The Borderlands of POETRY – 5

PART THE FIFTH

 

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Poetry As Religion

 

Poetry has become my religion
My faith lies in belief
Belief that my words convey my feelings
Express my thoughts
In a way that my actions are unable to do
And while I write
While I construct my idolatrous icons
I am worshipping at the altar of my muse
And offering penance for my frailties.

 

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The Borderlands of POETRY – 4

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POETRY AS DREAM

 

Poetry is my life revealed,
For there, in depth of thought,
Lie all my hopes, my dreams expressed
In words intense and tightly wrought.

Exploring what I hardly know,
Seeking as though dreaming,
I struggle to define my life,
Grasping for more meaning.

The confines of experience
I venture to pursue,
Defining life and love and death,
Their meaning to construe.

And when I’ve sifted every thought,
Mined the deepest seams,
I feel I’ve drained my Muse’s well,
Finding only dreams.

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The Borderlands of POETRY – 3

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PART THE THIRD

 

Poetry bestrides the boundary
Between certainty and supposition
Between what I know to be true
And what I know not
For imagination conducts me into new worlds
Lands of hope
Of surmise and conjecture
Where speculation surmounts reality
Where inference and suggestion rule
And life is vibrant and ever vital

 

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The Borderlands of POETRY – 2

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PART THE SECOND

 

My Weeping Soul

 

I weep my truths in poetry
And from my unconscious mind
In the borderlands there
Where the finite
And the incomprehensible meet
My secrets are torn
Crying to be freed
To be revealed
In poured out singing words
Shed in images
Subtle revelatory pictures
My art telling of those wondrous places
Secreted within my core
Which
for good or ill
I never will
Access in any other way
Than through my weeping soul

 

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The Borderlands of POETRY – 1

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PART THE FIRST

An introspective week, during which I inspect the reasons and beliefs which govern my poetry.

I have recently been made to look more closely at my understanding of these on giving consideration to the words of that controversial Canadian academic, clinical psychologist, and considerable YouTube presence, Jordan Peterson.  In particular I have been led to consider a statement of his regarding his assertion of what poetry is and what the poet is attempting to do.

“We live in the finite and comprehensible but are surrounded by the infinite and incomprehensible and there has to be a border between those…like a mediating border… That’s poetry and art, that’s narrative and religion.” Jordan Peterson.

The background to his thinking on this and on related topics can be better understood by listening to a College Q and A on the subject of  ‘Free Speech, Racism, & Religion’ and published on YouTube – (or see below . . . )

The particular view which Peterson expressed , which I quote above, can be found at approximately 17.00 minutes in.  It has given me cause to consider my own impetus and purposes in writing poetry, some thoughts on which I will try to present on ‘Roland’s Ragbag’ throughout this week. 

 

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When Is a HAIKU Not a Haiku?

Haiku

 

When Is a HAIKU Not a Haiku?

 

HaikuJAM’s an app
“Where thoughts become a poem
And the wide world meets”

. . .  BUT . . .

Seventeen phonemes
Split into three distinct lines
Don’t a poem make

. . .  SO I CONCLUDE . . .

Wham bang and flimflam 
Damn this goddam anagram 
HaikuJAM is spam

 

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Grand Western Canal – Devon

[ Photo Gallery # 89 ]

The Grand Western Canal provides wonderful level walks and bike rides along its nature-adorned tow paths.  It extends for eleven and a quarter miles from the basin in Tiverton, East Devon, through quaint and charming villages to Lowdwells, near the Somerset border.

Perhaps the greatest attraction on the Canal is the much-loved horse-drawn barge based at the start of the canal in Tiverton.  It is a beautiful wide beam, 75-seater horse-drawn barge and the same boat has been taking passengers for trips along the canal since 1974.  The Devon section of the GW Canal is now a designated country park.

My photographs below were taken on a beautiful summer afternoon when I undertook a trip on the ‘Tivertonian’.

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I have covered some of this information before on one of my blogs, which can be viewed by clicking on: ‘The Canal Horse’

The video below was made by The BBC, ‘One of the Last Horse Drawn Barges in the UK’ was filmed on the Grand Western Canal in Devon UK.

 

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‘On Ageing Gloriously’ – REPRISE

[ Wednesday Replay # 4 ]
 
To counterbalance my poem ‘On Ageing Disgracefully’, re-published last Wednesday, I now re-present my upbeat version of old age, previously posted by me on  
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‘Old Age & Youth’ …  Pen and ink – WHB.  2017

ON AGEING GLORIOUSLY

Yes, I am getting older now; my prime has slipped away;
But I’m beating off the Harpies who want to bring doomsday.
But the benefits now brought about through all the new advances
Have brought about a change in me, at least they’ve upped my chances.

For, mine eyes have seen the glory never found since I was nine;
I ‘ve cast aside my spectacles reversing my decline.
I’ve got new eyes now, darling, and the cataracts have gone,
So despite my aged torso I will still keep staggering on.

And my new knees tell the story of my better prospects now;
I’m going to try the Great North Run if only they allow,
‘Cos I feel as though I’m twenty four and kicking down the door.
At least I’ll get a few years now before I need some more.

My metal hip has been replaced; I now have one in plastic;
It’s been a great success, although the experience was quite drastic.
I can hobble with the best of them and the stairs I cope with ease;
Yes, walking is a doddle now and life is just a breeze.

My hearing aid’s a bonus, I know what’s being said on telly.
My confidence I have regained, I’d rival Machiavelli;
The end still justifies the means; these life aids serve their purpose,
But instead of “Turn the volume up”, I’m wishing they were wordless.

My carpal tunnel surgery stopped my fingers feeling numb.
I’m twice the man I used to be, an artist I’ve become;
So now you see me in my prime reflecting on new marvels;
My hands are fully functional now; I have not lost my marbles.

My lumbar corset gives me an efficient spinal brace.
My posture’s as it should be now, no longer a disgrace.
I stand upright and hold my place wherever I may be,
Just the occasional little blip, one you’ll hardly ever see.

The wig I found provided me with a new lease of life;
No longer bald and reticent – I’ve got a new-found wife.
I’m wond’ring how surprised she’ll be when we get into bed,
Perhaps she’ll want a payback when she finds she’s been misled?

They gave me my libido back with just a small blue pill;
Revived my passion and my lust – be that for good or ill.
I must say I’m enjoying those long lost thrills again,
No longer from the Tantric Arts, do I have to abstain.

They now give me a freebie both for Christmas and tv
Free bus and tube rides I can get, I’ve become a devotee
Of touring round my city all the splendid sites to see
Suits me to be busy now at the age of eighty three.

A pension I am grateful for, although it’s not enough,
I paid my dues for forty years, I did think that was tough;
Yes, the National Health helps me a lot, I get my medicine free,
And if I want a pick-me-up, my nurse is good to me.

My mouth has been replenished with a set of new white teeth;
I thought it best to have that done before they bought my wreath.
I look forward to my time in Heaven, but perhaps it’s just as well,
That I can still enjoy life now – in case I go to Hell.

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The  FOLLY

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THE  FOLLY

 

It might well be a fancy flight
a seemly sight
to pierce the night

The ruin stands by planned design 
stately in its verdant dell
beside the lake
a tableau there 
no history to tell

Reflections guaranteed to please 
float beside its stones
imaging false contrast
in the water’s mirror
a mirage of a potent past

To build a ruin seems absurd
why would you do it
the thought occurred

Perhaps to glory in the past
show time has passed
and nought can last

But as I wander within its wall
dark and damp
and weather worn
stained in moss
and ivy clad
I feel that here
real history lies
a tale so sad
a mystery

I do recall how
in its recent age
it yet was young
was burnished bright
both stone and tiles
a comely sight

To see an abbey in its prime
no sort of crime
merely a jest with time

Fanciful, a fantasy, 
undoubtedly a fallacy
yet
reflection of a legacy
portrayal of a history

 

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‘The Tern’ by Spike Milligan

[  # 83 of My Favourite Short Poems  ]

 

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The Tern

 

Said the mother Tern to her baby Tern

“Would you like a brother?”

Said the baby Tern to the mother Tern,

“Yes, one good Tern deserves another.”

 

By Spike Milligan

 

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Reprinted from ‘The BIG BOOK of POEMS’, by Roger McGough and Gyles Brandreth and Friends, Published in 1999 by Andre Deutsch Classics

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