Poems and chit chat

[tariki]

Hello again. I was back a year or so ago. I tend to drift around - in more ways than one. I have given up Forums about five times ( 😀) but I really do find waffling on very therapeutic and though in many ways I'm simply talking to myself, the vague sense of an audience is needed. I have mental health issues, mainly anxiety, which hits in the morning and fades, hopefully, during the day. In fact one of my last sojourns was on a mental health forum. Some of the stories there, the personal struggles, made my own seem fairly minor, yet the overall "feeling" of the forum was one of acceptance and warmth, making me think of Leonard Cohen's words from "Anthem"...

"there is a crack in everything

that's how the light gets in"

 

I can see, looking back, upon my last return, that I spoke

 of "Krapp's Last Tape", a play by Samuel Beckett.  About a guy who records his thoughts or whatever every ten years or so and when listening back struggles with making a connection. What stays the same? What changes? Disconnection and continuity. Buddhist ideas of "rebirth". 

 

Once or twice now I have run a thread here and there posting some of my old poems. I recall posting a couple on here before, as and when some thread seemed to all them forth. Back in the day I often wrote poems, in my twenties and early thirties, but they dried up when I began to discover the "real stuff". Which is sad in a way. I think now that any attempt whatsoever at creativity will never be fruitless, however "poor" at another level. 

 

Anyway, this is all a preamble to running through a few of my old poems. Each time I seek the connections and discontinuities, ramble on about autobiographical tidbits that surrounded the writing of them. They are my own "tapes". 

 

The first are two that I see I have posted before, as mentioned above. 

 

I was reading "The Sleepwalkers" by Arthur Koestler, about "Man's changing vision of the Universe" (woman's too I assume) I was exposed to the so called "Copernican Revolution" (and all the subsequent revolutions) as our earth, our home, was displaced from the centre and set into orbit. Then Darwin - we were no special creation. Then Freud - just who was in charge? Enough there to create the angst of modern times and for many the desperate, yet forlorn, clinging to any "old time religion" that didn't seem totally absurd. 

 

Before Bacon (and ode to despair)

Oh! I wish I'd been born before Bacon
When the sun still moved in the sky,
When hope was in more than a daydream
And beauty in more than the eye.

When the Great Chain of Being had God at the top
And Old Nic down below in his lair,
When people were burnt for love of their souls
And not just because they were there.

Back in those days before Auschwitz
When there was still trust to betray,
Before Symbol and Myth became Number
And the Cross became DNA.

Oh! I wish I'd been born before Bacon
When Saints trod the Pilgrim's Path,
When people still jumped at a bump in the night
And not at a bump in a graph.

When Crusades were fought for Truths believed
And Faith was the Devils hammer,
Nothingness only the clay God used,
The Absurd a Bishop's stammer!

When Man was seen as something more
Than atoms swirling in air,
Before the face of the Risen Christ
Became the face of despair.

Yes, I wish I'd been born before Bacon
Though there's not much to choose in the end;
But I might have had serfs and a castle
And I might have had Christ as a friend

 

For me the whole thing was light and satirical but it was actually read out once at a local prize giving evening and was read rather seriously, even pompously. Such is life.

 

The second. We once lived next door to a couple who had a severely handicapped son, Georgie. One day as I left the house a lady was chatting to the mother and the little lad was in his pushchair. As I passed by the lady reached down and tousled his hair and said:- "He's a kittle angel." I don't know why but I felt anger at hwr words, as if the little lad was being betrayed in some way.

 

 Anyway, I wrote this:-

see no wings on georgie
else he would be bound
set no seal upon him
place no fences round

see him not as what he could be
what he should or what he would be
see him as he is before you
love the living truth, see georgie

hope for guidance, hold no answers
in the mornings when you wake him
as he casts his eyes upon you
your response can make or break him


Since then I've spent a few days now and again at a Playground for Special Needs Children, where my daughter was supervisor. Once I asked her, about a particular child:- "What's wrong with that one" and she just said: - "You don't have to know what's wrong with them, you just treat them for the child that they are."

I mentioned this to her once, saying it was something I had learnt from her. She told me that she had learnt it herself from the previous supervisor, a lady called Di. (I had met Di once, and have a memory of her once being struck over the head repeatedly by an irate child. Di just went down slowly under the blows (they were a bit vicious but not life threatening!) and she had a smile on her face. A lovely lady, who died far too soon of cancer.

 

Anyway, enough for now. 

 

No blame. Be kind. Love everything. 

 

 

 

[tariki]

Back in McDonalds, with a straight white coffee. A bit downmarket from Costa's (  😀) but the price is better in these tough times. I miss those barista's eyeing me up but a young lass crying out  "Number 47! " has its upside if you use your imagination.

As said, a few old poems. The next two can be dated. They came with the Falklands War, so early 1980's. Anyway, the first was just a short verse. I wrote this after watching the news, another plane landing at Brize Norton with returned servicemen. A tape would be put across to hold back the families, women and children. The soldiers would disembark and at some point the tape would be breached and the little kiddies would run forwards towards their dads. Soon after came another news item, this from Buenos Aires, a funeral cortege for young airmen killed in the conflict. Following the coffins were the mothers, faces torn with grief, wringing their hands. 

No words are adequate to capture the dualities of our world. "Realising" non-duality within duality is the journey, and can only be lived, not thought. At least as I see it. And the journey is home. But I wrote this short verse:

the faces of grief are on the march
far from where reunions bless
(where sons and daughters are lifted high
by arms returned to tenderness)
 

Following the war, there was a "Victory Parade" arranged in London by our then Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. The so called Falklands Spirit of national unity was to be celebrated, even fueled. It was declared that there would be no room (at the inn) for any wheelchairs, the walking wounded. Now, such a decision would bring outrage, but then it was accepted with barely a whimper. 

Here is my poem, "Falkland's Victory Parade".

Keep well to the back there boys,
There's no votes to be won by you,
It's only the able in body and mind
We want in the public view.

No wheelchairs now, no white sticks;
I'm sorry - they must be banned,
To preserve the new found unity
That's spreading through our land.

We need just the beat of marching feet
That bursts the heart with pride;
Even, perhaps, a prayer or two
For the ones who fought and died.

So please, keep well to the back boys,
Let the healthy take your bow.
We all enjoyed the battle -
Don't go and spoil it now

Keeping to the war theme, the Ukrainian conflict is never out of the news. We have been told by our grandchildren that a little Ukrainian girl has joined their school. Our grandaughter, 8, tells us that this little girl could only say "hi" in English when she arrived, but now could speak a lot more. We asked her if  everyone chatted to her and were told "mainly the girls, not so much the boys." But anyway, a little light in the darkness. 

The current conflict introduces another poem, written in a deliberate boring monotone (so what is different here I hear some say....), called "Those Programmes Are Always the Same"...

Those programmes are always the same;
Those Current Affairs programmes are always the same.
The editions that deal with some new war,
Those programmes are always the same.
First the historical background is given;
How historically the conflict arose,
How the crisis began - such information is given.
Then the World Perspective is given;
Everything is put into context.
The conflict is put into focus.
The Superpowers - all are placed in perspective.
The relevant politicians are referred to;
The words and attitudes of the relevant politicians are referred to;
A relevant speech of a relevant politician is referred to.
There is some in-depth analysis.
Then some film is shown of the actual battle area;
The areas actually touched by the conflict are shown.
Where the bombs have fallen - some film is shown.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then various solutions to the crisis are discussed;
Various proposals for resolving the conflict are discussed.
The various experts discuss the various proposals.
Those programmes are always the same.

 

I remember once when the UK Red Arrows put on a display near to where we lived. The planes roared overhead and even though they were "friendly" the roar shook me and had a frightening aspect. I thought then, and think again now, what effect such a roar has on young children in any war zone, knowing that missiles of destruction can wipe away everything they know in an instance. I think of my own grandchildren.
 

No blame. Be kind. Love everything.

 

Edited October 8, 2022 by tariki

[tariki]

Moving on. I really don't like sundays, they just don't agree with me. I wake up with the anxiety at the highest levels. A bit of therapeutic baking and other household chores and such brings calm of a sort. Really, in some ways it's been all downhill since the UK's then PM Dave Cameron called an EU Referendum. His Party haemorrhaging votes to the UK Independence Party, he sought to put the matter to rest. Instead he let the cat out of the bag. As I say, all downhill from there. Musical chairs at what is called "the top" (for reasons unknown), with Dave, having so unexpectedly lost, giving way to Theresa May, then Boris Johnson and now Liz Truss, of whom Matthew Parris (a Tory journalist) has said:- "there is no more to Liz Truss than meets the eye". The UK has now reached the very bottom of the barrel in terms of what little talent pool it had in the first place. Now the Tories have morphed into the England Independence Party, with the absurd slogan of "Global Britain", which could act as a fine zen koan.

Of course Covid had not helped, and alas our world is dysfunctional and even dystopian (without the "speculation" part - who needs speculation when it is in front of us?), with North Korean missiles let loose over Japan, wars here and there, jeans produced with ready made tears, people walking down the highstreet talking into their mobile phones, headphones stuck in ears (our "age of communication") All no doubt prophesied in Revelations if you have a rich enough imagination. The "End Timers" are having a field day. 

Well, I'm waffling again. Letting it all hang out.

A poem...

We had relatives down in a small village near the coast. We would walk our then young daughter around a park. Often we would see a mother and her teenage son walking across the grass, I think between the village shop and their home. A bit ungainly, the young lad was a downs child. He was always holding his mum's hand. We mentioned to our relatives once that we had not seen the couple for a while and were told that the mother had died and that the young boy could not really understand. He kept asking where his mum had gone.

Anyway, at the time I wrote this....

 

he did not understand where his mum had gone
his mind was childlike and fed upon
small things and the living of day to day
more than on what the religions say
that death came through Adam eating the apple
and suchlike - his mind just could not grapple
with justifications for evil and such
he could not be expected to worry much
and never did - just smiled as he walked
beside his mum and talked
to her - because only she could understand
the awkward shaking of his hand
and everything he had to say
and all he needed in each day

O Christ, it hurts to dwell upon
his simple question - where's mum gone

 

Once I spent time at a sports club for the physically handicapped and when first there there were three downs youngsters. To begin with you see the obvious similarities of their features but in time they became what they were, unique individuals with their own names. It really is a blessing. The beauty of difference.

A bit disjointed here, being interrupted by various things. "Krapp's Last Tape" again. Making connections, or not.

To suffering, its cause, its solution.

From the Buddhist texts, a guy called Kassapa questions the Buddha...

"Is suffering caused by oneself?

"Do not put it like that Kassapa"

"Then is suffering caused by another? "

"Do not put it like that Kassapa"

"Then is suffering caused by oneself and another?"

"Do not put it like that Kassapa"

"Then is suffering neither caused by oneself nor another? "

"Do not put it like that Kassapa"

"Then there is no suffering?"

"It is not a fact that there is no suffering: there is suffering, Kassapa"

"Then does Master Gotama (the Buddha) neither know nor see suffering?"

"It is not a fact that I neither know nor see suffering: I both know and see suffering, Kassapa"

The conclusion is that we are being asked to "come and see" (for oneself) or in Pali "ehipassiko". The same sort of exchange can be found in the Buddhist texts for much else - life after death, the beginnings of the world, etc etc. All "views" , "conclusions", "answers" are renounced, as not being conducive to the "holy life", the path to deliverance, the "heartwood of the Dharma", which is said to be "unshakeable deliverance of mind". We must open to the reality of suffering (dukkha), not seek "answers" in any text, however venerated. 

 

No blame. Be kind. Love everything.

 

Edited October 9, 2022 by tariki

[tariki]

Mental Health Day today, and mental health now much talked about in the UK, much less kept in the dark, complete with "stiff upper lips", "pull yourself together" and "man up" (or "woman up")and other such nonsense.

One feature today was the "Three Men Walking", three (who'd have thought it.....😀) men who each lost a young daughter to suicide. Now they seek to raise awareness.

The first "feature" of the day was the missile strikes on Kyiv, and then Mr Putin sitting safe at his desk, black suited, accusing the Ukraine of "terrorism". Instantly I get the feel of "Dr Stangelove" and other satirical movies, yet here is hard reality. 

 "The world is too much with us". Yes, it is. But do not be "conformed" to it. 

 

Moving on, a trio of poems from yesteryear, all "christian" in a way. Making connections and disconnections, I have moved "east", and so I read them again, looking and wondering.

 

The first is "Palm Sunday" which is deeply ambiguous. Its ambiguities still puzzle me. 

 

I was standing on some low ground
Near the road to Bethany
When suddenly the distant sound
Of cheering came to me.

I looked up, saw a distant crowd
Where rocks and roadside met
But what was causing cries so loud
I could not see as yet.

Within my heart a wonder flowed -
A longing to draw near,
Yet as I reached the winding road
I found the way was clear.

The cheering crowds had moved away,
Left nothing to be found.
Just dust upon the beaten clay
And palm leaves scattered round.
 

It could be seen as "buddhist", i.e. much ado about nothing......😊

 

The second.....

 

Once shield and witness to a faith
A platitude become
A church in silence offers now
No homage to the Son

So solitary building
Whatever be one's taste
More suggestive of bazaars
Than any saving grace

Impossible to comprehend
That stone of such reserve
Once shook in exaltation
As host to second birth

That offers now but of itself
No kingdoms to endow
No longer with compulsion acts
But as our saviour, Now

 

I was experimenting with half rhymes, with a full rhyme at the end for emphasis. It was "inspired" (surely the wrong word!) by Philip Larkin's "Church Going", a fine poem well worth looking up.

 

My third is called "Church Service". Now I will only enter a church for weddings or funerals (funerals more often these days) I will have a humanist service, with "Mr Tambourine Man" (Dylan) as the intro, and "Gracelands" (Paul Simon) as the outro. I'd love to be there to hear them again. 

 

Our breath like demons casted out
Our noses pinched by frost and doubt
We faithful wend our Narrow Way
Betwixt the graveyard's clodded clay.
Soon the cold stone church is reached
Wherein the Crucified is preached
Demeanours miserable as sin
With solemn gait we enter in.
Then, sought and found, a frozen pew
We seat ourselves, the Chosen Few
Beneath the stained glass windows glow
Black-bibled all, row on row.
Too soon the vicar comes (with style)
Replete with oily, plastic smile
And all resigned we hear him say:-
"Welcome all, now let us pray"
Heads all bend in pious prayer
The God Man's words fly thick and fair
(Some brethren muse upon Good News
Others contemplate their shoes)
Then heads are raised, the organ booms
Throats are cleared, the first hymn looms
Hymn-book pages softly rustle
Through the flock a gentle bustle
And then all sing of Love Eternal
Voices torn and cracked, infernal
All wondering at God's wondrous ways
That turns such discord into praise.
Watched by the Vicar's gimlet eye
More hymns and prayers pass by and by
Then to his pulpit, proud he goes,
To spout his Sermon's sundry woes.
It's "Woe to this" and "woe to that"
And "woe to those who chit and chat"
It's "woe to those who smile and sing"
Woe to almost everything!
But joy! yes joy! to those who mourn
To those whose yokes are bravely borne.
To everyone now graced by dread:-
"You can all start living once you're dead"
Then down he comes, another hymn
Its words unyielding, stark and grim.
But then at last! an end to woe!
Those Holy Words "You now can go"
We shuffle out into the aisle
Shuffle up it, single file.
Just one thing now to look out for
The silver plate beside the door.
We all approach it in a line
Each fumbling for our smallest coin.
The vicar's eyes speak loud and clear:-
"Please, no Widow's Mites in here"
And so we place a note instead
And passed the vicar proudly tread
And so on through the oak door where
We breathe once more the Lords fresh air.

That's all for now.

 

No blame. Be kind. Love everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[romansh]

Hi Tariki 🙂

[tariki]

14 hours ago, romansh said:

Hi Tariki 🙂

Hi there! 

It seemed like the Mary Celeste around here!

Hope all is well with you.

🙂

 

[tariki]

 

After that welcome interlude, I find myself once more in McDonalds, white coffee in hand. A stopping point on my way to Oxfam for my four hour stint on the till. Hopefully very few customers this week and my reverie, listening to Bob Dylan and Marc Bolan, will not be rudely interupted.

 

But as Rambling Syd Rumpo would say, I'm dipping once more into my tucker bag, digging out some old odes. Rambling Syd was played by the late Kenneth Williams, in the radio show "Round the Horne". Rambling Syd was an itinerant folk singer, whose songs were written by Barry Took and Marty Feldman, using Olde English words, which when placed appropriately, would be full of lurid innuendo. Such great old English ballads as "The Song of the Boggle Clencher" (who would "often clench his boggles for less than half a crown" and whose delight was "a shiney night (and a foggy night as well)" . Well, you get the idea. One of his greatest was the "Song of the Somerset Nog" and Syd explained how the nog was "half Suffolk Punch and half dachshund".A strange looking creature he added, "three hands high and eighteen foot long". "Not much to look at no doubt" Syd would say, "but they do say as how the rhubarb in those parts of the world was something mighty fine."

But back to the poems, I tend to digress, and there are only so many. As the supermarkets say of their latest "unmissable" offer, "when they're gone, they're gone"!

I was struck once when hearing an office colleague offer some sort of response in a situation. Being instinctively judgemental I saw "fault", a lack of sincerity, a grasping after "received truths" and saw no "heart".

Anyway....

Convention speaks
The heart is dead
Only the remembered said.

The mind revolves
Within its files
Choosing words
And picking smiles
To convey to watching eyes
If the heart laughs or cries.

But it does neither.
It is dead.
Only the remembered said.

Maybe others here are familiar with The Blue Cliff Record, a collection of Koans. I have a book by Thomas Cleary, "Secrets of the Blue Cliff Record" and over the years I've managed to get to Case 64. Sadly, most of it remains secret to me....... 

There is another little book, by Terrence Keenan, which is an updated, "modern" version of the Blue Cliff Record, with an abstract art work alongside each "case". More my style. Pretty cheap as a download on Kindle which makes a pleasant change from a few other zen books I could mention.

In the Introduction is a little verse by Joshu:-

Remake what has gone by and work with what comes. If you don’t remake, you are stuck deeply somewhere.

Which I think now can relate to the words of Yu-men, when asked what were the teachings of a whole lifetime. He answered:- "An appropriate statement".

Anyway, I would recommend Terrence Keenan's little book, available from all good ebook stores.....

No blame. Be kind. Love everything.

[tariki]

 

 

Musical interlude....

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=tUqAGoPtfto

[romansh]

15 hours ago, tariki said:

Hi there! 

It seemed like the Mary Celeste around here!

Hope all is well with you.

🙂

 

Don't know what's up with Paul ... he seems to be not around much.

I am well.

 

[tariki]

12 hours ago, romansh said:

Don't know what's up with Paul ... he seems to be not around much.

I am well.

 

Glad to hear it! Maybe a few other "lurkers" will be inspired to join in with some chat. I tend to phish these days, throw it out there and see what comes back. Nothing usually. But it keeps me amused.

But the world is strange, very much so here in the UK. Surreal at times as our country sinks down the plughole, everything falling to pieces, with the people at the so called "top" either silent or if they do speak, incoherent in terms of any factual reality. 

 

Edited October 12, 2022 by tariki
Changed "here" to "hear" . Ha ha.

[tariki]

When I first started looking back at some of these old poems there were one or two that I simply could not remember writing. One was obviously about an incident of seeing some old and vacant lady wandering down the street and my reactions. It was particularly striking in a very emotional way........this because eventually my own mother declined with dementia, and her last three or so years were particularly stressful in many ways. So my words, written before this happened, made me think of those who may have just passed my own mother by as she must sometimes have stood, bewildered and lost.

And When She Had Gone, Pity Came

She seemed to have no yesterdays
And very little else
As she stood alone in the passing crowds
Staring, talking to herself.

I approached her with a numbing dread.
Would she turn to me and speak
And isolate me from a kinship made
With all others on that street?

But I had no need to worry -
Her mouth gaped and trembled wide;
So I passed her without a sideways glance
And left her far behind.

Yet looked back. She had moved at last
To the pavements edge, still lost -
(I remember thinking how strange it seemed
That she looked before she crossed)

 I also happened to hit an old poem that I remember at the time as being fraught with a deal of anguish. It came from a news story, of a young boy, just five or so, who fell down a man-hole. His mother rushed to the opening but he was too far down. Soon a rescue squad arrived, a microphone was set up. His mother could hear the little boys cries. Calling for his mother. Eventually one guy went down on a rope. At one point his hands and the hand of the little boy clasped each other, but then slid apart because of the slime. The little lad slid away.

Basically, that is the end of it. I found it all shocking at the time and I think anyone will still find it so if they still have......what can you call it....... "imagination". I see from my old book the use of much tippex as I tried different words. But really, what words could ever be adequate?

The boy was called Alfredo, my poem "Alfredo is it dark?"

Curled within your shocking tomb
As once within your mother's womb
(Alfredo, is it dark?)

On microphone, soul destroying
Hear the muffled fearful crying
(Alfredo is it dark?)

When you lie so far below
Can any stand and worship now.
(Alfredo is it dark?)

The horror of your mother's grief
Rips the heart of all belief

Far beyond the empty skies
The still and silent figure lies
Drawn the final muddied breath
Died, the tiny lonely death

At the time I was into Theodicy, the attempt to justify God in the face of our world's evil and suffering. Sometimes I thought that I had "the answer" but I now think any "answers" are virtually blasphemy. The "answer" does not rest in any "belief" but is found at another level of being (or non-being)

As I have said, I have moved east. But really, "east" and "west" are indistinguishable at certain levels. There is a fancy word to describe what is claimed to be the central philosophy of Buddhism. The Madhyamika, initiated historically by a guy called Nagajuna, around the 2nd century AD. There is a quite famous book on this, a sort of classic, by T.V.R.Murti. It revolves around the "Middle Way" which is said to be not a mid position between two extremes but rather a "no-position" that supercedes all positions, and also relates to the "silence of the Buddha" in response to any metaphysical questions, his refusal to take a "position", claiming that "views" were detrimental to the actual living of the Holy Life, the path to the end of suffering (dukkha)

Murti speaks of all the dichotomies, opposites. Being and becoming, eternalism and annihilationism, the substance view and the non-substance view (atman and anatman) and asserts that though most would associate Buddhism with - in this case - the second of each, in fact the Dharma, the living truth, is the "middle way" beyond all views; lived, not thought. Some assert that having no views is itself a "view" but Murti insists that awareness of being free of views is not a view, but freedom itself.

 Getting back to theodicy, I see this as relevant. It relates to Faith/trust, of letting go. To the book of Job, where eventually God tells Job in effect to shut up! Who was he to judge, or to "take a position", where was he when all came into being? The Richard Dawkins et al of our world often object to this, yet there is a profound sense in which we can "shut up".

 

No blame. Be kind. Love everything.

[PaulS]

On 10/12/2022 at 5:51 AM, romansh said:

Don't know what's up with Paul ... he seems to be not around much.

I am well.

Still here, Rom!   Occasionally lurking but mainly I was in Bali for a little bit on holidays and now back at work (13-14hrs days and then straight to bed usually  ).

Welcome back, Tariki.  I love that you can come back here (the forum) and post poetry and your thoughts and feel a sense of therapy and perhaps safety.

I'm not much of a poetry person myself, but I genuinely find you posts both interesting and educational.  I perhaps err on the side of not commenting partly because of my poetry ignorance, but also the sense of allowing you space to simply enjoy posting here.

Loving your signature - No blame. Be kind. Love everything.

[tariki]

8 hours ago, PaulS said:

 

Loving your signature - No blame. Be kind. Love everything.

Hi Paul, good to hear from you again. 

Not actually my signature, which is further down, and the full words are:-

 

May true Dharma continue. No blame. Be kind. Love everything. 

 

I just thought that the Inquisition would be after me if I quoted it in full. 

 

😀

 

 

 

[PaulS]

16 hours ago, tariki said:

Hi Paul, good to hear from you again. 

Not actually my signature, which is further down, and the full words are:-

May true Dharma continue. No blame. Be kind. Love everything. 

I just thought that the Inquisition would be after me if I quoted it in full. 

😀

Tagline then, perhaps.  Whatever - I think it is a perfect sentiment for us all to work towards.

[tariki]

Sitting again in McDonalds, and a couple more of my ode of yesteryear, drawing forth thoughts old and new. The first, and I can still vaguely  remember the incident, window shopping in my hometown and this lady was quite taken by some writing desk in the window. My muse was awoken ( 😀) and I penned this:-

Oh! What an exquisite desk!" she said,
Gushing away from her husband's hand.
Then "Oh! what a lovely four-poster bed!"
(Later the Ming vase on its stand).

So she continued, voice rising shrill,
Straining to wrench life and death apart,
Using American Express to fill
The empty mansions of the heart.

As someone else once said (not me I hasten to add!) there's only one thing worse than a woman with a mouth and that's a woman with a credit card.......

Quickly onto the next ode, which makes me think of dreams. Some seem to get a lot out of dreams. Interpretation and so forth. My own dreams tend to be fairly mundane. i may have mentioned this before but Carl Jung once had a dream when still quite young. Brought up in a fairly restrictive religious home, apparently he had a dream where a gigantic turd dropped down onto a cathedral, crushing it beneath its weight. For Jung, such was the end of organised religions. I'm not surprised!

Anyway, I obviously did have a dream back then and maybe it was conjured up by having tried to suppress the thoughts of the suffering of others. (I seem to remember that there was a dog that followed me to work, a couple of days in a row, a hapless creature)

I'm glad that dog has disappeared,
The one that followed me to work
With limping leg and lonely eyes,
It's coat smeared hard in night-time dirt.

I'm glad that child has disappeared,
It's face and body built to shock,
It's skin stretched tight across its bones;
I switched the News off, read a book.

Yet they both came back that night
In a dream of a cripple with a twisted knee
Who, pointing with two fingers, begged:-
"Help me"

Maybe we are born for empathy?