Wednesday, 28 July 2021

Truth

 Truth

The truth dawns. 

That is how you know it,

Mostly it dawns literally,

But perhaps it’s always dawn somewhere,

So if it should dawn

When it’s not yet morn

Where you are,

Don’t eschew it,

Don’t reject it,

Don’t blow it,

Imagine you’re there.


Truth dawns

But don’t expect to shoe it

Into one of your pre-existing theories,

Or discover it.

Truth, frog-like, spawns,

In safe places

But you can’t uncover it

By determination,

Although it leaves traces,

Clues,

Truth is not news, comment, views,

You might get near it,

But remember, near is

As good as a mile.


Truth plants seeds,

But germination 

Sometimes takes years,

And truth seeds don’t always grow 

Amongst your other ideas,

Truth might be biology,

But it isn’t ideology.

Truth doesn’t care 

About what you think you already know.

Though when it hits you

You might shout “I knew it!”

Truth has no style,

No affectation,

Isn’t prone to exaggeration,

Needs no long winded explanation,

And is not always easy to digest,

However long you chew it.



First Service With Music For 16 Months


Dear Lord,

you got through to me on Sunday, healed.

Took away the petty stress, built up, revealed

Yourself, not in the great soft blanket of love and peace

The half tranquilliser, half fleece

Way you sometimes do, 

But in that other way of knowing you,

That doesn’t always work as it’s meant to.

You came to church, and in the ancient place

Your Grace shone through.

The sunlight was more than warm beams on wormed beams,

The whitewash was more than a metaphor,

The hymns’ rhyme schemes 

More than rhymed, internally, chimed, schemed it seemed

To reinforce the pressing themes:

Journeying, pilgrimage

And the need for valour, being brave,

Living, not merely avoiding the grave.



Tuesday, 27 July 2021

Real Fascism Has Not Been Tried, Recently.

 Real Fascism Has Not Been Tried Recently


No, this authoritarian approach

Is not the Fascism that I admire,

But I don’t care for questions or reproach,

Ideas and history still light my fire.

And no, I will not now concede 

That any ideology is wrong

That says consider first the ‘in group’s’ need,

You needs must prove by action you belong.

I know that vaccine passports aren’t the way,

Experimental vaccines can’t be forced,

But give me ‘in group’ thinking any day,

In theory, in discussion, quite divorced

From what is going on from week to week.

I’m not some lefty individualist

The truth and best way forward’s what I seek,

And yet I can’t abide a pragmatist.

And real Fascism has not been tried,

And who today is Caesar, ‘One Great Man’?

Bill Gates, Klaus Schwab? Such men must be denied

Simply on the basis that I am not their fan,

Since they disguise their psychopath’s ideas,

And don’t acknowledge all their thinking owes

To Hitler, Franco, Mussolini, those

Who came before.  And scared of people’s fears

They hide behind the ‘green’ agenda still,

Their thinking is not national but global,

And they care naught for beauty, what is noble,

And using dread disease impose their will

And style themselves as would-be hero Nannies,

Who, killing the economy, 'save' grannies,



https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-9826097/Family-woman-77-say-treatment-Essex-care-home-tantamount-torture.html












Sunday, 25 July 2021

On ‘Post Pandemic’ Hymn Singing

 

Two rondeau joined together 





Sung Eucharist and hymns, today

And sunlight pouring in to pray

And warm the ancient whitewashed walls

And still yet empty choir stalls

And hear the musty organ play

The Sanctus and the Agnus Dei,

And know that we had gone astray

But had returned, and that our calls,

Sung Eucharist and hymns,

Were some repentance for the way

We’d never dared to disobey

Our earthly leaders. Lacking balls

We’d shut our mouths. In power’s halls

They’d hoped to end by slow decay,

Sung Eucharist and hymns.

And always out of love we sing,

And give our thanks to God the King

We must learn lessons we’ve been taught:

Our good intentions come to naught

When bossy men claim everything

Could dread disease to others bring,

Though this is nonsense, as hymns spring

From prayers and praise and kind support,

Always out of love. 

And loving God removes the sting

From all our earthly suffering.

We should have argued, should have fought

But lacked the balls and so were bought

And now take orders from a ‘ping’,

Always out of love?

Wednesday, 21 July 2021

God in Poetry

 God in poetry is Rhyme,

And Rhythm, also Form.

Another Holy Trinity,

But which makes poetry sublime?

Which has the power to transform,

Change wisdom to divinity,

Which lets it stand the test of time?

And which can miracles perform?

Are these three masculinity?


Since Form dictates where Rhyme occurs

Then Form, must be the Father,

And Metre from the Form descends,

So Metre, as the Son, defers

To patriarchal wisdom, rather

Justifies its father's ends.


Which means that Rhyme is Holy Ghost

And spirit, breath of life.

And yet it limits our free choice

And offers only what is most.

Which means not what is vulgar, rife,

But that to which real truth gives voice.

And this transforms the poem, host,

Cuts out the dross with surgeon's knife,

And so in discipline, rejoice!





Dropping Off


A fraction of a dream, dense, small,

Before the moment of the fall

Into the full engrossing sleep

An image, most intense and deep,


A vision and a distant call


A picture drawn from some rushed trawl

Through visions stored we don’t recall,

And from the bottom of the heap,

A fraction of a dream.


Sometimes it warns and can appal, 

So we cry out, although we drawl

Our tongues in knots, we wake and weep,

And know that what we sow, we reap,

And what we are is here, is all,

A fraction of a dream. 

Monday, 19 July 2021

The Hardy Ones Beloved By Bees

 I gardened once, compulsively,

Which means I shopped obsessively,

And learnt the lovely Latin names,

Of tender things, I grew in frames,

With RHS books close at  hand,

I scoured the internet and planned

My garden as a hiding place,

A dream, a paradise like space.

And yet the work that was required

To keep it as I had in mind

Grew faster than the weeds I'd find

Had killed the rare things which I'd sought

And raised by hand or gladly bought

At great expense.  And only now I understand

As I lie reading in my chair,

Or simply sitting still, to rest,

In put on, tired frailness,

In summer heat and gentle breeze,

That common things are often best:

The roses which sweet scent the air,

The catty smelling elder trees

And even thoughts, as dull as these

Have meaning in their staleness,

Like hardy things beloved by bees.





Thursday, 15 July 2021

Democide (Deaths in 'Care' Homes, Deaths from Experimental Injections Against Covid 19, Deaths From Lockdown, Deaths From 'Saving the NHS ' at the Expense of Treating Patients with Serious Illness Other Than Covid, Death From a Determined Desire to Decrease the Popuation Because of 'Climate Change' Etc


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Democide


Family of woman say treatment by care home 'tantamount to torture'



https://mol.im/a/9826097

Though once we did not speak of 'democide',

And governments themselves don't use the word,

Yet their knowledge of its meaning, by their action is implied,

Though areas are grey and lines are blurred.

There were those whom the government preferred

Should trouble them no longer, such men died,

Government disposed but yet no cost incurred.

Though once we did not speak of 'democide'

For modern men were satisfied

That those dependent on the wisdom of the herd

Did not dispatch, wished merely to divide.

And governments themselves don't use the word,

Yet boldly act it out, quite undeterred

By moral principle, their actions coincide

With what they call the public good, which is absurd.

Yet their knowledge of its meaning by their action is implied,

Daily, and governments have always lied,

Ambitious politicians whipped, demurred,

Their Christian objections cast aside,

Though areas are grey and lines are blurred,

So ignorance is easily averred,

By those who do not own their acts, but hide,

Such cowards as they are. Yet undeterred

We shall not now let evil men preside,

Though once we did.

Tuesday, 13 July 2021

Where Our Sense Of Self Begins in 2021,

https://unherd.com/2021/07/the-chinese-future-isnt-bright/



(based on the above essay in today’s Unherd, which was actually quite good, but one line in the conclusion annoyed me) 



“Every generation has to re-define what it means to be “free”, where our sense of self begins. In a digital age our individuality begins at the place where our data cannot understand us. Freedom emerges in the space between the algorithms and our actual lives. Tech can deliver many wondrous and terrible things, but it will always fall short of really knowing what makes us human.“


This generation feels the urgent need

To re imagine, comprehend anew,

What freedom really is. This generation must succeed,

For they believe their forebears failed. They view

Their task as more than progress for the few;

They seek to benefit us all, proceed

As if they have some fresh, trustworthy clue.

This generation feels the urgent need

To understand where self begins, it's not agreed.

To set the world aright for all, it seems requires a slew

Of legislation drawn up in haste, at speed.

To re-imagine, comprehend anew,

Our individuality, requires us to construe

New interpretations, how much should we concede?

And were there those who ever knew,

What freedom really was? This generation must succeed,

Convince the people not to act with greed,

For freedom’s simply data’s end, where we are not seen through,

That’s all. Ignore what’s gone before, they plead,

For they believe their forebears failed. They view

The notion as complex, fraught, and seek to strew

The onward path with technocratic jargon, each phrase a weed

That multiplies, grows tall and dims from sight what’s true,

So liberty’s a distant place, always seeming to recede,

This generation feels. 

Sunday, 4 July 2021

How I See Myself Reading News and Comment

 How I See Myself  Reading News and Comment


I can’t explain why truth is true,

How right is right or how I knew

That something everyone believed

Was utter rubbish, ill conceived.

I couldn’t give an interview

And prove by some great mental fight

Another chap was talking shite,

I can’t examine figures and explain

How they do not back up another’s claim.

And when I speak in words as old and plain

And simple as the best things always are,

I sound as boring and as dreary as the rain,

While others, full of fervour, eyes aflame,

Are more convincing, propping up the bar. 

And still I read the papers every day,

And listen to ideas and the way

That they’re presented as established fact,

And as I am plain thinking, lacking tact,

I read, I think, I stew and I react

As if a guiding light had shown the course,

Though I might not know the reasons, 

Or the motives of the source,

I am merely an earnest news inspector,

Experienced through many cycles, seasons,

With finely tuned and honed bullshit detector.