[arobwk]

A UK moment in time

In these new times
with crass numbers a measure of our health
and the EU looking for measures to curtail our wealth
it is not a time to dis-unite
Now is the time
to care for each other and find a way to make
the United Kingdom once again great
A bright international beacon of right

arobwk  2021



 

[Womble]

I've just been singing this to the tune of "The Irish Rover". I'm going to hell, aren't I? 



In the Neolithic Age

In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage
  For food and fame and woolly horses' pelt.
I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man,
     And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt.

Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring
  Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove;
And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg
  Were about  me and beneath me and above.

But a rival, of Solutré, told the tribe my style was outré—
  'Neath a tomahawk, of diorite,  he fell
And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart
  Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.

Then I stripped them, scalp from skull,  and my hunting-dogs fed full,
  And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;
And I wiped my mouth and said,  "It is well that they are dead,
  For I know  my work is right and theirs was wrong."

But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole-shrine he came,
  And he told me in a vision of the night: —
"There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
  "And every single one of them is right!"
     

Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me
  Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;         .
And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer,
  And a minor poet certified by Traill!

Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow
  When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;
When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,
  And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.

Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,
  Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk;
Still we let our business slide—as we dropped the half-dressed hide—
  To show a fellow-savage how to work.

Still the world is wondrous large,—seven seas from marge to marge—
  And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;
And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu
  And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.

Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose
  And the reindeer roamed where Paris roars to-night:—
"There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
  "And—every—single—one—of—them—is—right!"


By Rudyard Kipling

[Womble]

The Genius

is standing at a stove in a bathrobe
stirring a pot of soup with a long wooden spoon.

Earlier this afternoon
he was busy in the margins of a heavy book

and tonight he will take a walk
in the garden of calculus,

but now there is only the vegetable soup,
the circling of the spoon,

the easy rotation of the wrist,
and the aroma of onion and rosemary

the kind of moment when a brainstorm
is very likely to roll in.

Not when you are concentrating
under a lamp in your study

but when you are up in the woods
lifting a stone onto a wall,

or washing a glass in the sink
you look up and see a cloud in the window

and then there is only you,
the wet glass, and that cloud

which is slowly taking the shape
of an astonishing idea.


                                        - Billy Collins

[doganjo]

LOVE and HATE

Words so different in meaning

I hear children keening
Their mums don't know what to do to keep them safe.
WE LOVE them do we not? Who do we not love, but hate?
Someone we do not know?  In a far away state?

But these poor folks in so much snow, and misery too much to bear
I can't watch anymore, and why should I care?
Because their misery is mine, that's why - above us all is one sky.
We are one species, one world - or are we?  Who interferes with that with impunity? We need unity.
Where can it come from?
So many questions, no answers, just love.

But hate? 
Is it there?
Do we hate folks who are ill?
How do we know who is ill?
Do ill folks stop the love? 

NO is the only answer

[Womble]

Ouch.

[Womble]

Feeding the Worms
by Danusha Laméris


Ever since I found out that earth worms have taste buds
all over the delicate pink strings of their bodies,
I pause dropping apple peels into the compost bin, imagine
the dark, writhing ecstasy, the sweetness of apples
permeating their pores. I offer beets and parsley,
avocado, and melon, the feathery tops of carrots.


I’d always thought theirs a menial life, eyeless and hidden,
almost vulgar—though now, it seems, they bear a pleasure
so sublime, so decadent, I want to contribute however I can,
forgetting, a moment, my place on the menu.

[Womble]

When you meet someone in deep grief

Slip off your shoes
and set them by the door

Enter barefoot,
this darkened chapel

hollowed by loss,
hallowed by sorrow.

its grey stone walls
and floor

You, congregation
of one

Are here to listen,
not to sing.

Kneel in the back pew,
make no sound

Let the candles
speak.



– Patricia Mckernon Runkle