoughts. When people play an outsize role in our lives, when they have an enormous emotional power over us, when our debt to them is immense, we will both adore and at points resent them hugely. There will be tenderness and rage; attachment and revulsion. They can let us down like few others can, they know our weakest spots, they enchant but also exhaust us.
We’re not actually going to do anything – of course. We’re not even taking the tiniest preparatory steps; we would never buy poison or encourage them to go cliff-walking on stormy evenings. But there is relief to be found in the odd grim daydream nevertheless.
Fantasies are not plans of action. They don’t correspond to our real values or intentions. They operate as momentary escapes from powerful feelings. We fantasise about the death of a loved one not because we truly want them gone but because being close to them is such a large and therefore at times tricky part of our lives. Our fantasy is a strange but real tribute to the depth of our bond. The guilt is a symptom that despite the inevitable and very real tensions and disappointments of the relationship, we care about them very much. The meaning of the fantasy isn’t that we are sick. It’s that loving someone is never free of frustration.
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Why most people find writing hard to do
https://bakarichavanu.com/2013/02/19/7-reasons-why-most-people-find-writing-hard-to-do/
“6. Most people don’t realize that writing is a process —of hard-to-get-started introductions, messy drafts, and tedious revisions. Students need to be shown that most writing is not done in a single draft, nor should teachers expect it to be.”
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He downsized to a house in Beirut
My doctor was n’t highly astute
He downsized to a house in Beirut
He said he was deaf
But nevertheless
A chauffeur was hard to recruit.
My dentist came from Judea last year
But we call it the West Bank down here
But North,East or South
To tell you the truth
The politics are projections of fear.
The chiropodist came here from Ceylon
She came with false eyebrows glued on
For her thyroid was low
And one way it shows
Is the hair we once had is now gone.
So thyroid deprivation’s effects
Mean you don’t need a Brazilian wax
For our hairs are so weak
They fall off with no tweak
But we will not let them labelled as lax.
Now women are not shaved to give birth
So why treat this terrain with a curse?
A man who’s mature
Will not do a detour
If a few curls protect his wife’s pur
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Is difficult poetry bad?
http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/culturebox/2007/04/in_praise_of_difficult_poetry.html
“To update Jarrell: When a person says accusingly that they can’t understand contemporary poetry, their tone implies that most of their happiest hours are spent at the fireside reading Eliot’s “Four Quartets“or “The Waste Land.”
Robert Pinsky
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To the tea pot
Who invented this sagacious jug,
With lid and spout and handle all in curves?
Why do restaurants use just one tea bag,
So savaged by hot water, it’s unnerved?
Are teapots reminiscent of the breast
Which nurtured us and gave us nourishment?
Our mother’s milk became our loving feast.
While deprivation seemed harsh punishment
A ceremony,ritual and a rest,
For friends enjoy to watch the tea poured out
And family sit around and feel well blessed
Such kindness comes much better from a spout
A teapot’s more essential than a phone.
Such sphere nearby, you’ll never feel alone.
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Hope of spring
Start writing poetry
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-m-raab/start-writing-poetry_b_7005194.html
“Reading and writing poetry also has healing and transformative powers. As a matter of fact, many therapists augment their treatments by encouraging their clients to write poetry to express their feelings. This is one way to foster hidden creativity and a chance to allow the client to express themselves using another form. This may be done by writing about a moment or experience in the past, the present or even the future. The idea is to write including as many details as possible so the reader feels as if they are with you on the page, living the experience side by side. Writing poetry also forces you to go deeper into your heart and to write with your heart and not your head as a way to access your inner voice.”
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We need some special Christmas trained police
Ambivalent Christmas feelings rise with ease
They fly across the room like whistling darts.
We need some special Christmas trained police
Oh,who expects no torment at this feast?
Shall we resent the piercing of our hearts?
Ambivalent Christmas feelings rise like geese
Some enraged by Santa’s late demise
Tear up parcels and will not take part
We need some clever Christmas trained police.
What is Christian ,what comes from that beast
Slouching towards Bethlehem all night
Ambivalent, prayer-less feelings rise to tease.
They say the first are last for Christ’s release.
The Cardinals each hurry with their light
Who asks wisdom from disdained old priests?
Will all the family stand and make a fight?
To kinder hearts that seems more wrong than right
Ambivalent Christmas feelings spoil our feast
We need some well lit Christmas trees , at least.
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Patterns in the mud
Prologue
Wittgenstein came to me in a dream
His eyes had a strange sea green gleam
He said,Postmodernism is dreck
I don’t give a feck.
That’s Yiddish and Irish,we screamed.
He said,Postmodernism is dreck
I don’t give a feck.
That’s Yiddish and Irish,we screamed.
Why not use Yinglish I punned
He answered,Aber gesundt.
Oh,I’m alright Jack…
I heard a duck quack.
To me it’s all aber profundt.
He answered,Aber gesundt.
Oh,I’m alright Jack…
I heard a duck quack.
To me it’s all aber profundt.
What a friend Wittgenstein is.
Through reading his life I found bliss…
He did me chesid
for only ten quid.
Cryptic crosswords are stranger than this.
Through reading his life I found bliss…
He did me chesid
for only ten quid.
Cryptic crosswords are stranger than this.
So Wittgenstein, aber gesundt
I sometimes feel I am defunct…
But a posteriori
That’s by no means a story…
Still,man,you pulled a good stunt
.
I sometimes feel I am defunct…
But a posteriori
That’s by no means a story…
Still,man,you pulled a good stunt
.
Wittgenstein lived in Vienna.
St Catherine came from Sienna
La dolce vita
Did not quite suit her…
Nor singing vulgar songs with piano.
St Catherine came from Sienna
La dolce vita
Did not quite suit her…
Nor singing vulgar songs with piano.
Mary sat by the window pretending to reading Windows 8.1.The Missing Manual.The advantage of this new Windows system was said to be that one did not need to install extra anti-virus programmes.So much time is taken up by looking after older versions that Mary was not surprised that Chromebooks were now very popular.Yet she often enjoyed learning new skills; it’s not as if they are like the theory of quantum physics or even nonlinear algebra.Or Hebrew.
Stan had taken Emile ,their sweet black cat for a spin on his old sports bike which he still used when certain strange and disturbing feelings came over him.
He sometimes wondered if he were mentally ill.But who can say what moods or happenings are alright and which are not? It needs great skill to convey one’s state of mind and heart even to a friend or partner.And some people can tolerate mental unease better than others.Even hearing voices can be lovely if they are kind voices.
As they were only a mile from the unremote edge of the mysterious town of Knittingham ,they were soon cycling through a deep green, quiet forest where Kings once hunted deer and no doubt chased women… or was it thaty chaste women hunted deer?
Mary had decided to stay at home ;she was expecting a new vacuum cleaner to arrive.She kept one eye on her book and the other on her neighbour Rick who was very handsome andonly 89 years old.He was hanging his washing on his large front hedge which was unusual in winter.
Most of the people in the road had tumble dryers or heated rails.Some even hung their washing outside in the back garden on lines to let the blustery winter air dry it and kill the germs which might survive in a low temperature machine wash.Ironing will kill germs but nobody seems to know that now
He sometimes wondered if he were mentally ill.But who can say what moods or happenings are alright and which are not? It needs great skill to convey one’s state of mind and heart even to a friend or partner.And some people can tolerate mental unease better than others.Even hearing voices can be lovely if they are kind voices.
As they were only a mile from the unremote edge of the mysterious town of Knittingham ,they were soon cycling through a deep green, quiet forest where Kings once hunted deer and no doubt chased women… or was it thaty chaste women hunted deer?
Mary had decided to stay at home ;she was expecting a new vacuum cleaner to arrive.She kept one eye on her book and the other on her neighbour Rick who was very handsome andonly 89 years old.He was hanging his washing on his large front hedge which was unusual in winter.
Most of the people in the road had tumble dryers or heated rails.Some even hung their washing outside in the back garden on lines to let the blustery winter air dry it and kill the germs which might survive in a low temperature machine wash.Ironing will kill germs but nobody seems to know that now
Maybe I should do some washing ,Mary thought.How about I do my annual sheet changing.I made a big mistake deciding it was to be in the winter,but,alas it is hard to change a routine.Am I a cyborg,she thought nervously,licking her lips till they were damp and red like a wild animal’s
Maybe I should clean the kitchen floor too.
She drew an elongated ellipse with some mud that had fallen of Stan’s shoes as he passed by.She looked down pensively at the pattern the mud had made on the lino.
I wonder if I can predict our fortune by studying this pattern deeply,she wondered.
Some people do it from the tea leaves at the bottom of the cup,so why not from mud?There seemed no logical reason why mud splatters should be worse than tea leaves.It is simply a pattern through which the Unconscious can send a message to us.
Why it could not speak in ordinary language nobody knew and nobody ever will.Not all questions have answers.How strangely dull life would be if that were so.Don’t you agree?I don’t agree with myself on Sundays.
Maybe I should clean the kitchen floor too.
She drew an elongated ellipse with some mud that had fallen of Stan’s shoes as he passed by.She looked down pensively at the pattern the mud had made on the lino.
I wonder if I can predict our fortune by studying this pattern deeply,she wondered.
Some people do it from the tea leaves at the bottom of the cup,so why not from mud?There seemed no logical reason why mud splatters should be worse than tea leaves.It is simply a pattern through which the Unconscious can send a message to us.
Why it could not speak in ordinary language nobody knew and nobody ever will.Not all questions have answers.How strangely dull life would be if that were so.Don’t you agree?I don’t agree with myself on Sundays.
.Mary had just seen a short story relating a dream a woman had in which she had fallen in love with a hippopotamus and taken it home.Unfortunately when they went to bed the weight of the animal had made the solid oak bed collapse onto the purple and orange carpet.Unable to give up her love,she had spent the rest of her life trying to build a new bed out of sawdust.It seemed not unlike the labours of Hercules in a new form
Mary was sceptical,
I can’t believe a woman could love a hippopotamus,even in a dream,she murmured to herself
But even if it was not a dream but a conscious invention,what did that say about the person writing it?
That she always fell in love with men who were too heavy for her and who pulled her down onto the carpet to make love whenever they felt the urge regardless of whether she was as flat as a pancake or even dead
A lion,yes, Mary mused,but never a hippopotamus.I mean,they have no expressions on their faces and could they drink tea in bed and chat?Unlikely.Still, other people’s dreams are a mystery.Even our own are but we can sometimes take a hint.
She heard the doorbell ring.Who could it be now,in the afternoon?
Alas it was only a Mormon trying to convert her which was no good as Catholics can’t be Mormons as well.They are what one might call mutually exclusive groups.As I have no wish to teach algebra I shall stop here.However if that disappoints you,why not read
I can’t believe a woman could love a hippopotamus,even in a dream,she murmured to herself
But even if it was not a dream but a conscious invention,what did that say about the person writing it?
That she always fell in love with men who were too heavy for her and who pulled her down onto the carpet to make love whenever they felt the urge regardless of whether she was as flat as a pancake or even dead
A lion,yes, Mary mused,but never a hippopotamus.I mean,they have no expressions on their faces and could they drink tea in bed and chat?Unlikely.Still, other people’s dreams are a mystery.Even our own are but we can sometimes take a hint.
She heard the doorbell ring.Who could it be now,in the afternoon?
Alas it was only a Mormon trying to convert her which was no good as Catholics can’t be Mormons as well.They are what one might call mutually exclusive groups.As I have no wish to teach algebra I shall stop here.However if that disappoints you,why not read
“A survey of modern algebra ” by Birkhoff and MacLane.I did and see what has happened to me!I’ll say no more on that topic as a kind voice has told me to make tea.
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Picasso
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Guinness to the kidneys’ lured.
Oh,tap with water pure and clean
I thank you for your brilliant scheme
Without this water,we’d drink beer
Guinness makes the kidneys fewer.
Gone would be my Yorkshire tea
And washing up would puzzle me.
What did Aaron drink, I muse.
It’s not in the Torah’s news,
The downside of the tap is this
No more by rivers do we mass
There the women could meet friends
As they trampled with no end
They’d hit their washing with big rocks
And help each other find lost socks
And so the home with its machine
Makes us lonely, we’re has beens.
No doubt launderettes are fun
As we sit down till all is done.
Dried and neatly folded clothes
Stop many couples having rows
On the other hand,why not
Wear your clothes until they rot?
Then toss them out and buy again
What a thought for gentlemen.
Ladies would not like it though
Dirty jeans seem all the go.
Ripped and torn as well is in.
Would it be a mortal sin?
If the washing drives you mad
Then in paper be you clad
Do not use the Evening News
In case folk passing by abuse——
Try to read the latest crimes ;
Complain you didn’t use the Times.
Maybe some old and plastic bags
Will hold in the bits that sag.
Like water in its own freedom
My mind meanders till it’s done
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Begone,false words and songs
I I I I loved you once,and now you’re goneSuch grief,such sorrow.
I loved you once,but now you’ve run
Not back tomorrow.I loved you once until I saw
Your bitter heart
I loved you yet you had a flaw
You’re tongue is sharp.
I loved you, now my heart is raw,
pierced by your dart.
Where has all the loving gone?
Such sweet emotion.
Where has all the loving gone?
I had no notion.
Your face was just a mask
Created for the task
Of winning hearts.
Your heart was steel and wire
Hardened by anger’s fire
Where should I start?
Begone,false words and songs
You did me such wrong
I can’t forgive.
Be off you hypocrite
Quit this poetic writ
And let me live
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The new crusaders Jesus’ words discard
Now night has gone and winter light returned
Bare trees point upward, as they fill with birds
I feel the world is waiting for a sign.
The birdsong is so peaceful and benign
For they can’t read or speak a single word
And night has gone, will brightness then return?
Is pessimism labelled as a crime?
As neighbour nations burn their greeting cards
Though near despair, the lost wait for a sign.
Although I’m old my heart and soul still yearn.
For love’s not dead, my ear says she has heard
As night has fled and lightness quite returned
The refugees seek help, they are declined
As were our Jews, with not dissimilar words.
We, love’s followers , must give to them more time
We see the leaders brandishing their swords.
The new crusaders Jesus’ words discard
Now night has come , Hanukkah candles spurned.
Do the wise know fires of hell can burn?
