Vestigia - Something to Get Your Teeth Into

“Some pains are physical and some pains are mental, but the one that’s both is dental.” Ogden Nash (1902 – 1971)

If you are an adult with four, perfectly formed and completely erupted wisdom teeth that have taken their rightful place without a twinge, you are very lucky. Or you have a big mouth. Not all of us can accommodate these vestigial teeth, still they come pressing and squeezing and causing pain with no sign of evolution stepping in.

Our ancestors had large jaws and extra molars to cope with their natural diet. Meat was sometimes raw and plants took lots of chewing. Upper and lower canines were more pointed and sharp.

Wisdom teeth, which, if all goes well to become our third molars, start to make their presence known from the late teens onwards. There was no room for mine.

The worst thing for a seventeen year old trainee dental nurse is to find herself on the receiving end of some oral surgery, take it from me. It’s one thing assisting a dentist and reassuring a patient, but when you’re the patient and you know exactly what’s going on, it’s a bit scary. And it is fair to say that even with self-knowledge and lots of faith in dental professionals, I can be anxious.

The pain started at work. It was mainly ear-ache then the jaw started hurting. My boss was on to it, having a look, taking xrays and making the kind of calming sounds that lets you know they are very happy in their work. A few days later and Sunday morning found me in safe hands, in the private dental surgery at his home address, with his wife making my dad a cup of tea. Dad had driven me there and was more apprehensive than me. I was making my best effort to be brave. Out came the wisdom tooth, no problem. About three weeks later, we were doing it again with the other side.

Our son has been blessed with a fabulous smile of straight, healthy, well-cared for teeth with no fillings. However, he has a ‘text book’ horizontal impacted lower-left wisdom tooth, the best – or worst, depending on your point of view – I’ve ever seen on an xray. He wants to keep it, at least for now.

Wisdom teeth, problems for lots of people and not needed anymore. Future generations, millennia ahead, might have got rid.

  

A poem from Manasi Saxena on the All Poetry website,

 





Dear Wisdom Tooth,

I am sorry for not having attended to you so far,
I did not realise you were needing more space to grow
and that you had things to say.

I thank you for troubling me now,
when I can understand that you mean well,
for the lesson you are offering me
that sometimes we need to let go of things
we cannot make room for
because they cause pain and anguish and
need to be returned to the universe lovingly.

Please forgive me for having neglected you so long
and for not being aware of your pain.

I love you, and now lovingly give you back to the universe.
May you find peace and space and freedom in your
return to the origins.

So it is, so it is, and it is done.

Love,
Manasi

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

  

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Epigram Sam

'Poetry For Dummies' (bless it) defines an epigram as: "a very unified, sharply pointed poem, often quite short".

Apart from my taking exception to the extraneous 'very' and 'sharply' (something is either unified or it's not, pointed or it's not) plus the fact that 'pointed' doesn't really get at an epigram's inherent wit or humour, the definition is spot on! That said, there is often confusion as to what is an epigram as opposed to an epigraph or an epitaph or even a punchy joke (aka the smart-arse one-liner). Simply - an epitaph is an inscription on a grave or headstone, an epigraph is a short quote as a header to a longer work (poem, chapter, novel) and an epigram may double as a punchy joke (if the form is right) but not all punchy jokes are epigrams.

Examples may help. My favourite epitaph is the one Spike Milligan insisted should appear on his grave stone: "I told you I was ill." Best epigraph award goes to "Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people" from the frontispiece of Adrian Mitchell's 1964 'Poems'. And my favourite punchy joke, that is like an epigram but not, comes from Ken Dodd: "In Paris, the tables and chairs are out on the streets. In Liverpool we call that eviction."

Many talented and witty literary giants have written epigrams. The form started out as a  brief poetic inscription about the dear departed on graves in Ancient Greece (not to be confused with an epitaph, LOL) and only came to acquire its humorous/satirical intent in the days of the Roman Empire.

Latterly, Ogden Nash, Dorothy Parker and Oscar Wilde in particular have proved quite prodigious in their output of epigrams, but in my opinion, the daddy of them all was Mark Twain (real name Samuel Langhorne Clemens) - hence my epithet for him - Epigram Sam (with an obvious nod to Marc Bolan for those of you familiar with T.Rex).

Epigram Sam

Twain is responsible for hundreds of pithy sayings, some more unified, pointed and shorter than others. I'll make it easy on myself this week by quoting a few for your interest and amusement.What is striking about many of them is their continuing currency, even though they are over a century old. What does that say about the ways of the world? Here goes:

"I don't like to commit myself about heaven and hell; I have friends in both places."

"The political and commercial morals of the United States are not merely food for laughter, they are an entire banquet."

"Politicians and diapers must be changed often, and for the same reason."

"Often it does seem a pity that Noah and his party did not miss the boat."

"It is better to keep your mouth shut and appear stupid than to open it and remove all doubt."

"Where prejudice exists it always discolours our thoughts."

"You can't depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus."

"Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel. He is the only one that inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it."

"The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them."

"Always do right. That will gratify some of the people and astonish the rest."

I thought that knocking out a short poem in epigram form would be a doddle. It wasn't...

Marianismo
Between the pornography of type
And the typography of porn
The man made cult
Of the misandrist was born.

Which leads on to Dorothy Parker, so renowned for her quick wit that she was often challenged to compose an epigram on the spot, or at least to parody an existing one, using a word supplied by her audience as a prompt. My favourite was delivered (allegedly) on the occasion that someone challenged her powers with the word 'horticulture'. Taking barely a pause to think, she bounced back with the line "You can drag a whore to culture but you can't make her think".

I'll leave you with a parody (sadly not an epigram) that I fashioned out of one of Oscar Wilde's most famed quips:

"I have nothing to declare but my gnus" - Oscar Wildebeest

Thank you and goodnight. I hope you enjoy(ed) your extra hour in bed, S ;-)

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Worrying about Epigrams and Epigrams about Worrying

I have to confess that when I opted to do a guest blog this week I got my epigrams and my epitaphs in a bit of a twist.  There I was, all ready to write about what I’d have on my gravestone, what my mum wants on hers and what we inscribed on my dad’s newly installed bench in the local park. Now, dear reader, sadly you will never know. It was only because I started thinking the word didn’t sound quite right to this old and muddled brain that I googled it.  Just in time.

So……..Epigrams.

I’ve always been a worrier. My dad was a worrier, my mum is a worrier, one brother is but the other not so much. All my children are worriers, to various degrees. I worry about them worrying, and they worry about me worrying.  Our lives are one big wheel of worry.  The thing is, our worries are all different, generally individual and pertinent only to the worrier.  One person’s worry can be someone else’s ‘no probs.’  How I would like to be one of those people, like my other half, who sails through life without a care in the world. To him, my worries are often ridiculous, "but, what if...." kind of worries.  Even I know I'm ahead of myself but I can't seem to help it.  I do wonder if it comes with having a vivid imagination.  Whenever anybody is late home, or I hear of an accident within ten miles of where they are, before I know it I've already planned their funeral music and bought myself a black coat.

I remember, many years ago when I was about twelve, confiding in my dad that I was worried about something. Now, dad was usually pretty good at listening and trying to solve anybody’s problems. He would always offer support, either in the form of a letter (I still have several of these, in a drawer next to my bed, from various problematic times of my life. It seems there were quite a few, but his advice was always practical, thoughtful and relevant) or financial (there were a few of those back ups too). On a couple of rare occasions (under my mum’s influence, I’m sure) the two of them actually turned up on my doorstep: once when I was seventeen and working the summer season in Devon I had sobbed down the phone that I was homesick. By the time they arrived in Seaton the following day I was absolutely fine, and if I remember rightly, was found lying on the beach in a bikini, eyeing up boys, giggling with my friend and eating ice cream; the second time it really was a problem - I was going through a very bad period of depression - and I welcomed them with open arms. 

Anyway, back to my twelve year old self. I don’t remember what the worry was but I do remember my dad dismissing it fairly rapidly, ‘That’s nothing,’ he told me, ‘that’s not a big worry.’  I remember feeling a bit hurt that my problem had been waved away so casually. I went up to my bedroom, still thinking about it.  I understood that the worry was irrelevant to my dad, but I knew it was huge to me.  I marched downstairs and confronted him. 

‘There are no big or small worries,' I blurted out, 'a worry is as big as you think it is.’ 

I’m not sure if this is an epigram but fifty five years have passed and I do try to be sympathetic to other people's worries, however small and insignificant they appear to be.  Of course, there's always an exception to the rule.  I'm afraid my other half gets short shrift for football, Emmerdale or Coronation Street worries.  After all, he, himself has been a worry to me for forty odd years.  He needs to realise that worry is a lot bigger than a lost match or a missed episode.  

Or is it?  I'll have to ask him.

 

I went looking for my worry dolls.  I must be bad - I have two sets.

Looking for an epigram poem to go with this post, I came across the following which I thought was quite appropriate.

Sir I admit your general rule
That every poet is a fool
But you, yourself, may serve to show it
That every fool is not a poet.

Samuel Coleridge

Thanks for reading, and happy worrying....... Jill Reidy

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On A Roll

Given a topic like On A Roll and knowing your Saturday Blogger as you do, you might almost place bets on me writing a piece this week about music (rock, roll and other four letter words) once I've got obligatory observations about cheese & pickle versus ham & mustard or tuna & cue out of the way. Well, you'd be wrong. I am defying expectations - though before I do, let me go on record as saying that cheese & salami is my topping of choice and that Emily Capell's spirited 'Combat Frock' is my album of the week (even though she's a QPR supporter).

I was reminiscing with my brothers last week-end about fond memories from our childhood days. I wonder how many of you ever played the piratical board game Buccaneer, one of Waddington's finest. I still have the set that we used as boys; something of a family heirloom, vintage if not technically antique, for it's a first edition, dating from when my father and uncle were teenagers in the 1930s. It's still in reasonable repair, though sadly it hasn't been used since my own daughters were introduced to it in the 1990s - board games are so last century!


original set of Waddington's Buccaneer

If you're not familiar with Buccaneer, two of its more intriguing aspects are that its large 'board' comes on a roll and is stored in a tube when not in play and unlike most board games, it contains no dice. Pirate ships move around the chequered board in straight or diagonal lines from home port to treasure island to bag loot (diamonds, rubies, gold bars, pearls, barrels of rum) and bring it back to port, but the number of squares a boat can move on each turn is determined by the value of crew cards, which can be won or lost as the game progresses. Naturally, if I could, I always played with the orange boat (sailing out of/into Marseilles dock) and would usually attempt to load it up with rubies, the richest of prizes.

a box of treasures

There was no finer feeling on a Saturday evening after a Chinese take-away than to be on a roll back to Marseilles with a boat full of treasure and a hand of crew cards strong enough to sail at a lick and ward off the inevitable marauders. For me, Buccaneer had the edge over other leading board games like Monopoly, Risk, Careers, Coppit and Totopoly. (We didn't have Cluedo then, as I recall.) Such innocent barbarity lives long in the memory - how else to explain that this is the third Saturday Blog in a row to touch on things piratical?  

It is most unlikely that buccaneers would have eaten rolls, even if they'd baked bread with their bug-infested flour. However, I'm sure that if they had done, octopus, parrot and wild pig would have featured large on the topping list.

Of course, despite there being so many different preferences for what to put on a roll, the one constant is butter (or its vegetable equivalent), always the first thing to be spread. Consequently, I thought I'd do a spot of research into a brief history of the fatty matter and this, in essence, is what I found:

The origin of the word butter, like so much else (as I impress upon you regularly), is Greek. Bouturon (βούτυρον) 
means literally ox cheese. Not that the Greeks used butter, for they had olive oil in abundance, thank you very much, but they were aware of its existence and usage among the hordes of northern Europe. In fact they regarded butter as one of the barbarians' more cultured achievements.

Butter is made by churning or agitating milk (originally of goat or sheep, commonly now of cow) until the solids in the emulsion, the curds, begin to separate from the liquid whey. The solids, mostly butterfat, are then pressed with wooden paddles (known as Scotch Hands) until most of the liquid has been squeezed out leaving a pale greasy substance that is approximately 80% butterfat and 20% water and which keeps for several weeks at room temperature (longer if cooled) before going rancid.

What I also learned to my surprise is that butter was originally mainly used by the lower classes, the peasantry - in much the same way I suppose as very poor families used to eat bread and dripping because they couldn't afford to eat anything more substantial like meat or fish with their bread. However, in the last few centuries butter has become truly classless and tons of the stuff get spread on rolls around the world every day.

I could think of nothing more unlikely to write a poem about than butter, but since I'm on a roll, here goes. I did write one about cheese some years ago, though it didn't make the grade and so has never seen the light of day. Actually, this slightly salacious product of the imaginarium is more of men and milkmaids than butter itself. It even begins with what could be the parodic punch line to a feghoot, or a nod ahead to next week's theme of epigram!


a milkmaid and her cow

Butter Cup

The hand that rocks the curdle lures the wold.
This subtle drawing power of dairy maids
exerts its hold on men of every age,
and each degree, from boldest squire to lowly lad.

Is it the image of sweet purity
conjured up by girls in muslin whites
who rise like ghosts, obedient with the dawn,
to cheerfully perform the daily milking rite

in parlour, barn and field, then later churn
the morning's yield, while dreaming of a beau
who'll make them ladies yet and liberate them
from this life of pressing palest dairy into pats?

Of course the squires possess no such intent
and farm hands lack the means to follow up,
though each will harbour fond seductive thoughts
of one illicit drink from out the butter cup.

Thanks for reading. Don't spread yourselves too thin, S :-)

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On A Roll - Minor Misfortune

We’ve been on a roll of minor misfortune.  I think it started with the car breaking down. Luckily for me, I was at home getting regular updates on how quickly Green Flag can attend so I delayed cooking tea and sat down with a brew to watch the news. Modern day cars are like another world under the bonnet. A sealed world.

My father taught me basic car maintenance, oil, water, tyre pressure and wind-screen washer topping up. Over time, and with a succession of multi-owned vehicles, I learnt the benefits of a liberal spraying of WD40, or similar; how to check points, clean spark plugs and how a distributor fits together – oh my first Vauxhall Viva – it will be a metal cube somewhere now. Or perhaps a washing machine.

We were dealing with the sealed under-bonnet of an automatic Citroen Berlingo. The engine won’t start when there are warning lights on. The warning light stays on until the problem is rectified. The problem can’t be detected until the person with the diagnostic box of tricks plugs in and links to some software. The I.T. skills of the modern mechanic know no bounds. Whatever would my dad think? I bet they still suck air through their teeth while calculating the cost. Just kidding, that was my dad’s sense of humour. Green Flag and both repair garages were very good. We discovered that the gear-box is not automatic, it’s semi-automatic. That snippet of knowledge didn’t help the situation, but it meant relocation to a Citroen specialist.  It’s mended now, wheels roll. £££.

The stair carpet was coming loose on a couple of treads. At last, we got the fitter in to fix it. Straight forward easy job, even easier if there was a small, spare piece. Of course, there’s loads rolled up in the shed. Well, there was until someone sorted stuff out and went to the tip. Thank goodness, a couple of decent sized pieces were within reach, for someone with long arms, without the carpet fitter and myself  having to empty our shed. Funny how I’m often on my own at times like this.

We didn’t discover what set the smoke alarms off. Nothing was burning, no cooking going on, no steam from the shower. It was raining, very heavily, though I can’t imagine it was that. Our smoke alarms are connected to the mains, one goes off, they all go off. Impossible to think straight in that noise, I just wanted it to stop, right now. My husband discovered which one of the three was the culprit and disconnected it. A replacement was needed, something he could do himself and no great expense, just another ‘thing’ going wrong and we still don’t know what triggered it. Whilst checking, I went up to the attic room. It is a loft conversion and used to be a bedroom, but is an attic again since the children moved out and left stuff for storage. There was a small puddle on one of the stair treads, about three steps up. It has become a mystery. Everything up there was bone dry, no sign of the rain breaching the Velux windows or the ceiling and there is nothing to spill. Very odd. Also, the door had been locked for days. Spooky!

What I wanted to do before we ended up on a roll with all these little incidents, was to tidy the garden, get rid of our ‘complimentary’ buddleia, thanks birds, and plant some daffodils bulbs. Maybe tomorrow?

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw an advert for a ‘Garden on a Roll’. That would do nicely.

 

Here's something from G.K.Chesterton,

 

The Rolling English Road

 

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

 

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

 

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

 

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

 

G.K.Chesterton    (1874 – 1936)

 

 

 

 

I'm hoping for no more mishaps for a while. Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Painting Up A Storm

I have quite a few art works up around the walls of the house on the strand: psychedelic San Francisco concert posters from the 1960s, Soviet Russian screen-prints, contemporary lithographs, Blackpool FC memorabilia and some framed LP sleeves among them. I also have a few original paintings by relatively modern British artists and the watercolour reproduced below is probably my favourite. It hangs in my bedroom and is a stormy seaside view of Nairn in Scotland (home of the healthy, humble oatcake).

It's quite typical of the work of Donald Bosher (1912-1977); his paintings turn up occasionally on online auction pages, mostly rural depictions or seascapes. I don't know a lot about the artist and the internet is remarkably under-informed about him, but from memory he taught at Leicester College of Art in the post-World War II years and he used to spend his summers painting watercolours to supplement his income in his preferred haunts of Norfolk and Scotland. Unfortunately this photograph, taken with my iPhone, doesn't do the colour and depth of the painting justice, but you get the idea...

Watercolour is particularly effective at painting up a storm, in my opinion, and appropriately so. Look at the effect Bosher has achieved here with his aqueous washes in the sky. Oil or gouache would never have rendered the elements so perfectly wetly.

The 'boys', that is to say my brothers (both in their sixties), are in town for the week-end to visit, catch up, see the illuminations and other delights of my adopted Blackpool home. They encountered torrential rain on the way up north and will almost certainly experience the same on the homeward journey, but today promises to be fine on the Fylde coast, despite the blog theme!

All things considered though, I thought this would be the fitting week for a poem inspired by the dependable deluge that is a regular feature of our weather-patterns on the Fylde coast as they roll off the Atlantic and Irish Sea. When it's hot and sunny (which it is much of the time in spring and summer) Blackpool is brilliant, the best seaside resort in the land. However, even when it's wet and/or stormy I have to say it's equally scintillating up in the glistening jewel of the north. I find that there is something exhilarating and strangely romantic about northern rain.

Northern Rain
Call me Wetbeard!
Sturdy falling northern rain
may beat a tattoo on my skull
and cross bones,
needle sharp and icy cold
to the point of numbing
soaking limbs and pirate brain -

yet how to explain that,
despite the toll in sodden clothes
and squelching boots
(for once you're wet, you're wet),
there's something in the soul
responds to terraced streets
of glistering grey-slate roofs
asheet with torrents, bubbling gutters
struggling to channel all this deluge,
oily rivulets amok among the cobbles
and that roiling yellow sky
so full of thunderment
it sets my timbers shivering.

Eventually there will be
a pot of scalding coffee
with perhaps a tot of rum,
but now I am both barque and bo'sun,
ballast, mast and mainsail
driving hard a homeward route
upon the mighty Blackpool main
and loving it for the insane fun
of swashbuckling through
the elements of yet another
most unordinary day.

After all that furious wet, I'll finish with a funny factlet about one of the driest places on the planet:
"A year's worth of rain fell on Aoulef, Algeria in just a single day last week - same as it does pretty much every year!" (Well, it made me smile...about half an inch.)

Stay storm-proof, and thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Storm

Steve invited me to write a guest blog and it's a new challenge for me, but I'm trying to develop my poetry and take it to another level, so I've accepted. This theme of storm appealed to me.

Metaphorical Storm Illustration

I don't have a lot to say beyond the poem, which I hope will speak for itself. I'd love to know what you think of it.

Storm
Something blew out of your eyes,
Twisted,
And did its turn.
I caught the drift of its tale,
Surprised myself at my approval,
Opened everything,
Allowed the victory
And in you came.

I have my terror still;
But you are generous in my defeat.
I cower in my personality
Which you are stripping slowly
To far away.
I watch the storm
Of lovedust engulf us both.

I look in glimpses to a new future.
Something, something forming and right.
And yet
My will, my will...
An arm contracts...
The fight is changing.
I resist;
Clutch at mind pieces.

There are no promises
About the promise you gave.
'It will be alright' echoes dangerously in the dark.
I try to walk
But can't find my feet.
What state am I in?
It's in between
What I was; between the God I will become.
The final storm.

I am without help.
There are people an ghosts in the wrong order
And in the wrong places.
But I'm still here.
Immortality is difficult.
I didn't expect this; but I know it.
My memory returns to millions of years before.
Each grain of recall
Strips me of something.
Where am I? What will happen?

And then sunlight. A bit of certainty.
The touch of true love
Replaces everything.
Every thought is gone.
The cure of sadness and boredom.
I wanted this.
Needed something.
Thought it would be a party
Not a storm.

But I'm glad.
Worth the long tunnel of fear.
Rearranged.
A strange walk to peace.
Outlived the storm.


Laura Colville

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"The Truth Is...

...Out There" as Fox Mulder once so presciently advised us. What he didn't divulge - maybe because it wasn't logged in the X-Files - is that the truth is dodecahedral, exactly as Plato foretold over two thousand years ago. (You'd better believe it!)

Plato contended that there exist only five solid geometric shapes of perfect symmetry: the tetrahedron, octahedron and icosahedron (all with triangular faces), the cube (with square faces) and the dodecahedron (with pentagonal faces). In his philosophical system, he associated the first four with air, earth, fire and water, the elements of which the Greeks believed the material world was composed. He elevated the fifth to the astral plane, calling it the "quintessence of heaven" and suggesting "the creator used this solid for the whole universe..."

Fanciful and primitive conjecture perhaps, and yet in an extraordinary way Plato's supposition might just turn out to be true. There is now strong scientific evidence to suggest that the universe could be a dodecahedron.

French astronomers at the Paris Observatory have been analysing data streamed back from the American WMAP satellite which has been examining the microwave radiation generated from the birth of the universe. The wavelength of this radiation is remarkably pure but it also has harmonics associated with it (just as a musical note does). Such harmonics reflect the shape of the object in which the waves were generated - in this case the universe itself. Up until now the most favoured theoretical model of the universe suggested it is flat (not the same as two-dimensional, merely without curvature) and infinite.

The WMAP data are in close alignment with that model except for those harmonics - the second and third are weaker than expected, which anomaly can only be accounted for if space (i.e the universe) is finite and dodecahedron-shaped. Kudos in this instance to Plato, perhaps. Time will tell.

In their lifetime in classical Greece (during the fourth century BC) Plato and Aristotle, who are widely regarded as the greatest philosophers of their age, had divergent views about the nature of truth and the role of art in attempting to apprehend and represent truth through mimesis (μίμησις in Greek - implying an imitative act).


Plato arguing the toss with Aristotle

What came first? The ideal or the actuality? Consider mathematics, a body of rules that can explain how so much of the material universe works (including dodecahedral space) and the question is this: did we invent maths or did we discover it? In other words, is it simply a man-made construct by which we understand the model of the world (valid until proven otherwise)? or is it inherent in everything, the very rulebook of creation itself, existing a priori and only waiting to be discovered as man's capacity to reason evolved?

It's at this point on a Saturday night that I pause to wonder if you're still with me... I hope so. Sometimes I get a bit carried away!

Truth then. Plato was of the opinion that art (and poetry in particular) as a medium was not greatly to be relied upon. Although he conceded that poets tapped into what he called "divine inspiration", he never considered them capable of apprehending truth. He used Socrates' bed to illustrate his concern: firstly there is the super-real, the divine concept, the idea of bed; secondly there is the real physical manifestation, a bed made by a craftsman; thirdly there is the mimesis, the unreal artistic representation of the physical bed, nothing more substantial than paint or charcoal on paper or words on a page or in the air. Ceci n'est-ce-pas une verite.

For Plato art was at two removes from the original concept. Poetry, whether as lyric or in play form, he held to be variously personal, sensual, seductive, artificial and frankly deceptive - more likely to misrepresent than to penetrate to the essence of something. Beyond that, he considered it psychologically unsound and politically dangerous. He certainly believed that poetry could not be trusted to tell the truth; only philosophy could do that.

Was he right on that one? I don't believe he was, except for his contention that poetry could be politically dangerous. I much prefer the stance of Aristotle when it comes to mimesis. He had no problem with the sensuality or artifice of art. He reasoned that art, including poetry, is essentially truthful, psychologically healthy, politically necessary and most certainly capable of leading to moral knowledge and ethical living. But then I'm duty-bound to side with Aristotle on this one. I'm a poet.

Surely a sign! - spotted on Paros

What I learned on my recent trip to Paros was that Archilocus (approx. 680-645 BC) was its foremost poet more than two hundred years before Plato or Aristotle were waxing wise. Archilocus first made his reputation and his fortune as a pirate in the eastern Mediterranean, a respectable undertaking at the time, before settling down in his late twenties to become the foremost lyric poet of the age. He lived fast, wrote well and died young (only 35 at the time of his demise) and in many quarters was considered as fine an artist as Homer (except by poor old Plato, of course, who had no time for either of them).

On returning from the sunny island I ordered a book of Ancient Greek Lyric Poetry. It hasn't arrived yet, or I might have quoted some at length. Instead, here below is my latest effort, hatched while on holiday in Paros...

the port of Naousa

Monday Morning Doubts
I was having Monday morning doubts
about Platonism the other day,
sitting sipping double-Greek in a cafe
under blue Aegean skies after rising early
with the modulating larks of Paros,

taxing my mind on the Island of Light:
how to square the Cyclades
with that cold, wet Lancashire home
from which I was enjoying
thirty degrees of temporary respite!

It was proposed that there are two realities -
the one we can see, which makes no sense
(particularly now) and the one we can't
which does (in perpetuity); with philosophy
supposedly the  key to apprehending the latter,
of divining the essential truth
hiding behind the world of matter.

The old Athenian also contended
that poetry deceives and dangerously so.
No sitting on the fence for Plato,
a bit right-wing in his thinking on that score
and I'm sure he's wrong.

Space may well turn out to be dodecahedral
as he claimed, and mathematics prove
to explain the workings of the universe
but the art of poetry speaks its truth
about the conditions of the human heart
even at three removes.
Those who've passed the acid test
can affirm there is anyway
only one boundless reality
in which everything is related.

As the island's feted pirate poet wrote
two millennia ago -
take the joy and bear the sorrow,
looking past your hopes and fears:
learn to recognise the measured dance
that orders all our years.

So long, Plato! And so long sunny Greece until next time.  Thanks for sticking with this. I hope you enjoyed it, S ;-)

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Let the Truth be told - forever.

I am an avid cinema-goer. I like to watch the previews and select a couple of must-see films to see in the coming weeks. These days there are often so few people in the auditorium that I am surprised that the industry remains profitable. Perhaps my own selections are not mainstream: not in tune with popular viewing pleasure.

Some films have an effect that lasts well beyond the cinema experience. I am reminded of Spielberg's incredible Jaws. I went with my parents and can honestly say that we were all petrified and perched on the edge of our seats.

In 1993 I went with my husband to preview Jurassic Park, unsure at the time whether the movie would be too scary for my young son to view. The scenes with velociraptors still remain with me and like Jaws, the sound track still evokes an emotional response.

There is one film experience that I will never forget because the effect on the viewing audience was simply incredible. Leaving the cinema after a film, the departing audience are usually chatting, discussing their favourite scenes. Leaving the cinema after watching Schindler's List was a completely unique experience. Everyone left in complete silence. The effect was profound.

I knew all about the holocaust. There was a TV series called Auschwitz that had educated and informed my own generation of the brutality of the Nazi Jewish genocide during WW2. I expect that for many in the audience that night, the Spielberg portrayal may have been a first encounter with the truth about the Nazi death camps that murdered over 6 million Jews.

What I find so difficult to understand, is not that the younger generation may not  aware of those horrific events, but that there are people who vehemently deny that they actually took place. It is my hope that the Holocaust should be taught in schools across Europe in graphic detail. Only in this way can we be certain that a new wave of Nazism cannot take hold in the future. The truth has to be told: the eyes and minds of every future generation must be opened wide.

The Naked Truth

They were forced into cattle trucks

And shunted to this place,

So far from prying eyes,

Where looming towers

Overlook the rows of huts

Cramped with rough wooden bunks.

They are stripped of belongings,

Heads shaved and barcodes
Cruelly inked into their forearms.
Names replaced by numbers
Pride replaced by shame.
Dehumanised.

A man they call ‘the doctor’
Mauls the women’s breasts
And then selects
Rejects
Some to the left -
Some to the right.

Now they stand huddled in queues
A hundred at a time
Stripped and hopeful for a shower
They muddle in
They urinate and defecate in fear
As the cannisters release the pungent gas.

And now their bodies lie tangled

In piles of naked inhumanity
Shovelled into brutal ovens
As their ashes fall
Like snow upon the ground
Without a sound.

Hundreds of futures
Lost forever
And yet decades on
Many try to deny the Jewish holocaust
The naked truth
Must prevail. 

Thanks for reading. Please pass it on.

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Truth - Be Honest

I overheard something at my mother’s funeral. Fifty years have passed and the words still hurt.

“Poor Sheila, so young. Still, she lasted longer than we thought.”

My auntie, dabbing her eyes, was holding court with other relatives outside Carleton Crematorium Chapel. I can’t remember if it was before or after the service, not that it matters. Nothing mattered, except the deep deception that cut through my very soul. All these people, family and friends of the family had known that my mother was terminally ill, yet they had spent the last however many months speaking to me along the lines of, “When Mummy’s better…”, “When your mum is better…”, “When Sheila gets over this…”.   At nearly fourteen years of age I was old enough to ‘be grown up about all this’, but not considered to be old enough to be included in what was happening or given a chance to say goodbye. I was shattered. I had believed I was secure in a close-knit family. Everybody was hiding the truth.

Well, not quite everybody. My nanna was honest without actually coming out with the words. She was looking after us, my sister and me. Our family ran pubs and we were staying out of town at their pub, rather than ours. I adored my nanna, she was my rock. I wouldn’t usually have stepped out of line with her for the world. There was much love, respect but also a tiny bit of fear because I expected she could be even angrier than my mum if she was cross with me. I don’t know where it came from, but for the one and only time in my life, I gave her a glimpse of my 'stroppy madam' mood and I answered her back. I don’t remember what was said between us or why but I regretted it immediately and braced myself for a slap. It didn’t come. Instead, she hugged me tight and I cried. Tears for being rude to my lovely nanna and tears for worrying about my mum.

“Where there’s life, there’s hope.” Nanna’s words spoke volumes. Sheila, my mum was her daughter. Nanna had already suffered the loss of a daughter, a child, before my mum was born. I wish I had half of her northern grit.

What I overheard at my mum’s funeral taught me about truth and about compassion. My relatives wanted to protect me, though deceiving me into false security was the outcome. It was with the best of intention, I can understand that. My importance of honesty in life-threatening situations is borne of that experience.

 My husband was very ill when our son was about twelve, maybe thirteen. The illness seemed never ending. He was in hospital for months, no diagnosis, no improvement. I’m sure our son thought long and hard before asking me if Dad was going to die. The situation was on his mind more than I realised.  I told him with total honesty, that until it was discovered what was wrong, we didn’t know what would happen, but we hoped Dad would pull through and I promised, I would always tell him the truth. My husband recovered, eventually, thank goodness. My children appreciated the truth.

 

A poem from Muhammad Ali,

 

The face of truth is open.

The eyes of truth are bright,

The lips of truth are ever closed,

The head of truth is upright.

 

The breast of truth stands forward,

The gaze of truth is straight,

Truth has neither fear nor doubt

Truth has patience to wait.

 

The words of truth are touching,

The voice of truth is deep,

The law of truth is simple:

All that you sow you reap.

 

The soul of truth is flaming,

The heart of truth is warm,

The mind of truth is clear,

And firm through rain or storm.

 

Facts are but its shadows,

Truth stands above all sin,

Great be the battle in life,

Truth in the end shall win.

 

The image of truth is Christ,

Wisdom's message its rod;

Sign of truth is the cross,

Soul of truth is God/

 

Life of truth is eternal,

Immortal is its past.

Power of truth will endure,

Truth shall hold to the last.

 

Muhammad Ali  (1942 - 2016)

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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