Will or imagination

dscn0040

When I was growing up as a Christian I was taught about sin,punishment,hell and heaven.The implication seemed to be that if you found you were inclined to envy or anger or other sins,you could change by will power.Now,maybe you can,but often you can’t so you have an extra sin and anxiety that you are a grave sinner.Now I have been thinking that it may be Perception which matters.If you can change your perception your actions and thoughts will be changed,It’s like changing your perspective or changing your focus,

And about imaginatively exploring what that person who  tempts you to anger,lust,greed,envy, is truly feeling.So you get out of the two person
ME and YOU
and enter as region I can describe as
ME ,YOU, and ANOTHER WAY OF SEEING/ ANOTHER PERSON CREATED JOINTLY=
It’s like a three person relationship.I can see my views and your views and somehowthen see both differently.I am finding it hard to put into words,If you can change your perception you will change your thoughts and actions.
I believe it is possible as using an analogy, an artist can move his easel and look at a place from a different direction.We can do the same in our minds… we are not stuck in one position..Also an artist can change his view by painting when the light is different  so it’s possible to imagine we can change our perceptions and from that we will change our thoughts and what we decide to do.

There is always a  moment between thought and act… when we can pause as well and holiness may be seen as being able to use that pause to realise what we are doing.. i find it’s hard but we can do it

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WILL AND/OR IMAGINATION

dscn0040

When I was growing up as a Christian I was taught about sin,punishment,hell and heaven.The implication seemed to be that if you found you were inclined to envy or anger or other sins,you could change by will power.Now,maybe you can,but often you can’t so you have an extra sin and anxiety that you are a grave sinner.Now I have been thinking that it may be Perception which matters.If you can change your perception your actions and thoughts will be changed,It’s like changing your perspective or changing your focus,

And about imaginatively exploring what that person who  tempts you to anger,lust,greed,envy, is truly feeling.So you get out of the two person
ME and YOU
and enter as region I can describe as
ME ,YOU, and ANOTHER WAY OF SEEING/ ANOTHER PERSON CREATED JOINTLY=
It’s like a three person relationship.I can see my views and your views and somehowthen see both differently.I am finding it hard to put into words,If you can change your perception you will change your thoughts and actions.
I believe it is possible as using an analogy, an artist can move his easel and look at a place from a different direction.We can do the same in our minds… we are not stuck in one position..Also an artist can change his view by painting when the light is different  so it’s possible to imagine we can change our perceptions and from that we will change our thoughts and what we decide to do.

There is always a  moment between thought and act… when we can pause as well and holiness may be seen as being able to use that pause to realise what we are doing.. i find it’s hard but we can do it

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Heart or mind?

ttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/heartmath-llc/heart-mind_b_2728398.html

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Butterflies can light upon a rose

Butterflies and the clock

Butterflies can light upon a rose
And sparrows miss the prickly holly leaf
So thorns deter most larger, useless foes
Bring safety to small birds instead of grief

The butterfly is symbol of the power
That weakness has in entering Sacred ground.
A butterfly can fly through hail stormed bowers
Their wings send waves across the world by sound.

A cat too has its claws as well as fur
Yet cats do have a a modicum of choice.
For those of us for whom they have a care
Claws are held ; miaows or purrs are voiced.

Am I a holly tree or fragrant rose?
Am I the cat who may unsheath her claws?

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Permanent visibility

 

 

 

img_0054https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/jan/16/francois-hollande-privacy-culture-permanent-visibility

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Two simple habits of writers who succeed

 

 

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The two painfully-simple habits of highly-successful writers

 

 

Writers also love wandering. “My springboard has always been long walks,” said Thornton Wilder, playwright and author of Our Town. William Wordsworth mythologized walks through the English countryside,

 

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Different points of view

IMG_0074 The old red wall is dressed in stems of wood

In wintertime, we see the ancient bricks.
But in the springtime come the flower buds.
And we see no more of Jack Frost and his tricks.

Which vision is the true one,we may ask
Just as with the faces we each show.
Is there any virtue in that task
For reality’s impossible to know.

Each perspective gives a vision new.
The more we see ,the more we realise.
Other cultures have a different view.
Argument is futile and unwise.

As when and where we stand gives us our view.
I  must perceive quite differently from you

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He promised to kiss me and love me and vacuum me

img_0034Oh dear what can the matter be
We  sometimes  hate our own family
Oh,dear send for new batteries
My husband is flat with despair.

Oh,dear what can the matter be
Ambivalence strains all the flattery
Oh,dear, drive to the cattery
Alfred has lost all his hair.

He promised to   lie on my lap until Saturday
He promised to eat his food   and to chat to me
He promised to kiss me and love me and vacuum me
I’ll  have a hot bath   and prepare.

Freud says that all relationships are ambivalent.We hate those we love sometimes.It is  normal in the sense that we are vulnerable to them.But we live with it

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But if my brain needs waking up

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Oh,horticultural college, you have charm
To gray old souls your roses are a balm
But it I need a stimulant
To Tottenham Hotspurs I’ll be sent
To see the players break each other’s arms”

O gardens fair ,O trees with bark that gleams
O roses red, your scent is full of schemes
But if my brain needs waking up
I’ll burn the ordnance survey map
Nothing ever is  just what it seems.

O cafeteria , what a  terrace fair
While others eat I chew off my own hair
But when my sister  takes a snap
She makes me hug some sweet  tall chap
‘Tis her husband,Isee  he loves the pair.!

 

If he were Muslim he might have two wives
One to kiss and one to  polish leaves
But as we are all  Anglicans
Bigamy is not  our plan
We’d like to know if   we can preconceive

Oh,horticulture  is a lovesome art
Which gives us flowers with which to decorate
But once a week
We have  a peek
And  see old men   play rounders with their darts.

 

Oh,rapidly  the summer  darts away
So we must enjoy  a flower while it’s here
Otherwise ,it’s brandy,guys
It may make you randy,guys
The main thing is that we enjoy the play

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The worst poetry of all time

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What’s the Worst Poem of all Time?

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Humorous tips for writing better poetry

 

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http://mentalfloss.com/article/62431/16-famous-authors-tips-writing-better-poetry

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Remember stress is useful if and only if it’s in poetry

He writes  like an iron bic-ed amateur
He is ill,but literate
A new EU law says women must wear bikinis in Tesco’s or  wrestle with unarmed policemen in the Forum.Which do you prefer?
She is literate and beautifully formed
He’s reads swell in any  form
I never like to show off my sun  gnats.They bite the hand that wrote them
It’s the Sybillines that count
Make sure you do  writhe all day to start with
There’s no such thing as a poetic horse.
Remember stress is useful in poetry only
She has a very worried accent.
She asked me was I   very foreign.I said I was about  two standard abbreviations from the mean.And by golly,they are very mean
Don’t bother about Eugenie’s ass
If you can read and write you can  learn a lot of bad things and pass them on to cause more harm and sin

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And yet my vision may deceive as guide

As heavy blankets hurt my tender joints
So bills unpaid weigh on my    flattened heart
And tasks I can’t complete  to  hell do point
And darkness does my soul  long time assault

Yet to the innocent who pass me by
These  black demonic ills are hard to see
And  though I trudge they seem to think I fly
While my heart sinks and soon no more will be.

What  being will caress my tender limbs
And soften muscles now as hard as steel?
What  human arm will drag me from the rim
Of well so deep its waters have congealed?

And yet  my vision may deceive  as guide
Blind fantasy sees mice  as lions wild.

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It seems to speak

Her grief so palpable ,it seems to speak
Her  vocal chords once  soft are stiff and pained
Her  face   deep hurt,. her body taut yet  weak
Her grief so palpable , ah,  please,please   speak
Ill tempered men have   pleasured in her shrieks
Yet  when such   grief ‘s  been   tempered and refined
The  vocal cords might be   enjoyed again
Her grief so palpable  .  why  don’t we speak?
Her body  bends, we should have taken pains

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Palpable

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Merriam Webster
http://www.merriam-webster.com/word-of-the-day

palpable


Definition

1 : capable of being touched or felt : tangible

2 : easily perceptible : noticeable

3 : easily perceptible by the mind : manifest

Examples

The tension in the courtroom was palpable as the jury foreman stood to announce the verdict.

“The beautifully shot, meditative film takes on a palpable sense of urgency after Maria makes a fateful move, leaving both the young woman and her family in a quandary that forces them to deal with the outside world, including a harrowing trip to a hospital where no one understands their language.” — David Lewis, The San Francisco Chronicle, 26 Aug. 2016



Did You Know?

The word palpable has been used in English since the 14th century. It derives from the Latin word palpare, meaning “to stroke” or “to caress”—the same root that gives us the word  palpitation. The Latin verb is also a linguistic ancestor of the verb feel. Palpable can be used to describe things that can be felt through the skin, such as a person’s pulse, but even more frequently it is used in reference to things that cannot be touched but are still so easy to perceive that it is as though they could be touched—such as “a palpable tension in the air.”

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Late summer

This gallery contains 4 photos.

Gallery | Leave a comment

Then, recognised, by heart and soul,

IMG_0044
My  mind  today  is like a magnet.

It attracts those small

yet potent words

that fit its present thoughts;

creates a replica

of wounds afresh.

If, like a welcome sun,

new light will shine for me,

reveals,

transforms.

I’ll then

perceive

those frozen narratives of loss

as only part of me,

New words,

New sentences.

New narratives,

New stories made from generous recognitions grow,

if what’s perceived is held,

like iron in the fire,

till transformation comes.

Burned into being by this blazing,

Transmuted,changed.

New conceptions

linked to draw, as from a different view. point.

Then, recognised, by heart and soul,

They shall combine to makes a new and larger whole.

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A life in writing

https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2012/feb/03/jacqueline-rose-life-writing

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An excellent article

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/washed-up-and-hung-on-the-line-to-dryden/

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Why do Poets write Iambic Pentameter?

Good writing and thinking

PoemShape

  • May 14, 2009 Tweaked & corrected some typos.

mount-everest-colored-edgeBecause it wasn’t there.

During the sixteenth century, which culminated in poets like Drayton, Sidney, Spenser, Daniel, and Shakespeare, English was seen as common and vulgar – fit for record keeping. Latin was still considered, by many, to be the language of true literature. Latin was essentially the second language of every educated Elizabethan and many poets, even the much later Milton, wrote poetry in Latin rather than English.

Iambic Pentameter originated as an attempt to develop a meter for the English language legitimizing English as an alternative and equal to Latin (as a language also capable of great poetry and literature). Encyclopedia of Spenser - ExtractSince meter was a feature of all great Latin poetry, it was deemed essential that an equivalent be developed for the English Language. But poets couldn’t simply adopt Latin’s dactylic hexameter or dactylic pentameter lines. Latin uses quantitative meter

View original post 5,862 more words

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Stan wears Mary’s skirt

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Stan woke up later than usual owing to the comfort of   sleeping in his  dear wife’s soft cotton nightgown.He had slept better than  he often did despite the police calling to question him about a nude woman found wandering in the town centre. at midnight.She had forgotten her name!
Women have much better clothes than men,Emile, he remarked to the cat which was stretched out on  the Sun which a visitor had left..I don’t know why I allow that paper in the house You could sleep on a bath towel.
After having a shower,Stan decided to take another look at Mary’s clothes.He found a  long denim skirt in light indigo   and embroidery which he fancied would match his new  cream T shirt.
Of course I shall only wear  it while I do the housework he told Emile.After all in Scotland I could wear a kilt.Can you get a denim kilt he wondered.He decided to wear underpants but not to wear Mary’ssilk petticoat.She might get angry with him.
There is a certain logic in wearing a denim skirt as it  much cooler than trousers and allows easy movement.But of course one must wear decent underpants in case the wind blows under it and reveals all.That’s  why women are always buying packs of pants.So Stan was thinking. and he remembered his  old espadrilles which would look good.He stood in front  of the mirror and imagined he looked quite fetching.

The doorbell rang and on the step was the Vicar of Knittingham South.
Hello,madam, he said pleasantly.
I’m a man,Stan muttered loudly
Yes,dear,of course you are.May I speak to your  husband?
I  am the husband,Stan screeched.
Oh,I see.You are gay then, I assume.
Stan pointed to his beard and said,
I am a man. Didn’t you hear me?
Please forgive me, the Vicar said
Some old ladies get quite hairy and  with the skirt I thought it was rude to mention your beard.How do you find the skirt,by the way?
Well, it’s  very   cool having air on the legs  and it’s definitely  better than shorts.
But a cotton dress would be even better.Are you married?
Yes,said the Vicar but my wife is very intolerant of anything unusual.She’d be furious  if I wore her old  clothes.
My wife doesn’t know,Stan told him.I bet she’d be angry too because  she’d have to iron it again.
Why don’t you wash and iron it before she comes home, the Vicar demanded.
Well, just between the  two  of us I am afraid of  soap powder, irons,telephones, sprouts and   making a mistake in a recipe.Also  eye tests ,blue litmus paper ,Andrex and crisps
I’m afraid of dentists,fogs , bricks.Art,dogs and sausages the Vicar admitted.And doctors and fierce women who swear at me in the dark.
The two men stood  pondering.Are they tarts angry with not getting aby notice from the dear old Vicar.After all Jesus mixed with them.
Come inside, said Stan after a few minutes.Let’s have a coffee.
They sat on the patio drinking  their coffee and saw a wren fly past into the weigelia.
That’s the first I’ve seen recently.said Stan.
Emile was asleep  again,this time in a woven  willow   bucket in the kitchen.
Anyway,why did you call,Stan asked the Vicar.We never got to that.
I can’t remember, the dear old man admitted.I’ll have to come back tonight.
Oh,dear Stan said
I think I’d better put some trousers on, he whispered
Yes,you had said Emile.I can see the Bishop outside.
We’ll have to move,cried Stan.
And so say all of us.
For he’s a hollow bowl  mellow.
Why not pray for us?

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THE SECOND COMING by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

http://www.theatrehistory.com/irish/yeats001.html

 

http://www.poetry-archive.com/y/the_second_coming.html

THE SECOND COMING

by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

URNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
 
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
“The Second Coming” is reprinted from Michael Robartes and the Dancer. W.B. Yeats. New York: Macmillan, 1921.
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And learn the feeling Arts

Shall we cling to grudges from the past.
Distorting vision;injuring our hearts?
Shall we   loosen that tight grip at last?
Shall we cling to grudges from the past,
When grace is waiting  for all us  poor outcasts?
Soon enough we sinners shall depart
Shall we cling to grudges from the past,
With derision ;injuring our hearts?

Shall we   choose to hold our wounded heart
Yet not retaliate  and hurt this friend or foe?
For  indulged anger grows and  war can  start
Shall we   choose to hold our wounded heart
Contain our rage and  learn the feeling Arts?
For all of us have   traversed Arctic  snow
Shall we   choose to hold our wounded heart
Yet not retaliate  and hurt this once   loved foe?

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Loving winter

Winter love comes when we near the end
Yet do not wish for solitude each day.
Cupid wtth his arrows may descend
He jokes with us and invites us out to play.
Winter love may come amidst the snow
When frost bites noses and nips fingers dear.
But despite her  age a woman out may go
To walk her lover and content appear..
The age of frost has not entered my heart
My mind  has  filled with fresh and new desires
The problems come when lovers desperate
Show contempt and start a bitter pyre.
Yet winter love can grip me despite flaws
Hope and laughter circle me uncaused.
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Structure of a triolet

A

B

A (repeat first line)

a (rhymes with first line)

b (rhymes with second line)

A (repeat first line)

B (repeat second line)


The summer weighs us down with sullen  heat

Even cats and dogs  sit still as stones

Gone are early flowers with fragrance sweet

The summer weighs us down with sullen  heat

The hot flagstones return my angry beat
As people  scurry by ears to their phones.

The summer weighs us down with sullen  heat

Even cats and dogs  sit still as stones

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The Langdale Pikes are fearsome to dead hens

The Langdale Pikes are   fearsome to dead hens
Whose feet are used to  engraved  golden  roads
The Langdale Pikes are fearsome unless penned
But from  the heights  you cannot see a toad.

Though mountains  can allure us like a  whore
They cast  huge shadows   onto Network Rail
You cannot tell  a  sculpture,je t’adore
Despite  the  surplus in next Winter’s  Tails

They  test  my soul  with   glue  like a quagmire
One has  to have a head  and a big ass
Sheep   prefer the  local  red-haired deer
Who rescue them when  donkeys  miss the path

Should we learn to    lose our  fear of light
From  the peak we   see all  human blight

 

 

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Emile pushes Stan out of bed

  • Stan awoke feeling very thirsty.My, this bed is much  too hard,he thought.He put out his hand and felt some wood not far away.It was his desk.Emile was lying on Stan’s stomach purring.
    You fell out of bed,the little cat miaowed.Luckily I clung on with my claws and I am ok sleeping down here….I can see  mice better.
    Well,it’s not ok with me,Stan informed him gently.How can I get up from here?
    He picked up the Cambridge Companion to Sylvia Plath and banged on his desk softly.
    Mary was awake and heard a strange sound.She got up and found Stan lying on the floor with his head by his desk.
    Emile wanted to sleep by the wall,you see.,he told her.
    Then he rolled over and I fell out.

     

    http://youtu.be/pT9CdnfFET8

    That is logically and scientifically unsensible,Mary told him.Surely Emile is not so big that his weight was enough to knock you out of the bed? It is against the law of gravityAnyway,why don’t you get up?
    I like it  down here,the old man lied to her optimistically.
    Rubbish,Mary said,then she picked up the phone and rang 999.
    Hello,she said.My cat is very upset as he feels guilty for pushing my  aged husband out of bed.
    How terrible for you,the man answered.I’ll send an ambulance right away.
    Mary opened the front door and left it unlatched whilst she lit the electric lights with a match.
    How do you feel now  Stan,she enquired tying her  red polyester fleece dressing gown a bit tighter before the paramedics arrival
    I am thirsty,give me some brandy,he ordered her politely as he was  full of kindness
    They said not to let you or Emile drink or eat
    Blooming ridiculous,he told her in a manly fashion.
    Soon the ambulance arrived and the paramedics were running up the stairs to see the poor cat. Mary fainted so they laid her on the bed whilst they comforted Emile and cleaned his paws.Then they picked up Stan and laid him right next to Mary,his wife.
    Why don’t you have a bigger bed,one asked Stan.
    Bigger than what,he responded academically.
    Well,if you were any fatter you’d not be able  to lie next to your wife.
    True,he replied but my wife is too large.I keep hoping she will lose weight.
    I shall make you some tea the female paramedic told them forcefully
    Well,you don’t seem to be hurt,the other one told Stan, but the cat may need therapy or counselling because of the guilt he will feel.
    He’s not  a Catholic ,I hope?
    No, he’s Jewish,Stan shouted  implausibly.
    That’s alright then.How do cats get to be Jewish anyhow?
    It’s their souls,Mary said…they are all waiting up there for a suitable place to be reborn and some choose to be cats.
    But how can you tell? he asked wonderingly.They have no prayer shawls
    They miaow in Hebrew,Mary said loftily.And they like to sing the psalms before bed.
    But how do you  know it’s Hebrew,he replied.Do you speak it?
    No, it’s just he hates bacon and pepperoni and always wears a hat so it seems he must be one of Jesus’s friends,but not Judas of course.I suppose Jesus wore a hat but it’s never been found as yet.Not even being sold as a relic.

    .http://youtu.be/8SCorW9r_Is

    Well,that’s intriguing.Do you think Emile might be the Messiah?
    Oh,dear.We never thought of that.Will he have to go to Galilee and catch fish and walk on water?
    No, he can go to Rome and tell the Pope that the Church is not what God planned.
    I hope they don’t kill him,Mary cried sadly.
    God will not be very happy.
    I didn’t know God had moods,Stan said.
    He has post-creative depressive disorder….no wonder when we look round the world.
    Still they did try,I’ll say that for him or her.
    And so say all of us.
    For he’s a very good yeller,he’s a very good yeller
    A cat’s life is a fuss.Miaow.

    Cave 2

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

p1000354
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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Why do poets use iambic pentameter?

https://poemshape.wordpress.com/2009/04/17/why-do-poets-write-iambic-pentameter/

Extract:

The Fall of Iambic Pentameter

By the end of the Victorian Era (1837-1901), and in the hands of the worst poets, Iambic Pentameter had become little more than an exercise in filling-in-the-blanks. The rules governing the meter were inflexible and predictable. It was time for a change. The poet most credited with making that change is Ezra Pound. Whether or not Pound was, himself, a great poet, remains debatable. Most would say that he was not. What is indisputable is his influence on and associations with poets who were great or nearly great: Yeats, T.S. Eliot (whose poetry he closely edited), Ezra PoundFrost, William Carlos Williams, Marriane Moore. It was Pound who forcefully rejected the all too predictable sing-song patterns of the worst Victorian verse, who helped initiate the writing of free verse among English speaking poets. And the free verse that Pound initiated has become the indisputably dominant verse form of the 20th century and 21st century, more pervasive and ubiquitous than any other verse form in the history of English Poetry – more so than all metrical poems combined. While succeeding generations during the last 100 years, in one way or another, have rejected almost every element of the prior generation’s poetics, none of them have meaningfully questioned their parents’ verse form. The ubiquity and predictability of free verse has become as stifling as Iambic Pentameter during the Victorian era.

But not all poets followed Pound’s lead.

A wonderful thing happened. With the collapse of the Victorian aesthetic, poets who still wrote traditional poetry were also freed to experiment. Robert Frost, William Butler Yeats, E.E. Cummings,Wallace Stevens: Idea of Order at Key WestWallace Stevens all infused Iambic Pentameter with fresh ideas and innovations. Stevens, Frost and Yeats stretched the meter in ways that it hadn’t been stretched since the days of the Elizabethan and Jacobean Dramatists. Robert Frost’s genius for inflection in speech was greatly enhanced by his anapestic variant feet. His poems, The Road Not Taken, and Birches both exhibit his innovative use of anapests to lend his verse a more colloquial feel. The links are to two of my own posts.

T.S. Eliot interspersed passages of free verse with blank verse.

Wallace Stevens, like Thomas Middleton, pushed Iambic Pentameter to the point of dissolution. But Stevens’ most famous poem, The Idea of Order at Key West, is elegant blank verse – as skillfully written as any poem before it.

Yeats also enriched his meter with variant feet that no Victorian poet would have attempted. His great poem,Sailing to Byzantium, is written in blank verse, as is The Second Coming.

Yeats, Frost, Stevens, Eliot, Pound all came of age during the closing years of the Victorian Era. They carry on the tradition of the last 500 years, informed by the innovations of their contemporaries. They were the last. Poets growing up after the moderns have grown up in a century of free verse. As with all great artistic movements, many practitioners of the new free-verse aesthetic were quick to rationalize their aesthetic by vilifying the practitioners of traditionalpoetry. Writers of metrical poetry were accused (and still are) of anti-Americanism (poetry written in meter and rhyme were seen as beholden to British poetry),  patriarchal oppression (on the baseless assertion that meter was a male paradigm),  of moral and ethical corruption. Hard to believe? The preface to Rebel Angels writes:

One of the most notorious attacks upon poets who have the affrontery to use rhyme and meter was Diane Wakoski’s essay, “The New Conservatism in American Poetry” (American Book Review, May-June 1986), which denounced poets as diverse as John Holander, Robert Pinsky, T.S. Eliot, and Robert Frost for using techniques Wakoski considered Eurocentric. She is particularly incensed with younger poets writing in measure.

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Astonished into bud

 

Fritillaria sewerzowii Green_15-2 [1024x768]

Flower by Mike Flemming.Copyright 2015

 

The journey to the heart is  graced by love.
And those who need to seek obey their call.
Though virtue and her graces smile above,
We see steep paths ahead   with  risky falls

With willingness to cross  fields deep in mud,
To struggle through the tangled  windbent wood.
Our soul within knows when there’s latent good;
Recalls old trees astonished into bud.

As flowers spring up  to gently grace our toes
Encouragement is with much joy received;
And as we smell the fragrance of the rose,
At last we know our souls were not deceived.

For Virgil,fortune favours steadfast feet.
The journey may be long,the end is sweet.

 

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Trying to glimpse another through their veil.

I embraced ambiguity like a bride
Who fears  disclosing that her face is fake
And while we’re on the subject I take pride
In stealing water colour  from the lake

Ambiguous  in intentions we dn’t know
We send out signals full of first class news
And if this rebounds  an artist might then show
Our vision depends  on our point of view

Seventeen types of clarity are mine
Fifteen from my  mind and two from pride
From this glass I make a view divine
Though Sunday someone said they thought I lied.

Ambiguous ,we hover by the scales
Trying to glimpse another through their veil.

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This is very good

 

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/how-read-poem-0

 

Williams admits in these lines that poetry is often difficult. He also suggests that a poet depends on the effort of a reader; somehow, a reader must “complete” what the poet has begun.

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But now it is what McCall Smith calls “late”

Sometimes when bereft  I’d love a snail
Though it might wet my bed with silvery trails
Would  snails be lonely  living in my house?
Shall I be but fit to  love some  louse?

I  hugged a rowan tree  and now it’s dead
The council said they’ll give me oak instead
It stood upon the pavement by the gate
But now it is what McCall Smith calls “late”

I  wonder  if self massage is the   thing
Some perfumed lotion stolen on the wing.
I    stroked my arms with Cream E45
Now they say I’m not allowed to drive!

I was sad but now I am at peace
All I needed was a plate of eggs and grease.

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But shall I help the blind to lose their creeds?

I empathise  with   ladies  in great need
Though I prefer a cape   where  they like coats
But I have got a crutch and cannot  speed
Nor can I with my smartphone  walk and read
But shall I  help the blind to  lose their creeds?
In my hand I carry a large tote
Full of silken scarves and  hearts that bleed

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As I ran off and thousands were in chase

I can’t buy any clothes for I’ve no space
Yet in the autumn women like new coats
I wonder should I transform my pale face
And wear a golden necklace for its grace
Though it might prick a lover in embrace
At least it would sort out  the men  from goats
As I ran off and thousands were in chase

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On the road to Dent

On the road to Dent there was a pool
A river in the dale had made a loop
So out your clothes and into it you lept
While  tame sheep  wandered  round me in a group
Eating ginger biscuits as they trooped.
On the road to Dent there  is a pool
To pass it by,you’d have to be a fool

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When we feel

I do not wish to feel this sadness now
But who decides,who chooses what we feel?
If I were strong I might use a  large plough
To knock my feelings level  when they grow
Bur  that is not allowed by God and co.
Yet who denies his  measuring  the real?
I do not wish to feel this sadness now
Think, who derides,who cackles when we feel?

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Why a poet writes

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/why-i-write

 

 

 

The possibility of suffering being redeemed by art, being made meaningful and thus real (as opposed to merely actual, something that happens to exist, happens to occur), is still vital to me. Art reminds us of the uniqueness, particularity, and intrinsic value of things, including ourselves. I sometimes have little sense of myself as existing in the world in any significant way outside of my poetry. That’s where my real life is, the only life that’s actually mine. So there’s also the wish to rescue myself from my own quotidian existence, which is me but is at the same time not me at all. I am its, but it’s not mine. For most of us most of the time, life is a succession of empty moments. You’re born, you go through x experiences, you die, and then you’re gone. No one always burns with Pater’s hard, gem-like flame. There’s a certain emptiness to existence that I look to poetry, my own poetry and the poetry of others, to fulfill or transcend. I have a strong sense of things going out of existence at every second, fading away at the very moment of their coming into bloom: in the midst of life we are in death, as the Book of Common Prayer puts it.

In that sense everyone is drowning, everything is drowning, every moment of living is a moment of drowning. I have a strong sense of the fragility of the things we shore up against the ruin which is life: the fragility of natural beauty but also of artistic beauty, which is meant to arrest death but embodies death in that very arrest. Goethe’s Faust is damned when he says, “Oh moment, stay.”

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Daniel Hoffman, 1923 – 2013

156518


This is where it is published

Arriving at last

It has stumbled across the harsh
Stones, the black marshes.

True to itself, by what craft
And strength it has, it has come
As a sole survivor returns

From the steep pass.
Carved on memory’s staff
The legend is nearly decipherable.
It has lived up to its vows

If it endures
The journey through the dark places
To bear witness,
Casting its message
In a sort of singing.

From Beyond Silence: Selected Shorter Poems, 1948-2003 by Daniel Hoffman. Copyright © 2003 by Daniel Hoffman. Reproduced with permission

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OK you are not Shakespeare, now get back to work

photo1337

“If you want to write, or really to create anything, you have to risk falling on your face. How much easier to sit back and snipe at the efforts of yourself and others. How sophisticated you can become, your own contribution unimpeachable, because it does not exist. Sometimes insightful, always acute, the inner critic can become your closest literary friend, the one who tells you the truth, the one who makes you laugh at yourself and punctures your delusions.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Putting in the Seed by Robert Frost

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The Frost couple moved to England in 1912, after they tried and failed at farming in New Hampshire. It was abroad that Frost met and was influenced by such contemporary British poets as Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke, and Robert Graves. While in England, Frost also established a friendship with the poet Ezra Pound, who helped to promote and publish his work.

Putting in the Seed

Robert Frost, 18741963

You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

 

read poems by this poet

Robert Frost was born on March 26, 1874, in San Francisco, where his father, William Prescott Frost Jr., and his mother, Isabelle Moodie, had moved from Pennsylvania shortly after marrying. After the death of his father from tuberculosis when Frost was eleven years old, he moved with his mother and sister, Jeanie, who was two years younger, to Lawrence, Massachusetts. He became interested in reading and writing poetry during his high school years in Lawrence, enrolled at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, in 1892, and later at Harvard University in Boston, though he never earned a formal college degree.

Frost drifted through a string of occupations after leaving school, working as a teacher, cobbler, and editor of the Lawrence Sentinel. His first published poem, “My Butterfly,” appeared on November 8, 1894, in the New York newspaper The Independent.

In 1895, Frost married Elinor Miriam White, whom he’d shared valedictorian honors with in high school and who was a major inspiration for his poetry until her death in 1938. The couple moved to England in 1912, after they tried and failed at farming in New Hampshire. It was abroad that Frost met and was influenced by such contemporary British poets as Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke, and Robert Graves. While in England, Frost also established a friendship with the poet Ezra Pound, who helped to promote and publish his work.

By the time Frost returned to the United States in 1915, he had published two full-length collections, A Boy’s Will (Henry Holt and Company, 1913) and North of Boston(Henry Holt and Company, 1914), and his reputation was established. By the 1920s, he was the most celebrated poet in America, and with each new book—including New Hampshire (Henry Holt and Company, 1923), A Further Range (Henry Holt and Company, 1936), Steeple Bush(Henry Holt and Company, 1947), and In the Clearing (Holt Rinehart & Winston, 1962)—his fame and honors (including four Pulitzer Prizes) increased. Frost served as U.S. Poet Laureate from 1958 to 1959.

Though his work is principally associated with the life and landscape of New England—and though he was a poet of traditional verse forms and metrics who remained steadfastly aloof from the poetic movements and fashions of his time—Frost is anything but merely a regional poet. The author of searching and often dark meditations on universal themes, he is a quintessentially modern poet in his adherence to language as it is actually spoken, in the psychological complexity of his portraits, and in the degree to which his work is infused with layers of ambiguity and irony.

In a 1970 review of The Poetry of Robert Frost, the poet Daniel Hoffman describes Frost’s early work as “the Puritan ethic turned astonishingly lyrical and enabled to say out loud the sources of its own delight in the world,” and comments on Frost’s career as the “American Bard”: “He became a national celebrity, our nearly official poet laureate, and a great performer in the tradition of that earlier master of the literary vernacular, Mark Twain.”

About Frost, President John F. Kennedy, at whose inauguration the poet delivered a poem, said, “He has bequeathed his nation a body of imperishable verse from which Americans will forever gain joy and understanding.”

Robert Frost lived and taught for many years in Massachusetts and Vermont, and died in Boston on January 29, 1963.


Selected Bibliography

Poetry

In the Clearing (Holt Rinehart & Winston, 1962) Hard Not to Be King (House of Books, 1951)
Steeple Bush (Henry Holt and Company, 1947)
Masque of Reason (Henry Holt and Company, 1945)
Come In, and Other Poems (Henry Holt and Company, 1943)
A Witness Tree (Henry Holt and Company, 1942)
A Further Range (Henry Holt and Company, 1936)
From Snow to Snow (Henry Holt and Company, 1936)
The Lone Striker (Knopf, 1933)
The Lovely Shall Be Choosers (Random House, 1929)
West-Running Brook (Henry Holt and Company, 1928)
New Hampshire (Henry Holt and Company, 1923)
Mountain Interval (Henry Holt and Company, 1916)
North of Boston (Henry Holt and Company, 1914)
A Boy’s Will (Henry Holt and Company, 1913)

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A Time to Talk By Robert Frost

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, ‘What is it?’
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

Source: http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/a-time-to-talk
#FamilyFriendPoems

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We wished to see the flowers when in full bloom

We ‘d  hoped to see the rose gardens in June
But on the 1st he died and travelled on
We  both enjoyed   the roses in  full  bloom

We used the dark to see the stars and moon
But by the 1st  I found that he was gone
We hoped to see the rose gardens in June

As  I tell,  dark death arrived  too soon
And  took away  the  life of   a  dear man
We  wished to see the  flowers when in full bloom

As he  lay,I sang  to him the psalms
I  knew before the doctor’s he was going.
We meant to see the rose gardens in June

Then  there with me he  re-encountered calm
I had not gone there with a plan
We  longed to see the  flowers  enchanting blooms

May was cold and bitter with alarm
That was when he fell , yet rose again
We  hoped to see the rose gardens in June
We    loved the  scent of roses in their time

Posted in poetry, Thinkings and poems, villanelle | 2 Comments

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 

photo1777
This first line is often quoted but often people don’t knpw where it comes from
You might try singing it to the melody of “The yellow rose of Texas”
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
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The basics of iambic pentameter

shakespear1

Shakespeare Wiki

https://poemshape.wordpress.com/2008/11/30/what-is-iambic-pentameter-the-basics/

A useful point:

Elision

[There are two more commonly used symbol to consider]. One is the symbol for elision. Elision means that instead of pronouncing a word as having, say, two syllables, it is pronounced as having one. Likewise, a word that appears to have three syllables, might be pronounced as two.

elisionThis symbol denotes elision.

Consider the following line:

scansion-with-elision

An extract which is amusing:

Almost every major poet , prior to the 20th Century, wrote Iambic Pentameter when writing their best known poetry.  Exceptions would be poets like Walt Whitman (free verse), Robert Burns (who wrote a variety of metrical lines – mostly iambic), and Emily Dickinson (whose meter is derived from hymn tunes, which is why so many of her poems can be sung to Yellow Rose of Texas).

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We feel our love absurd

Art though my own and may I now love thee?
Art though my own and shall I  thy wife be?
As waiting long  lays waste to love and joy
Art though mine,  or with me do’st thou toy?

O treat me not like  stuff disposable
O treat me not  as one intolerable.
For if  thou touch then thou hast made a claim.
And from  the heart, to lose is to be maimed.

For  women are not like  to sheep or goats
We have hearts to feel what thou hast wrought
And if  thou come to steal then  thou’rt a  thief.
One of many , causing women grief.

Do not touch with hand or with sweet words
For  if thou  lie, we feel our love  absurd

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I blocked cookies all my life

 

I  love you and you love me!
Believer!
Where on earth should I be?
Whenever.
I blocked cookies all my life
If you want one,ask the wife.
I eat spam, and google then,
I begin all over again.
whatever.

I ban websites for a living
But my wife is very forgiving,
Men ever!
I eat splogs and gurgle blogs
Then I cut up all the logs.
Whenever.
I’ve been married fourteen times,
They divorce me for my rhymes,
Whatever.
I eat cookies if I can,
If I can’t I get them banned,
Forever!
I’m the God of Monster Space,
I’ll destroy this human race,
Moreover.
If you meet me you won’t know
‘Cos I look like old so and so,
Whoever.
But I am mad and I’ll get you
I eat up this human zoo;
Together.
Whenever.
Can’t forgive,erhhhh.
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Trust the Unknown Force that grew us

 Trust the unknown force that grew us,

From the joining of two cells;
An act of love and of self giving;
 Thus we can grow a newer self.

Trust the dark,the unseen aspects
Of the life we here do live.
Trust that there is Wisdom elsewhere;
Who to your empty self will give.

Wait in patience for the new  time
When inspiration  comes at last
Trust in darkness,silence,  lowness.
Oppostion forms the cross.

Pain is bearable in lowness,
Like the worm in earth I dwell.
When I look I see the sunrise

And I trust all shall be well.

 

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I thanked him for being so intensely unkind.

I went to the doctor, he said I’d pre-flu.
I said “My dear doctor, what shall I do?”
Next time I went, he said “It’s pre- shock.”
And then I had pre measles,pre mumps and pre-pox
I ran to the doctor,he said ” You’re pre-well”
I said “Are you sure it’s not just a pre-quel?”
Next time I turned up,he’d gone out for a walk
It’s hard for a doctor who wants to pre-talk.
I went to the optician, who said I’m pre-blind
I thanked him for being so intensely unkind.
I went back to the doctor,and these words I said
“I’m pre -blind, pre-deaf,pre-ill and pre-dead!

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23 Pilchard’s Avenue Knittingham KM2 0DEAR, Europe.

 

goodfriday1

Dear Anne,Please forgive me for not writing  especially  after I got such an intriguing missive from you.Emile had eaten all my stamps and Stan used to post things for me.I am afraid I have got very lazy
To save money in the long run, I have bought some nail clippers as I don’t really need the chiropodist,She came  to see Stan’s feet owing  to his diabetes.
I got a shock when I found my toe nails have gone very tough.It is quite difficult to get one foot on my knee with out dislocating my knee joints.I did it so now I am wondering if I can cut my own hair.Have you ever tried that? The choice seems to be to cut it all to  about 1/2 inch and let it grow how it will
Or just cut the sides as they seem longer than the back.
How can one get both sides to the same length? I thought of cellotaping my hair to my cheek and then measuring  say 1 inch  with more  tape and cutting off what lis below.As you know I like experimenting but  in this case it  might be trial and horror as an old physicist once said to me.
I get these weird ideas and can’t get them out of my head.
Emile’s coat does not grow ,which is extremely fortunate.imagine the expense of cuts and blow dries! He seems well and claims he talks to Stan in the night. He eats  robustly and sometimes I am tempted to  share his meal because it looks like the potted meat we used to have when I was a child.Not to mention I often forget to cook myself a meal and end up with a bowl of porridge.
I am planning to write a book for Kindle but so far all I have done is get Word 2016 as I was blackmailed  into getting more storage on One Drive and that came with Office 2016.
I also had to find my NI number in case  my book sells  because I will have to pay tax.Having done that I   have been too lazy to learn how to use it.
Now the hot spell has ended it feels really cold so I must find some socks.I bought some trousers in the Sales for £12 and they are fully lined.I  have been planning how to keep warm in winter and I had a brilliant idea.Wear two pairs of pants.  2 vests and some wool socks underneath 2  long sleeved tops and some trousers/long skirt.Then if it gets icy add a cardigan.Or two cardigans… 2  light coats and two wool hats. Then if one is too hot one can remove the layers gradually .
Which might mean being at a dinner party in  just two vests and two paits of knickers.So they will have to be in bright colours.
So far only  two men have befriended me.If  one  develops int a full relationship  imagine the thrill of  him undressing me layer by layer.He will probably die before getting  them all off.Is that what we call a  “defense machanism”?
It would be easier to ask him what he thought of Ray Monk’s book,The Duty of Genius…  a life of Wittgenstein.How many men will have read that and still the   energy to chase  women?.I suppose I’d better read the Daily Mail so I know what are the hot topics and TV  programmes like that Bakery Programme…. then they blame us for getting fat.
I am afraid I’ll have to stop here but will write again when I have bought some more Quink.
I do  hope Cambridge was not flooded last week and you are ready for the new term or is it a semester now? And  let me know about your book “Absence and the Love of God” I am desperate to read it.

Sending my  love

Mary xxx

and Emile xxxx

 

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The Kingdom of God by Francis Thompson

jacobs-ladder-byzantiumimage002

 

http://www.themint.org.uk/z021.htm

245. The Kingdom of God
By Francis Thompson  (1859–1907)
O WORLD invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!
Does the fish soar to find the ocean,         5
The eagle plunge to find the air—
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumour of thee there?
Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!—        10
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.
The angels keep their ancient places;—
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estrangèd faces,        15
That miss the many-splendoured thing.
But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.        20
Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames
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Women can’t cook properly till they are 55! Longer if they sing at Glastonbury

P1000006 b.JPGhttp://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/foodanddrinknews/9646105/Women-master-cookery-at-the-age-of-55-survey.html

Posted in Thinkings and poems | 1 Comment

From Dante’s Inferno

One night, when half my life behind me lay,
I wandered from the straight lost path afar.
Through the great dark was no releasing way;
Above that dark was no relieving star.
If yet that terrored night I think or say,
As death’s cold hands its fears resuming are.
Gladly the dreads I felt, too dire to tell,
The hopeless, pathless, lightless hours forgot,
I turn my tale to that which next befell,
When the dawn opened, and the night was not.

(“Inferno” by Dante Alighieri)

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What are literary devices?

What are Literary Devices

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Birches by Robert Frost

This is blank verse.It is written in iambic pentameter like a sonnet but it has no rhymes

2012-01-22

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust–
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows–
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

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In proud confusion

When red sun  drops and  cooling night  rolls in
Darkness masks both danger and our vision
Ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

Courage for the  delicate   seems thin
We  wrestle  with  our horrid indecision
When   sun  drops deep and   night   rolls  softly in

But now , new stricken by   a dread of sin
Who shall doubt  the soul’s   derision?
Our  ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

When  we sleep we’re entertained within
Dark dreams squander all   illusion
When  deep sun  drops and   gentle night  rolls in

In reverie we’re loved  and  so our hearts open
Then  fancy turns to full communion
While ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

And so  it was that our own life began
When sperm leaped up in  proud confusion.
When  deep sun  dropped and  a   new night  rolled in
When  ancient  hearts cried  “Day  shall come again”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Officious or official?

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http://www.merriam-webster.com/words-at-play/the-difference-between-officious-and-official

 Usage Notes

‘Officious’ vs. ‘Official’

Plus, a limerick to help you distinguish between these two commonly confused words


The words officious and official are often confused, which is reasonable enough, since we frequently have this habit with words that share a beginning. But they needn’t bedevil, and by looking at the history of each word it becomes fairly simple to distinguish between the two

As an adjective, ‘official’ means “of or relating to an office, position, or trust.” ‘Officious’ describes an annoying person who tries to tell other people what to do in a way that is not wanted or needed.

The words share a parentage in the Latin word officium, which could mean either “a helpful act,” “duty or obligation,” and “a person’s regular employment or position.” Officium gave rise to two distinct words in Latin, each one of which subsequently became one of these two English words under discussion here. Officiosus came from adding the suffix –osus, indicating “full of,” and the word took the meaning of “eager to serve or help.” The suffix –alis (meaning “relating to”) when added to officium brought about the word officialis, which in Latin initially had the meaning of “relating to duty or obligation,” and later took on the meaning of “a magistrate’s assistant.”

When officious came into English, in the 15th century, it retained the meaning that it had had in Latin. The earliest sense of the word was “dutiful,” but it also had the meaning “eager to serve or help” at about the same time. It did not take long, however, for the word to take on the additional, and now most common, meaning (“volunteering one’s services where they are neither asked nor needed”); there is evidence that this sense was attached to officious by the end of the 16th century.

Official came into English somewhat earlier than officious; it has enjoyed a wider range of meanings and seen greater popularity than its meddlesome cousin. The earliest use of official, beginning in the 14th century, was as a noun, referring to a person who has been appointed to an ecclesiasticalcourt. It began to see use as an adjective soon after, with the now-obsolete meaning of “performing a function or service.”

If you are uncertain about how to distinguish between these two words there are a couple of ways to tell them apart. The first, and most obvious one, is that officious will typically only function as an adjective in English, and not as a noun; official, on the other hand, hopscotches between these parts of speech with aplomb. Additionally, words that are formed with the –osus suffix (as officiousis) tend to be more likely to be used to describe unfortunate characteristics than those words that are formed from the –alis suffix. The former group includes such specimens as contentious, bilious,flagitious, and meretricious; the latter group includes such specimens as fiscal, hebdomadal, andlittoral.

It is perhaps a stretch to say that one is incorrect in using officious as a synonym for official, since the word did indeed have that meaning at some point in the past, and there are many instances of writers in English referring to “officious capacity” or “officious role”. However, it is highlyanachronistic, and if your goal is to be readily understood you are advised to eschew this use in your writing.

In the event that you still have trouble keeping these two words straight in your mind we offer the following limerick.

An official may well be officious,
(or tendentious, even malicious)
While the words may share roots
They are not in cahoots
And conflating them is injudicious.

 

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Smoke all day and make sure that they’re tipped

Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped
New thoughts  help us  leap from out  the rut
Exercise  and kiss your  own red  lips

Smoke all day and make sure  your cigs  are tipped
Drink some whiskey,beer and grow  a gut
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped

Beat your walls and bedclothes with a whip
Move out now and buy  a hermit’s hut
Exercise ,why! Kiss  your lover’s lips

Walk ten miles and  write a thousand quips
Decorate your place with  smokey soot
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped

Go to port and snap the line of ships
Keep your chin up,even make it jut!
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped
Exercise   and kiss    a thousand lips!

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How writing in form helps you in writing free verse


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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/articles/detail/89288

Posted in Thinkings and poems | 2 Comments

An interview with Ted Hughes

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1669/the-art-of-poetry-no-71-ted-hughes

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