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Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck'd cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek'd peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;--
All ripe together
In summer weather,--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.-"

               Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow'd her head to hear,
Lizzie veil'd her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
"Lie close,-" Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
"We must not look at goblin men,
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?-"
"Come buy,-" call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.

"Oh,-" cried Lizzie, "Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.-"
Lizzie cover'd up her eyes,
Cover'd close lest they should look;
Laura rear'd her glossy head,
And whisper'd like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen ***** little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.-"
"No,-" said Lizzie, "No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.-"
She ****** a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One whisk'd a tail,
One *****'d at a rat's pace,
One crawl'd like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl'd obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

               Laura stretch'd her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
When its last restraint is gone.

               Backwards up the mossy glen
Turn'd and troop'd the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
"Come buy, come buy.-"
When they reach'd where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heav'd the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
"Come buy, come buy,-" was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Long'd but had no money:
The whisk-tail'd merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr'd,
The rat-faced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
Cried "Pretty Goblin-" still for "Pretty Polly;-"--
One whistled like a bird.

               But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.-"
"You have much gold upon your head,-"
They answer'd all together:
"Buy from us with a golden curl.-"
She clipp'd a precious golden lock,
She dropp'd a tear more rare than pearl,
Then ****'d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow'd that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She ****'d and ****'d and ****'d the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She ****'d until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather'd up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn'd home alone.

               Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
"Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Pluck'd from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.-"
"Nay, hush,-" said Laura:
"Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more;-" and kiss'd her:
"Have done with sorrow;
I'll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.-"

               Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down in their curtain'd bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipp'd with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gaz'd in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Not a bat flapp'd to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Lock'd together in one nest.

               Early in the morning
When the first **** crow'd his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetch'd in honey, milk'd the cows,
Air'd and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churn'd butter, whipp'd up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sew'd;
Talk'd as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
One longing for the night.

               At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie pluck'd purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.-"
But Laura loiter'd still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.

               And said the hour was early still
The dew not fall'n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
"Come buy, come buy,-"
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to ***** along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

               Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?-"

               Laura turn'd cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy.-"
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life droop'd from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache;
But peering thro' the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudg'd home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnash'd her teeth for baulk'd desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.

               Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
"Come buy, come buy;-"--
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon wax'd bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.

               One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dew'd it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watch'd for a waxing shoot,
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dream'd of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crown'd trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

               She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetch'd honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook

               Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy;-"--
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the ***** of goblin men,
The yoke and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Long'd to buy fruit to comfort her,
But fear'd to pay too dear.
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter time
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

               Till Laura dwindling
Seem'd knocking at Death's door:
Then Lizzie weigh'd no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kiss'd Laura, cross'd the heath with clumps of furze.
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.

               Laugh'd every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes,--
Hugg'd her and kiss'd her:
Squeez'd and caress'd her:
Stretch'd up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and **** them,
Pomegranates, figs.-"--

               "Good folk,-" said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
"Give me much and many: --
Held out her apron,
Toss'd them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,-"
They answer'd grinning:
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry:
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.-"--
"Thank you,-" said Lizzie: "But one waits
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I toss'd you for a fee.-"--
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One call'd her proud,
Cross-grain'd, uncivil;
Their tones wax'd loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
Elbow'd and jostled her,
Claw'd with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soil'd her stocking,
Twitch'd her hair out by the roots,
Stamp'd upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeez'd their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

               White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,--
Like a rock of blue-vein'd stone
Lash'd by tides obstreperously,--
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire,--
Like a fruit-crown'd orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee,--
Like a royal ****** town
Topp'd with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguer'd by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.

               One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuff'd and caught her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratch'd her, pinch'd her black as ink,
Kick'd and knock'd her,
Maul'd and mock'd her,
Lizzie utter'd not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laugh'd in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syrupp'd all her face,
And lodg'd in dimples of her chin,
And streak'd her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kick'd their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writh'd into the ground,
Some ***'d into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanish'd in the distance.

               In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro' the furze,
Threaded copse and ******,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse,--
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she fear'd some goblin man
Dogg'd her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin scurried after,
Nor was she *****'d by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.

               She cried, "Laura,-" up the garden,
"Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, **** my juices
Squeez'd from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.-"

               Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutch'd her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruin'd in my ruin,
Thirsty, canker'd, goblin-ridden?-"--
She clung about her sister,
Kiss'd and kiss'd and kiss'd her:
Tears once again
Refresh'd her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kiss'd and kiss'd her with a hungry mouth.

     &nb
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
I come from sunlight,
      The sweeping of leaves,
      South London streets,
      Lurburnum seeds;
      Hot semolina,
      A spoonful of jam,
      Hands full of gooseberries,
      That's who I am.

      I come from rose petals,
      The sound of the fairs,
      The smell of candyfloss
      Mist in the air;
      I come from warmth,
      My parents hands,
      Outings to parks,
      Both small and grand.

     I come from knowledge,
     True and false,
     From nursery rhymes,
     And stories and pictures of God;
     I come from gentleness,
     A quiet afternoon,
     From visions of loveliness,
     Sewn on a spool.

    I come from two worlds,
    With different ways,
    A threaded pearl necklace,
    And sensible soles
    A mother and father,
    I think I knew,
    I came and I wandered,
    I looked at the view.

       By Mary **
Poem inspired by the Slam poets on BBC
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
ICH RUF ZU DIR. . .
( for Mimi )

1.

brushes her hair in the mirror
she stares Death full in the face
the heart attack catching her off guard

11.

Dusk walks off
into the distance
Night speaks slowly….quietly

111.

Green shadows
lilac shadows
never just
black

1V.

gooseberries…geraniums…sherbet
those things of childhood
she both liked & didn’t

V.

I only half listen to them, smug in their snug, poets scoring points off each other over the odd pint or two or more. . .

“Ahhh now Jaysus...your oyster always gives me the collywobbles. Every time I encounter an oyster I think of Chekov’s corpse and sure the appetite goes off of me!”

“Is that right?”

“That’ right so it is!”

“Sure when poor Chekov became a corpse...he was kept on ice with the oysters and shipped to Moscow. So it’s always Chekov’s auld face I see( ya see )when I come face to face with an oyster. I think of him being extracted from his shell and slipping slowly down Death’s throat.

“Ahhh Jaysus...Jaysus sure isn’t Death a terrible man altogether for the poets and such like. But come here to me when I’m talking to ya...have ya ever heard tell of a fella called.. if memory serves me well. . .Qui ****-Haung-ti?”

“Qui ****-Haung-ti? Eh, let’s see now...ahh...no...now…I don’t believe I have had that pleasure? Who he? For God’s sake!

“ Sure wasn’t yer man only the first supreme ruler of China!”

“He wasn’t..!”

“He was...I declare to God!”

“And sure for 9 months, 9 months now I tell ya, after his death he continued to reign seated upon his throne...surrounded by fish!”

“Well, that’s as posthumous as ya can get! But, why...the fish?”

“To disguise the smell...ya ejit!”

“And that’s why I can’t stand either sight or sound of our scaly friends.  It gives me the creep I tell ya!”

“Fair enough!”

“Will ya have another?”

“Ahhh sure, I will so!”

V1.

bitter gooseberries

V11.

I pray to my granny’s apron full of stars and flowers…only a rag now for shining shoes; to my uncle’s auld hat that that sat for years and years on the brown dresser like a dried up soul.
To my other uncle’s battered boots still caked with mud from summer’s long long ago which now houses a kitten that can’t get out mewing pitifully its plight:

V111.

the gooseberry’s bitterness

Solaris...was it
floating in space
back to Bach...ich ruf zu dir...

1X.

she holds the gooseberry
between finger and thumb
her eyes devouring it

X.

the sun shone through it
a prism of living light

snow is falling
in the room

from which she first
saw snow
falling

she stands outside
falling through time

X1.

she listens to the wheat
the wheat listens to her listening
the wind moves them both

X11.

in the story of her
childhood there are
always gooseberries

X111.

the words dress themselves up
walk around in stories
showing off

X1V.

she prays to the green light
of the gooseberry that is
the God of living things

XV.
the mirror holds her reflection
even when she’s gone
Death hums its little tune

XV1.

“They’re better fed than read...”
as my grandmother said
about anyone other than our selves

XV11.

he thought the good idea...was his
she thought the good idea...was hers

XV111.

he said he will( but he won’t )
she said she won’t( but she will )

X1X.

the mirror can’t find her
anywhere
she’s fallen off the edge of a flat world

*

The title emerges from Bach's BWV 177 - "Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ"

Cantata for the Fourth Sunday after Trinity

Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ,
Ich bitt, erhör mein Klagen,
Verleih mir Gnad zu dieser Frist,
Laß mich doch nicht verzagen;

I call to You, Lord Jesus Christ,
I beg You, hear my cries,
grant me mercy at this time,
do not let me despair;

The soundtrack of SOLARIS features Johann Sebastian Bach's chorale prelude for *****, Ich ruf' zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BWV 639, played by Leonid Roizman, and an electronic score by Eduard Artemyev. The prelude is the film's central musical theme.

Tarkovsky initially wanted the film to be devoid of music and asked composer Artemyev to orchestrate ambient sounds as a musical score. The latter proposed subtly introducing orchestral music. In counterpoint to classical music as Earth's theme is fluid electronic music as the theme for the planet Solaris.

The character of Hari has her own subtheme, a cantus firmus based upon J. S. Bach's music featuring Artemyev's composition atop it; it is heard at Hari's death and at story's end.

The memory of the movie...of the two drunks in the pub....of the music...her childhood memories of gooseberries all hail the prelude to her...death.... memories lie shattered and scattered like the hand mirror fallen from her hand...reflecting all and nothing.

A sequence poem that attempts to mimic the strands of the choral movements sustained by a single voice a la Mr. Bach.

Whatever is in the head when Mr. Death comes calling.
Polar Feb 2016
Goblin Market
by Christina Rossetti

Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries; -
All ripe together
In summer weather, -
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy."

Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
"Lie close," Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
"We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
"Come buy," call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
"Oh," cried Lizzie, "Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men."
Lizzie covered up her eyes,
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
And whispered like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen ***** little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds' weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes."
"No," said Lizzie: "No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.'
She ****** a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat's face,
One whisked a tail,
One tramped at a rat's pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry scurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
'Come buy, come buy.'
When they reached where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One reared his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heaved the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
"Come buy, come buy," was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Longed but had no money.
The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr'd,
The rat-paced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly";
One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather."
"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answered all together:
"Buy from us with a golden curl."
She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then ****** their fruit globes fair or red.
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She ****** and ****** and ****** the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She ****** until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gathered up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
'Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so."
"Nay, hush," said Laura:
"Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still:
Tomorrow night I will
Buy more;' and kissed her:
"Have done with sorrow;
I'll bring you plums tomorrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap."

Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gazed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forebore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one rest.

Early in the morning
When the first **** crowed his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
Aired and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
Talked as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep.
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.'
But Laura loitered still among the rushes,
And said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still,
The dew not fall'n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
"Come buy, come buy,"
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling -
Let alone the herds
That used to ***** along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glow-worm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?"

Laura turned cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy."
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life drooped from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache:
But peering thro' the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnashed her teeth for baulked desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.

Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry,
"Come buy, come buy"; -
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon waxed bright
Her hair grew thin and gray;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.

One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watched for a waxing shoot,
But there came none.
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care,
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:" -
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the ***** of goblin men,
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
But feared to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter time,
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

Till Laura dwindling
Seemed knocking at Death's door.
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.

Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes, -
Hugged her and kissed her:
Squeezed and caressed her:
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and **** them,
Pomegranates, figs." -

"Good folk," said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
"Give me much and many:" -
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,"
They answered grinning:
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us." -
"Thank you," said Lizzie: "But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee." -
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood, -
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously, -
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire, -
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, -
Like a royal ****** town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro' the furze,
Threaded copse and ******,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, -
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.

She cried, "Laura," up the garden.
"Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, **** my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men."

Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin,
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?" -
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.

Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins,
knocked at her heart
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topped waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life?

Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse's flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
ok it's long but in my opinion it will always be one of the most awesome poems ever!
when I fell in love I pressed my heels against the sky
as if in a bread oven
sitting with my forehead on the warm ground
and the wind and the butterflies and the clouds like smoke
were hard to be spoken they stuck inside my chest

without even knowing
I invented God in a new season of the year
believing it was the same
through days with sun and moon both white
because of heavy blessing it rained with sweet incense
clocks lagged behind from their minute hands
gooseberries and  red currants popped between my nails
milk teeth grew in my ****** *****
with the name sculpted by man lips

I slept another one’s dream in a stranger’s bed
he looked at me on Sundays through the train window
he saw through me
from our century of loneliness only dust flew over
like from an old Bible leaves
HRTsOnFyR Aug 2015
Here the waves rise high and fall on the icy
seas and white caps chew the driftwood logs of
hemlock and toss them wildly upon sandy beaches.
The steep mountains rise straight from the sea
floor as the December sun shines through the dark
clouds that hang heavy with snow near the top peaks.
Blue icebergs drift slowly down the narrow channel.
This volcanic island is one of many that are scattered
along the coast of Southeastern Alaska.
On the South end of the island is another
tiny island and on it stands an old lighthouse,
a shambles. It has a curving staircase and an
old broken lamp that used to beckon to ships at
sea. Wild grasses and goosetongue cover the ground
and close by Sitka blacktail feed and gray gulls
circle. There is a mountain stream nearby and
in the fall the salmon spawn at its mouth. The
black bear and grizzly scoop them up with great
sweeps of their paws, their sharp claws gaffing
the silver bodies.
Walking North along the deer trail from the
South end of the island are remnants of the Treadwell
Mine. It was the largest gold mine in the world.
In the early 1900's the tunnel they were digging
underneath Gastineau Channel caved in and the sea
claimed her gold. The foundry still stands a rusty
red.
The dining halls are vacant, broken white
dishes are strewn inside. The tennis court that
was built for the employees is overgrown with hops
that have climbed over the high fence and grown
up between cracks in the cement floor. The flume
still carries water rushing in it half-hidden in
the rain-forest which is slowly reclaiming the
land. The beach here by the ocean is fine white
sand, full of mica, gold and pieces of white dishes.
Potsherds for future archeologists, washed clean,
smooth and round by the circular waves of this
deep, dark green water.
Down past the old gold mine is Cahill's house,
yellow and once magnificent. They managed the mine. The long staircase is boarded up and so
are the large windows. The gardens are wild, irises
bud in the spring at the end of the lawn, and in
the summer a huge rose path, full of dark crimson
blooms frames the edge of the sea; strawberries
grow nearby dark pink and succulent. Red raspberries
grow further down the path in a tangle of profusion;
close by is a pale pink rose path, full of those
small wild roses that smell fragrant. An iron-
barred swing stands tall on the edge of the beach.
I swing there and at high tide I can jump in the
ocean from high up in the air. There is an old
tetter-totter too. And, it is like finding the
emperor's palace abandoned.
There is a knoll behind the old house called
Grassy Hill. It is covered with a blanket of hard
crisp snow. In the spring it is covered with sweet
white clover and soft grasses. It is easy to find
four leaf clovers there, walking below the hill
toward the beach is a dell. It is a small clearing
in between the raspberry patch and tall cottonwood
trees. It is a good place for a picnic. It is
a short walk again to the beach and off to the
right is a small pond, Grassy Pond. It is frozen
solid and I skate on it. In the summer I swim
here because it is warmer than the ocean. In the
spring I wade out, stand very still and catch baby
flounders and bullheads with my hands; I am fast
and quick and have good eyes. Flounders are bottom
fish that look like sand.
Walking North again over a rise I come to
a field filled with snow; in the spring it is a
blaze of magenta fireweed. Often I will sit in
it surrounded by bright petals and sketch the mountains
beyond. Nearby are salmonberry bushes which have
cerise blossoms in early spring; by the end of
summer, golden-orange berries hang on their green
branches. The bears love to eat them and so do
I. But the wild strawberries are my first love,
then the tangy raspberries. I don't like the high-
bush cranberries, huckleberries, currants or the
sour gooseberries that grow in my mother's garden
and the blueberries are only good for pies, jams
and jellies. I like the little ligonberries that
grow close to the earth in the meadow, but they
are hard to find.
Looking across this island I see Mt. Jumbo,
the mountain that towers above the thick Tongass forest of pine, hemlock and spruce. It was a volcano
and is rugged and snow-covered. I hike up the
trail leading to the base of the mountain. The
trail starts out behind a patch of blueberry bushes
and winds lazily upwards crossing a stream where
I can stop and fish for trout and eat lunch; on
top is a meadow. Spring is my favorite season
here. The yellow water lilies bud on top of large
muskeg holes. The dark pink blueberry bushes form
a ring around the meadow with their delicate pink
blossoms. The purple and yellow violets are in
bloom and bright yellow skunk cabbage abounds, the
devil's club are turning green again and fields
of beige Alaskan cotton fan the air, slender stalks
that grow in the wet marshy places. Here and there
a wild columbine blooms. It is here in these meadows
that I find the lime-green bull pine, whose limbs
grow up instead of down. Walking along the trail
beside the meadow I soon come to an old wooden
cabin. It is owned by the mine and consists of
two rooms, a medium-sized kitchen with an eating
area and wood table and a large bedroom with four
World War II army cots and a cream colored dresser.
Nobody lives here anymore, but hikers, deer hunters,
and an occasional bear use the place. Next door
to the cabin is the well house which feeds the
flume. The flume flows from here down the mountain
side to the old mine and power plant. An old man
still takes care of the power plant. He lives
in a big dark green house with his family and the
power plant is all blue-gray metal. I can stand
outside and listen to the whirl of the generators.
I like to walk in the forest on top of the old
flume and listen to the sound of the water rushing
past under my bare feet.
In the winter the meadow is different: all
silent, still and snow-covered. The trees are
heavy with weighty branches and icicles dangle
off their limbs, long, elegant, shining. All the
birds are gone but the little brown snowbirds and
the white ptarmigan. The meadow is a field of
white and I can ski softly down towards the sea.
The trout stream is frozen and the waterfall quiet,
an ice palace behind crystal caves. The hard smooth-
ness of the ice feels good to my touch, this frozen
water, this winter.
Down below at the edge of the sea is yet another
type of ice. Salt water is treacherous; it doesn'tfreeze solid, it is unreliable and will break under
my weight. Here are the beached icebergs that
the high tide has left. Blue white treasures,
gigantic crystals tossed adrift by glaciers. Glisten-
ing, wet, gleaming in the winter sun, some still
half-buried in the sea, drifting slowly out again.
And it is noisy here, the gray gulls call to each
other, circling overhead. The ravens and crows
are walking, squawking along the beach. The Taku
wind is blowing down the channel, swirling, chill,
singing in my ear. Far out across the channel
humpback whales slap their tails against the water.
On the beach kelp whips are caught in wet clumps
of seaweed as the winter tide rises higher and
higher. The smell of salty spray permeates everything
and the dark clouds roll in from behind the steep
mountains.
Suddenly it snows. Soft, furry, thick flakes,
in front of me, behind, to the sides, holding me
in a blizzard of whiteness, light: snow.
This is a piece my grandmother had published in the 70's and I was lucky enough to find it. She passed on a few years ago and I miss her with all of my heart. She was my rock and my foundation, my counselor, mentor and best friend. I can still hear the windchimes that gently twinkled on her front porch, and smell the scent of the earth on my hands as I helped her **** the rose garden. I am glad that she is finally free of the pain that entombed her crippled body for nearly half of her life, but I wish I could hear her voice one last time. So thank God she was a writer, because when I read her poems and stories, I can!  She wasn't a perfect woman, but she was the strongest, smartest, most courageous woman I have ever known.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
ICH RUF ZU DIR. . .
( for Mimi )

1.

brushes her hair in the mirror
she stares Death full in the face
the heart attack catching her off guard

11.

Dusk walks off
into the distance
Night speaks slowly….quietly

111.

Green shadows
lilac shadows
never just
black

1V.

gooseberries…geraniums…sherbet
those things of childhood
she both liked & didn’t

V.

I only half listen to them, smug in their snug, poets scoring points off each other over the odd pint or two or more. . .

“Ahhh now Jaysus...your oyster always gives me the collywobbles. Every time I encounter an oyster I think of Chekov’s corpse and sure the appetite goes off of me!”

“Is that right?”

“That’ right so it is!”

“Sure when poor Chekov became a corpse...he was kept on ice with the oysters and shipped to Moscow. So it’s always Chekov’s auld face I see( ya see )when I come face to face with an oyster. I think of him being extracted from his shell and slipping slowly down Death’s throat.

“Ahhh Jaysus...Jaysus sure isn’t Death a terrible man altogether for the poets and such like. But come here to me when I’m talking to ya...have ya ever heard tell of a fella called.. if memory serves me well. . .Qui ****-Haung-ti?”

“Qui ****-Haung-ti? Eh, let’s see now...ahh...no...now…I don’t believe I have had that pleasure? Who he? For God’s sake!

“ Sure wasn’t yer man only the first supreme ruler of China!”

“He wasn’t..!”

“He was...I declare to God!”

“And sure for 9 months, 9 months now I tell ya, after his death he continued to reign seated upon his throne...surrounded by fish!”

“Well, that’s as posthumous as ya can get! But, why...the fish?”

“To disguise the smell...ya ejit!”

“And that’s why I can’t stand either sight or sound of our scaly friends.  It gives me the creep I tell ya!”

“Fair enough!”

“Will ya have another?”

“Ahhh sure, I will so!”

V1.

bitter gooseberries

V11.

I pray to my granny’s apron full of stars and flowers…only a rag now for shining shoes; to my uncle’s auld hat that that sat for years and years on the brown dresser like a dried up soul.
To my other uncle’s battered boots still caked with mud from summer’s long long ago which now houses a kitten that can’t get out mewing pitifully its plight:

V111.

the gooseberry’s bitterness

Solaris...was it
floating in space
back to Bach...ich ruf zu dir...

1X.

she holds the gooseberry
between finger and thumb
her eyes devouring it

X.

the sun shone through it
a prism of living light

snow is falling
in the room

from which she first
saw snow
falling

she stands outside
falling through time

X1.

she listens to the wheat
the wheat listens to her listening
the wind moves them both

X11.

in the story of her
childhood there are
always gooseberries

X111.

the words dress themselves up
walk around in stories
showing off

X1V.

she prays to the green light
of the gooseberry that is
the God of living things

XV.
the mirror holds her reflection
even when she’s gone
Death hums its little tune

XV1.

“They’re better fed than read...”
as my grandmother said
about anyone other than our selves

XV11.

he thought the good idea...was his
she thought the good idea...was hers

XV111.

he said he will( but he won’t )
she said she won’t( but she will )

X1X.

the mirror can’t find her
anywhere
she’s fallen off the edge of a flat world
The title emerges from Bach's BWV 177 - "Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ"

Cantata for the Fourth Sunday after Trinity

Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ,
Ich bitt, erhör mein Klagen,
Verleih mir Gnad zu dieser Frist,
Laß mich doch nicht verzagen;

I call to You, Lord Jesus Christ,
I beg You, hear my cries,
grant me mercy at this time,
do not let me despair;

The soundtrack of SOLARIS features Johann Sebastian Bach's chorale prelude for *****, Ich ruf' zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BWV 639, played by Leonid Roizman, and an electronic score by Eduard Artemyev. The prelude is the film's central musical theme.

Tarkovsky initially wanted the film to be devoid of music and asked composer Artemyev to orchestrate ambient sounds as a musical score. The latter proposed subtly introducing orchestral music. In counterpoint to classical music as Earth's theme is fluid electronic music as the theme for the planet Solaris.

The character of Hari has her own subtheme, a cantus firmus based upon J. S. Bach's music featuring Artemyev's composition atop it; it is heard at Hari's death and at story's end.

The memory of the movie...of the two drunks in the pub....of the music...her childhood memories of gooseberries all hail the prelude to her...death.... memories lie shattered and scattered like the hand mirror fallen from her hand...reflecting all and nothing.

A sequence poem that attempts to mimic the strands of the choral movements sustained by a single voice a la Mr. Bach.

Whatever is in the head when Mr. Death comes calling.
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
                or SQUAT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
                or HOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
                or TROT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
                or COT,
        The Akond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
                with a DOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
                or BLOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
                or PLOT,
        At the Akond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
                or SHOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
                GAROTTE,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
                a JOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
                or WHAT,
        For the Akond of Swat?

At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
                or a LOT,
        For the Akond of Swat?

Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
                or a DOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
                SHALLOTT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
                or a SCOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
                or a GROTT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
                or a ***,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
                or ROT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
                or a KNOT.
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
                or NOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
                in a YACHT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
        Is the Akond of Swat?
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
much of the time Nietzsche was wrong,
in that claiming systematisation in philosophy
is a form of dishonesty,
perhaps, but for people having to wake up
to an alarm clock at 7 a.m. for several years
there's hardly any dishonesty to think about,
no long lost dream...
what bothers me is the supreme (apologies
for the adjective) usage of maxims in
the English speaking world - they're everywhere,
it's almost parallel processing of the maxim
and an advert snail (slogan), Achilles did
indeed lose in Zeno's paradox (fair enough
it was a tortoise and not a snail... but i
did mention slogan)...
English society hardly reads, hence it stresses
maxims, extracted from texts like it stresses
advert slogans... plenty of soul-mates about...
it doesn't read, hence it pressure to pretend it reads
by the process of regurgitation...
but it doesn't regurgitate what's necessary:
a unique interpretation, heretical, it just regurgitates
****, maxims... i find great dishonesty in the maxim,
it's a flimsy truth that attracts no bothersome
experience, observationally speaking... it's true,
but it's hardly experienced... that's the greater dishonesty
Nietzsche claimed paired-against systematisation;
any number of maxims can disorientate a man,
systematisation places him in a cohort,
in that great summer of 1961... re (i.e. repeat)...
in that great summer of 2005... re (  "        "     )...
English society doesn't read because it's saturated by
the virus of advertisement... the iconoclasm of
fonts, the swirly and curly coca cola insignia...
the proof that it doesn't read is the French work ethic...
and the fact that it's too eager to regurgitate maxims...
it's basically stating a philosophical bulimia,
although a bulimia of having eaten an anorexic's
daily allowance of a malteser and a lettuce leaf,
puking out more acidic saliva than the content of
what the oesophagus just constricted down like
a boa into the lake of Hades know as λιμνη ασιδωρ;
grapes of wrath? more like sour grapes, or simply
gooseberries. honest, they don't read, they just
maximise what's intended when it isn't intended,
they have no narrative, and if they do, they narrate
with images like some obscure rekindling of
Egyptology from the Suez clan of those ******* Africans
who built graves so high that it took the Eiffel tower to obscure
them. so no, Nietzsche was wrong about systematisation
being dishonest... what is dishonest is his excessive
maximisation, overly utilising maxims, truths that
very few will experience given the σ paradox
in practical saying: no plumber can or will experience
**** or skydiving, horse riding, **** ***...
i.e. the totality of all possible experiences... hence the
by-product of the σ paradox is the observer,
who utters many truths but experiences only a fraction,
a dividing summation, as in Nietzsche's case,
a descent into madness - σ of course refers to the mathematical
understanding of anti-phonetic encoding: sum of, total.
Ben Jones Nov 2013
In a tiny allotment right next to the zoo
A miniature jungle was planted and grew
The flora was dense and the air became hot
But confined to a tidy rectangular plot
An unthinkable  duo of creatures converged
And it's said that a spanking new species emerged
For a curious beast was reportedly seen
Roaming and munching on anything green

Make haste! Away! It's the Buffagorilla!
A shredder of lettuce and cereal killer
With hooves at the front and hands at the rear
The Buffagorilla is near!

It shambles about at the darkest of hours
On hedges it crunches and bunches of flowers
On daffolil bulbs and petunia petals
With hearty aplomb on a cluster of nettles
Covertly perusing with maximum hush
It can wander through gardens disguised as a bush
No carrot or parsnip is safe in its bed
And the marrows are quaking in vegetable dread

Depart! Retreat! It's the Buffagorilla!
The broccoli butcher and vegetable killer
With ape like features and horns of a steer
The Buffagorilla is near!

So if you hear a mention of butternut theft
Or notice a garden, all bare and bereft
Insure your potatoes for damage and loss
Give the salad a purely precautionary toss
For a creature is roaming the byway and track
With its legs at the front and its arms at the back
And it might be your gooseberries or chervil he spies
So I beg you take heed as I once more advise

Be gone! Take flight! It's the Buffagorilla!
The strawberry napper and cucumber killer
Just hide in your cellar and steer well clear
The Buffagorilla is near!
reduce blood pressure
eat to improve memory
**** green gooseberries
jeffrey robin Jun 2015
.... ( & , of course -- Harry )

|~|

True Poetry comes alive today as the meadows melt

And the naked women dance and play

Amid the hydrangeas and bougainvillea

Turning into layered depths of chrysanthemums

And pain !

And memories of your soft  alabaster moonlight

Skimming across fractured feelings once thought aloud

But now lost in the silence of preternatural abandonment

Amid gooseberries !

/./

She makes love before 1000 tiny eyes !

The children wave their penises and razor blades

Unto the starless starry sky amid the sunrise solitude

Of vast city streets of depth defying words

Twisting about in the wind

That never shall be ours again !!!

//

My love !

//

I remember something about you now and then

Oh yes !

How I hate you for something ( I can't remember )

But hate is necessary for there to be love

//

The night departs and Mars marries Venus

On the D-train

::

The twisted oaks of youth play stickball

Still

( in Brooklyn )

and alas

I go Home

for

at last

My poem's done !

And only the scent of

Chrysanthemums

Remain

//
Sia Jane Oct 2014
If I am to count,
One hundred & seventy five days
Have passed by
Since the taste of gooseberries,
Peaches with a crisp aromatic
Taste, graced my lips.
As I type, my lips
Imagine, the Loire white
Embracing all taste buds.
I can smell the depth & body,
The lingering scent
And how around the cold glass
Would form a dew.
I can feel the weight
Of the most fine rimmed
Of drinking glasses.
Not the crystal glasses
My mother has become so
Accustomed to.
But my favourite glass
One in which would hold
The half bottle of wine
I could pass off
As less.
Red chipped nails,
Form a snake hold
Around the glass,
My hand feels the chill.

What is to be remembered
In my nostalgic recollections
Is how that taste remains
Even today.
One hundred & seventy five days
Have passed by
And those gooseberry,
And peach undertones
Still linger on my lips.

© Sia Jane
jake miller Jul 2011
The comfort of cliche, the trampled path
of mixed tapes and photo booths
some semblance of a direction as we walk
in our own uncharted territory called love.
the grass is wild and uncut, and with woods we
can call Narnia. The wild orange flowers, strawberries,
and gooseberries don't smell as fragrant as your hair
or taste as sweet as your ears.
you whisper "oh my god" but you don't believe.
how can you not see the angel when you see your reflection in my eyes?
Ronit Jul 2019
The constellation that speaks it's name is the opening line of the zodiac
Endless search for a sacrificial Egyptian golden ram and the scent of gooseberries and lilac
Once the name is found
A prayer to Aries and tie it down in the hope of revelation on a pyre
At southern side a demon will writhe forever
No need for an open flame as the name is self destructive
Constantly setting itself on fire
Inhale, the dead language will choke the lungs like fever
Visions after visions will blur the reality with an eternal guilty desire
The lord of the flies will come and swim around like impalpable air
Recite and the sand will cage the rythm in the chest
On the ambivalance of life and death
One will see the crimson carpet
Of the carnival of flesh ........

Existence ..... such an unnecessary liability!
A paradigm of unimaginable perspective
But shift the paradigm one inch
All shall rattle and blend in such curious animosity
Embrace the forgotten skull
Of the once extinct sane race of neanderthal!
Gaze upon the clarity in silence
That we all hunted for eons
Part by part , bone by bone
Take off the clothing
Rip off the skin
Passionate love with all this dark (Atlast could it be!)
Such affection will leave a clandestine mark (a futile try, one cannot see!)
Come closer with the mark
All new and fresh
And at last one will be welcomed with open arms into the carnival of flesh ..........

Savor the meat
Of this putrid celestial beast
Oh! Why leave the bones?!
Bring forth the pearl white from the carcass
Feast some more
Send ripples across the threads
Enact a piece of spectacular exuberance
Dance little marionettes!
In our very own carnival of flesh .........
This ...... this maddening hymn forms the rhythm of absolute opulence
Participation is a must
Invitations are done
Don the mask and satisfy the masquerade
If not, how can one resist this intoxicating allure of mass psychosis?
Contemplate the ambiguity
Bring forth the searing guilt
Pour it all on the lone puppeteer
Satisfy the masqurade little puppets!
Burn with desire under such delicious insanity!
In our very own carnival of flesh ........

Knowing the love of art, despair snares the senses
Appear in most sedutive forms
Under a venomous pretense
Bodies grow accustomed to this all new lewd love charms
This grotesque spectacle leads the crowd far from the sight of God
Some die
some go insane
some breake with fatigue
And some enter a nameless wilderness
Deserted and broad ..........
Once all are tricked
The shadows will throw visions of festering wounds and filthy clothes
Into the bewildered eyes
The puppeteer will watch helplessly
The destruction's ****** reunite
No longer the dreams will stay in shapeless form
An empire of nightmares
The bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb ......

Walk in silence
Oh! dear innocence
With blood as the surviving legacy
Walk soft, go slow
A tyrant's final solace in senility
Walk in the shadows
Up high and low
One is free from the allure
Now one can go
From the seat of eternity
A thousand weary eyes will watch this one soul go free from the timeless leash

One is fnally free

From the Cursed

Carnival Of Flesh ...........
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
there is absolutely no hippocratic jurisdiction in psychiatry, i sometimes walked into the psychiatric offices, poked fun at psychiatrists for being callous sadistic *******, as one suggested: thinking out-loud in reverse: oh, he must have been abused as a child... psychiatry has strayed away from making a hippocratic oath... it actually doesn't have an oath to make: it has persisted with more harm than good, clinging to the notion that there is no summa totalis of the body, and medical psychiatry is to blame for this persistent infiltration of psychiatric lingo... you can't even begin to imagine how much it pissess of people who live in a secular society, to be strapped under an umbrella of "mental illness", while the jihadis are celebrated as completely "sane", psychiatry is the one branch of medicine that's persistently being undermined by the general public, for me, psychiatric materials are too readily available, is psychiatrists are the new priests of the secular age, i demand! i demand that psychiatry does what the church did once before, return to it being solely written in latin! too many ******* retards are abusing this branch of medicine, suddenly everyone is a ******* psychologists amateur, the jack-of-all-trades know how! ******* know ****! i'm this close | | to boiling point with respect to the degradation of psychiatry... reverse everything! start writing psychiatric works, solely in latin! give psychiatry some hippocratic credibility, sure, it's a hit & miss with the pharma side of things, but come on, give these people some ******* empathy, do what the churches undid, and write all psychiatric material in latin! the public doesn't have to know the complexities of this branch of medicine, because, clearly... it doesn't!

we live in an age where dialecticas is
not engaged with,
not even to the point where you can self-realize:
oh, right, i know absolutely nothing!
you can't do that these days,
you can't have that self-realisation -
that "demand" for a "consciousness" -
100 years ago people spoke of a *soul
-
that summa totalis of ****** mechanisations,
that eating some food and then
falling to sleep, and yet the organs working
their magic digesting the food...
yet people have replaced the soul
with a reinvented concept of
"consciousness"... the **** does that
even mean? a second awakening within
the first wake?
the brain is the only ***** that can't
truly experience itself unconsciously...
even when it is "unconscious" it still
poses the threat of dream theatre...
   i find that the summa totalis is
bordering on an a "soul" within this
membrane, in that:
  at least one aspect of our body can't
exactly become part of the summa totalis,
and become enclaved akin to
the heart during sleep...
or the stomach prior to falling asleep
while still managing to digest,
the brain can't be deemed completely
unconscious, otherwise how else would
you mind to state why light is trapped
and then projected, and we dream?
           dreaming, that "consciousness"
of the unconscious brain, and somehow
pulverised by the truth-bidding inflection
of the pentagram...
       god, i hate these sorts of poems,
i read a bit of heidegger and suddenly spiral
into this jargon...
  i abhor it...
           literally, it's about as enlightening
as turning on a lightbulb, minus the stereotypical
imagery surrounding an einstein moment...
more like that loony tunes moment when
the head turns into a donkey's head,
   or we see the dunce's hat appear...
elsewhere the capirotes march...
                     but then i think of mental illness
and the stories of the young,
and i'm genuinely worried -
   i was one of the first kids to own a nintendo
NES...
  yes, from the ages of 4 to 8,
my father was just a voice on the phone,
and the odd package of gifts from her majesty's
fair green land, notably the nintendo NES...
but being one of the kids, we still preferred
warm summer nights, hide & seek,
playing with marbles, walks into the woods,
picking strawberries coloured pale yellow
before being ripe, throwing potatoes into
fires, eating gooseberries, eating whole plates
of sunflower seeds,
                  i remember days when we had
neighbours, neighbourly women playing cards,
sitting till 11 talking outside the communist
concrete blocks...
that transition period, i.e. my childhood
has a knack of almost always reappearing...
   so i must be "mentally ill" for reading heidegger,
not many people do,
maybe i suggest something?
  learn biology / chemistry or physics to a degree
level before reading books like that...
it softens the blow of reading puritanical
humanism of, say, a novel...
        or poetry...
             and some people take holidays
to the caribbean, or take a cruise around
the norwegian fjords...
   or walk the great wall of ching ching...
   or ride a horse on the mongolian steppes into
the sunset, or ride the trans-siberian railway...
me? i take a "slingshot" back "home"...
get immersed in the native tongue,
  and finally! oh finally! manage to read a book
in the native tongue...
  i found that i'm a slow reader if i have
a book in polish, but can still hear english
on the television...
   back "home"? what a surprise it was for
my grandfather: he just threw bolesław prus'
book lalka into my lap one summer and said:
lap it up.
      and i lapped it up...
  point being, all these sights and sounds,
scents and exciting stories people have from abroad...
well... when i was in kenya,
i lounged, drank enough to fall asleep in
a hammock overnight and was not stolen by
the somali pirates, but someone did steal
my glass of cognac when i woke up the next morning,
then drank some more, and stayed in the shade,
played some ping-pong with a german,
chatted up these gorgeous ivory beauties of
the night, and chilled with macaque monkeys
on the balcony giving them nuts and sachets of
sugar, again, in the shade...
   i took one dip in the indian ocean and became
bored from the beach vendors pushing
****, drank some more, wrote a short story
for my grandfather about an elephant
           dunking its trunk into a bottle of whiskey...
drank some more, lazed in the shade,
read c. g. jung's western man in search
of a soul
- dedicated it, and gave it to one
of the german beauties, drank some more,
         laughed at a baboon with hemorrhoids
trying to sit on a roof once it raided the kitchen...
point being: what sightseeing i have when
i go back "home" is the language -
sometimes i read it, sometimes i might write,
but i definitely speak it,
  but reading it is like the tower of pisa
for me...
           this complete re-immersion of the 8 year
old kid that left kicks in...
        ooh, ant that -18ºC temp. of winters in poland...
to be honest, i never know why people
decide to go to tropical places on earth,
sunniest and what, in the middle of the winter
months, why?
      coming back must be a double ******...
why not go to somewhere where the winter
months are worse than from where you came from?
Mary Ann Osgood Jan 2012
Once there was a cow. She had a well. "Neat-o," was a word that she liked to use, and she often used it to describe things such as ball gowns and large crowds. She frequented clubs, not the sweaty kinds where European dance music is played, but the sophisticated kinds where people tie sweaters about their shoulders and don't dance unless classical music is playing, and even then the only movement is the bob of a head from side to side as violins trill past notes that human ears should be able to recognize. She didn't mind it when people used the word "****," but that was probably because she didn't understand them, being an animal and all. She helped herself to seconds at every meal and had a goose follow her around to taste her water before she drank it just in case it was poisoned. "Not to be rude," she would say, "but sometimes I wish there were less geese in the world." I don't take offense though, being human and all.

She had a pet that drank liquor heavily, and often slurred his words to the point of….this is difficult to describe. His hair fell into his eyes and he could touch his tongue to his nose in .01 seconds (if he'd been sober for at least 10 hours). He tested the water with his **** cheeks before diving in, belly first, and he never wore swim trunks (ever!), but that was simply something that ran in the family. You could always tell when he was sad because he would try to fit the cow's feet in his mouth. It was a matter of opportunity, but once the moment presented itself, he never let it pass. He liked the color red, but mostly because his blood became that color when he ate gooseberries or mint leaves. He secretly liked lamb, but he didn't want to tell anyone because all the ant-eaters and water spiders would have looked at him differently after that. He was very concerned with his image, you know. He liked to say things like "****-berries" and "I'm not done drinkin' yet," but only when the sun was down (which was not often because he lived in Alaska). He slept with a towel on his head and an egg between his legs to practice balance. He knew that one day, no matter how far away it was, he would be King of the Jungle.
Ian Beckett Mar 2014
Fifty years a-growing with my pigtailed friend
I was frogs and snails and she was sugar and spice
Attraction of tortoise petting a perfect way to diet
Red-faced, tongue-tied, secret Confirmation admirer

Nucleus beauty besotted beard route to romance
Coffee and gooseberries companionship cooking
Chicken and almonds the way to this man's heart
Townley Hall first loving to closeness ever after

Tented separation in Mweenish was chilly silliness
Yellow bikini starvation Brighton beach memories
Sneaking bedroom cuddles in Westone wedding
Graduated to Beaufield dinners and Blue Nun

Parents fret about their two kids with two kids
Life challenges met in the riches of poverty
Grateful when God's surprising Gift was given
Altogether life more balanced and beautiful

Entrepreneurial pride of parents flying high
The stars of sons the brightest in the sky
The workaday challenges a learning lesson
Lunch in Powerscourt the pleasure of poverty


We fly and we fall but catch each other every day
In heaven at last in the castle of our dreams
"Ticks all the boxes" of my blonde beauty
Perfect harmony a Gateway to perfect storm

Togetherness triumphs over taxman trials
Best times ever as we conquer the world
Olympic pride and gradual OU degrees
Make sunburst of pride as we grow

Icarus-like flight forgiven not forgotten
Revalue every "for granted" magic moment
"I want to grow old with you" wish and fear
Strength stronger than stupidity and stuff

In fear and loneliness I see fire and I see rain
I see sunny days now that we are one again.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
THE PATHWAY OF HER SONG

Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
only her song visible

camouflaged by
her ripening gooseberries
Granny sings to the summer

I follow
the path of her
song

pillowcases & tea towels
drying on bushes & branches
Granny and the birds sing

I step on each note
a pathway
through the air

Granny's garden overgrown
with Time
her song still rests upon the air

Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
hidden by Death

I step upon each note
still following
the pathway of her song
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i smash my guitar one day,
start listening to
b.b.c. radio 4
the next day,
what in god's name?!

p.s. it's a talkie station,
no music,
first up the diet problem
of finland, esp. in the
dairy rich region that
inspired sibelius,
about how: real men
don't work on vegetables
but on fat, because vegetables
are for animals...
and how a national intervention
demanded berries on the menu
of these men;
a list of fruits i used to eat:
pomegranates, passion fruit,
apples pears pineapples bananas,
cantaloup melons water melons,
sharon fruit mangos,
strawberries blackberries blueberries,
lychees oranges mandarins,
white grapes black grapes,
sour weeds cherries and above all else
gooseberries; and that's not
mentioning the vegetables.
but about listening to b.b.c. radio 4,
how did i become so middle-aged
"middle-class" english so quick?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
i remember these two particular catchphrases uttered from english lips in the early 90s: the burqa? satan's postbox; and the other? jesus is coming: look busy.

i have to admit it, jazz sounds so much better,
and i'm sure if i was writing this in
the 20th century, jazz would have abhorred me,
but more so the beatnik poetry-jazz fission,
like some godfather of rap of something -
still jazz sounds better, and even though i was
partially raised on classical music,
point being, when *batman forever
came out,
i didn't buy the soundtrack with U2 on it,
but instead the elliot goldenthal score -
notably for the song fledermausmarschmusik -
times were tough, we still used to play
with action figures and were the puppet-masters
in those days, rather than monochromatic
in smartphone wizardry...
                and i remember this one woman working
in our price asking me whether i was
sure i wanted the classical score of the movie,
rather than the soundtrack: and i said -
well, d'uh!
   but i can't contest for loving classical music
more than jazz, esp. not during these "detox"
weeks... jazz is just that: a cough medicine,
a paracetamol, something akin to beating
egg yokes with some sugar, until a pale canary
foam forms, and then you place it on top
of a black coffee, with some whiskey to boot...
i'll say this, these "detox" weeks are best
done during the autumnal / winter months -
just enough sunshine to make a 32+ hour days
bearable...
           what time is it? almost 3pm?
that's me crossing the 24h threshold of being
constantly awake...
            by the time i hit the whiskey this evening
i'll be heading into the 32nd hour of being
awake, straight...
            but i love these prolonged days,
the sort of days that merge into nights that then
somehow merge into the high octane morning
hours, notably looking at schoolkids pass my
house in school uniform...
         you should have seen this kid (who i was)
and his first time in regent st.'s hamleys...
  it was like a scene from big -
  once he spotted those batman action figures
his cheeks turned into bright luminescent
beetroots...
                   prior to that it was the joy of
playing outdoors, throwing marbles
into a dug hole from the distance of 2 metres,
and there was also the bet: 4 marbles a game,
5 marbles go into the hole and the winner
takes it all...
         and what about plasticine in the game
of kapsle, placed into bottle-caps,
and flicked around in a maze drawn on
       the pavement with chalk?
girls? hopscotch...
                                but we used to gang
up as if the utopian version of the lord of the flies
and head into the woods, and bake us
some tatties in charcoal of a fire...
            we used to look out after each other...
obviously some of the kids from my childhood,
last time i heard: became violent criminals...
but that's beside the point,
  when we were young, it mattered that we
had a group ethos: no one is going to be left
behind... stealing gooseberries -
  that would make these overly sweet sour-sweets
taste like honey drizzle over oats...
but that's the great thing about these "detox"
weeks, i get to experience 32h days,
   half a day, the entire night, and the entirety
of the next day, and about a third of the next night...
even if you asked me how i managed
to stay awake for so long and fail to even
powernap for a quickie 15 minutes,
       i'd probably sooner inquire:
so, what's the secret for those quickies you wild
kids have in the domain of ***...
last time i checked, she just perfected
her ******* before we were breaking up -
she tightened her lips...
        ah, i know the youtube hysteria of:
telling personal things to strangers -
    i get the argument -
  but unlike the medium of youtube - writing
still has the aura of:
as one stranger unto another -
          there's no greater sense of privacy,
as the privacy without a muzzle-guard of a dog...
it can be rather intimidating, to find that
however personal your content is,
   it actually entrenches your privacy,
paradoxically...
                    don't ask me how this happens...
i guess that: if your "privacy" is merely
an intricate web of lies... i guess you'd really
want to protect your spidery-ego as much as
possible...
                  but when you state your privacy
among internet profiles - glass people in glass houses...
(who the hell puts up these profiles,
what's there to talk about, on the date,
when you already have an a priori picture of a person
and their interests?) -
   once again, i don't know how it happened,
but by revealing my private life in "public",
i somehow managed to turn into
a right ol' hermit...
                      and unlike the youtube mentality:
i'm still a stranger among strangers,
       maybe that comes down to my ability
to talk to old men on benches, randomly,
while having a beer and a smoke;
don't mind homeless people either -
  give them a cigarette, ask how they're feeling,
and never bothering to ****** them
about the ethos of work, given that
so much of "work" these days is exactly that:
"work".
ICH RUF ZU DIR. . .
( for Mimi Khalvati )

1.

brushes her hair in the mirror
she stares Death full in the face
the heart attack catching her off guard

11.

Dusk walks off
into the distance
Night speaks slowly….quietly

111.

Green shadows
lilac shadows
never just
black

1V.

gooseberries…geraniums…sherbet
those things of childhood
she both liked & didn’t

V.

I only half listen to them, smug in their snug, poets scoring points off each other over the odd pint or two or more. . .

“Ahhh now Jaysus...your oyster always gives me the collywobbles. Every time I encounter an oyster I think of Chekov’s corpse and sure the appetite goes off of me!”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right so it is!”

“Sure when poor Chekov became a corpse...he was kept on ice with the oysters and shipped to Moscow. So it’s always Chekov’s auld face I see( ya see )when I come face to face with an oyster. I think of him being extracted from his shell and slipping slowly down Death’s throat.

“Ahhh Jaysus...Jaysus sure isn’t Death a terrible man altogether for the poets and such like. But come here to me when I’m talking to ya...have ya ever heard tell of a fella called.. if memory serves me well. . .Qui ****-Haung-ti?”

“Qui ****-Haung-ti? Eh, let’s see now...ahh...no...now…I don’t believe I have had that pleasure? Who he? For God’s sake!

“ Sure wasn’t yer man only the first supreme ruler of China!”

“He wasn’t..!”

“He was...I declare to God!”

“And sure for 9 months, 9 months now I tell ya, after his death he continued to reign seated upon his throne...surrounded by fish!”

“Well, that’s as posthumous as ya can get! But, why...the fish?”

“To disguise the smell...ya ejit!”

“And that’s why I can’t stand either sight or sound of our scaly friends.  It gives me the creep I tell ya!”

“Fair enough!”

“Will ya have another?”

“Ahhh sure, I will so!”

V1.

bitter gooseberries

V11.

I pray to my granny’s apron full of stars and flowers…only a rag now for shining shoes; to my uncle’s auld hat that that sat for years and years on the brown dresser like a dried up soul.
To my other uncle’s battered boots still caked with mud from summer’s long long ago which now houses a kitten that can’t get out mewing pitifully its plight:

V111.

the gooseberry’s bitterness

Solaris...was it
floating in space
back to Bach...ich ruf zu dir...

1X.

she holds the gooseberry
between finger and thumb
her eyes devouring it

X.

the sun shone through it
a prism of living light

snow is falling
in the room

from which she first
saw snow
falling

she stands outside
falling through time

X1.

she listens to the wheat
the wheat listens to her listening
the wind moves them both

X11.

in the story of her
childhood there are
always gooseberries

X111.

the words dress themselves up
walk around in stories
showing off

X1V.

she prays to the green light
of the gooseberry that is
the God of living things

XV.
the mirror holds her reflection
even when she’s gone
Death hums its little tune

XV1.

“They’re better fed than read...”
as my grandmother said
about anyone other than our selves

XV11.

he thought the good idea...was his
she thought the good idea...was hers

XV111.

he said he will( but he won’t )
she said she won’t( but she will )

X1X.

the mirror can’t find her
anywhere
she’s fallen off the edge of a flat world

*

The title emerges from Bach's BWV 177 - "Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ"

Cantata for the Fourth Sunday after Trinity

Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ,
Ich bitt, erhör mein Klagen,
Verleih mir Gnad zu dieser Frist,
Laß mich doch nicht verzagen;

I call to You, Lord Jesus Christ,
I beg You, hear my cries,
grant me mercy at this time,
do not let me despair;

The soundtrack of SOLARIS features Johann Sebastian Bach's chorale prelude for *****, Ich ruf' zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BWV 639, played by Leonid Roizman, and an electronic score by Eduard Artemyev. The prelude is the film's central musical theme.

Tarkovsky initially wanted the film to be devoid of music and asked composer Artemyev to orchestrate ambient sounds as a musical score. The latter proposed subtly introducing orchestral music. In counterpoint to classical music as Earth's theme is fluid electronic music as the theme for the planet Solaris.

The character of Hari has her own subtheme, a cantus firmus based upon J. S. Bach's music featuring Artemyev's composition atop it; it is heard at Hari's death and at story's end.

The memory of the movie...of the two drunks in the pub....of the music...her childhood memories of gooseberries all hail the prelude to her...death.... memories lie shattered and scattered like the hand mirror fallen from her hand...reflecting all and nothing.

A sequence poem that attempts to mimic the strands of the choral movements sustained by a single voice a la Mr. Bach.

Whatever is in the head when Mr. Death comes calling.
Ananya S Guha Nov 2015
This is being on a verge
not a void
void is not verge
but sitting on a hedge
or on a languishing hill
I tether, get gooseberries.

All outside is loneliness.
CANCER IS A VITAMIN-DEFICIENCY DISEASE: HOW TO CURE IT: DO NOT SUBMIT TO RADIO- & CRYO-ABLATIVE & CHEMO- “THERAPIES” — TAKE PANCREATIC ENZYMES — AVOID CERTAIN FOODS & HABITS — TAKE VITAMIN B17 (1 to 6 grams daily on a full stomach) AND THE VITAMINS LISTED BELOW — EAT THE CARCINOLYTIC FOODS LISTED BELOW — “Therapeutic” radiation, in any amount, harms living tissue. (Röntgen rays, electromagnetic radiation, x-rays, x-radiation, ionizing radiation, corpuscular radiation can be implemented for diagnostic purposes, but never for therapeutic benefit.) Chemo- “therapy” poisons healthy tissue [necrocytotoxin – a toxin that produces death of cells]. Of the 4 protocols in traditional (allopathic) cancer “therapy”: surgery (cutting), radiation (burning), cryo-ablation/cryosurgery (hypothermia) & chemo/chemical/chemicocautery (poisoning/toxifying), only manual surgery possesses some legitimacy when malignant (cancerous) growth has reached a certain stage. It is far better to avoid cancer than to treat it. Cancer is the body's inability to stop the process of healing, the same natural process in producing a placenta (that one pound ***** attached to the uterine membrane which serves to nourish a developing baby). The essential anti-cancer (tumoricidal) vitamin is VITAMIN B17 (known as Amygdalin, and as Laetrile when synthesized from apricot pips). If you have cancer you must greatly reduce, or avoid: caffeine, tobacco, red meat, alcohol, corn syrup, cane sugar, tomato products. [U.S. cancer affliction rates: the year 1900 : 3%; 1950 : 20%; 1972 : 27%; 1999 : 39%; 2020 : 50%]

VITAMIN B17 is abundant in these foods: the seeds of apples, loquats, pears, pumpkins, watermelons; as well as in apricot kernels, bamboo shoots, barley grass (research: Dr. Yoshihide Hagiwara) & wheat grass, beet tops, bitter almond, blackberries, boysenberries, brewers yeast, brown rice, buckwheat, cashews, cassava root, cassava manioc, cherry kernels, cranberries, currants, eucalyptus leaves, fava beans, flax seeds, garbanzo beans, gooseberries, guyabano, huckleberries, lentils, lima beans, linseed meat, loganberries, macadamia nuts, millet, millet seed, peach kernels, pecans, plum kernels, pokeberries, prickly ash bark, quince, raspberries, sorghum cane syrup, spinach, sprouts, tapioca (manioc), vetches and watercress. A person whose diet is deficient in these nitrilosidic foods (those foods rich in Amygdalin, the substance of which the molecularity is 1 part: the natural analgesic benzaldehyde, 1 part: hydrogen cyanide, 2 parts: glucose) is incapable of stopping the over-production of healing cells thus this person has cancer. To aid the pancreas a patient should take pancreatic enzymes & eat fresh pineapple and papaya. Supplement your diet with the nutrients (of which 95% of Americans are chronically deficient) that compliment Laetrile (vitamin B17): zinc (which is the transport mechanism for Laetrile/vitamin B17) ~ vitamin C (build up to 6 grams a day) ~ manganese ~ magnesium ~ selenium ~ vitamins B6, B9 & B12 ~ vitamin A ~ vitamin E (at least 2,000 I.U.) A cheap, over-the-counter, *****-analysis pregnancy test is accurate in 92% of cases at detecting cancerous cell activity in the body. Men & women can test for cancer upon rising with a pregnancy test as cancer and pre-embryonic cells are virtually indistinguishable (in functionality) from cells designated as: adenocarcinomal, adenocarcinomic, adenocarcinomical, ameboid, amnic, amnional, amnionic, amniotic, amniotical, anaplastic, anaplastical, angiogenetic, angiogenetical, angiogenic, angiogenical, angiosarcomal, astrocytomal, astrocytomic, atypical, basal, basaltic, blastocystic, blastomal, cacoethic, canceral, cancerial, cancerian, cancerigenic, cancerigenical, cancerillic, canceritic, cancerogenic, cancerogenical, cancroidal, cancerophilic, cancerus (archaic), cankerous, carcinoembryonic, carcinoembryonical, carcinogenic, carcinogenical, carcinoidal, carcinomal, carcinomatoid, carcinomatosic, carcinomatous, carcinomic, carcinosarcomal, cholangiocarcinomal, chondrosarcomal, chordomal, dedifferentiated, desmoistic, desmoplastic, desmoplastical, dyscrasial, dysgerminomal, dysgerminomic, dysplastic, dysplastical, embryonal, embryonic, embryonical, endometrial, endophytic, epithelial, epitheliomatous, endophytic, exophytic, extra-embryonic, fetational, fetoplacental, fetoplacentic, foetational, fibroblastic, germinogenic, gestational, glioblastomal, hemangiosarcomal, histometaplastic, Hürthle, hypermutable, hypermutagenic, Kaposian, leiomyosarcomal, leukemiac, leukaemial, leukemial, leucaemicus, leukaemic, leukaemical, leukemic, leukemical,  leukocythemic, leukocytomic, liposarcomal, lymphomal, lymphomatous, lymphomic, macroglobulinemiac, malignal, malignant, malignantal, malignantic, malignus, medulloblastomal, melanocytic, melanomatous, melanotic, metastatic, metastatical, metrial, Müllerian, mutagenic, mutagenical, mutated, mutational, mycoplasmal, mycoplasmic, mycoplasmical, myelodysplastic, myelodysplastical, myelomal, myelomatoid, myelomonocytic, myelomonocytical, myeloproliferative, myxoid, myxoidic, necrogenic, necrogenous, neo-blastic, neo-embryonic, neo-fetal, neo-formative, neo-genetic, neo-genetical, neo-plasiac, neo-plasmatic, neo-plasmatical, neo-plasmical, neo-plasmic, neo-plastic, neo-plastigenic, nephroblastomal, neurofibrosarcomal, odontogenic, oncogenic, oncogenical, oncogenetic, oncogenetical, oncologic, oncological, osteosarcomal, paramalignant, paraneoplasmic, paraneoplastic, paraneoplastical, pathogenetic, pathogenetical, pathogenic, pathogenical, placental, placentational, pleiomorphic, pleomorphic, polycythemial, polymorphic, polymorphical, polypoidal, pluripotent, pre-cancerous, pre-embryonal, pre-leukemic, promyelocytic, promyelocytical, proto-embryonic, proto-leukemic, pre-squamous, pre-tumorous, proto-oncogenetic (gene), proto-tumorous, pseudocystical, quasi-neoplastic, sarcoidal, sarcomal, sarcomatous, seminomal, teratomal, teratomatous, theliomal, toxicogenic, toxicogenomic, trophic, trophical, trophoblastic, trophoblastical, trophoplasmatic, trophoplasmic, tumefactive, tumefied, tumid, tumidus, tumoral, tumorigenic, tumorigenical, tumorlike, tumorous, tumoural,
Watch: G. Edward Griffin's "World Without Cancer." https://youtu.be/tPADSv3XAv0
Amygdalin is a natural anti-cancer agent : PMID: 31958042
IN BRIEF Concerning Cancer: 1. Take a pregnancy test just after waking up. For men a positive result means either cancer or a false positive. Take another test the next day. If a man gets 3 positive results then likely he has cancer somewhere. For women a positive result means (if she's able to become pregnant) she's pregnant or she has cancer, or she's pregnant and she has cancer, or a false positive (the test result is wrong). 2. Several positive pregnancy test results = cancer. What next? STOP eating red meat, sugar, corn syrup. STOP drinking *****. STOP (or at least cut back on) smoking. 3. Eat fresh pineapple & papaya. Take vitamin B17 (at least 1 gram daily) and wheat grass and/or barley grass liquid or capsules (they're rich in vitamin B17), on a full stomach daily (you can't overdose on them ~ they're not poisonous). Take a zinc supplement. Take pancreatic enzymes. REVIEW: TAKE pregnancy tests to detect cancer. TAKE vitamin B17 (and as many of the listed vitamins as you can, especially zinc). Eat fresh pineapple & papaya. STOP eating red meat & cane sugar. It will take several weeks on B17 therapy to turn out negative pregnancy test results. The tumor WILL NOT shrink much even after the cancer is gone because only 10% of the tumor was cancer. The tumor MAY swell temporarily as the vitamin B17 kills malignant cells. NOTE: Vitamin B17 therapy WILL NOT destroy the tumor! Vitamin B17 therapy will destroy the malignant cells (cancerous cells) of the tumor and within the tumor. Only 5% to 10% of the cells comprising a tumor are cancerous cells. In time the tumorous growth will be absorbed, in whole or in part. Unless the tumor is cosmetically displeasing, impinging nerves or blood vessels or hampering normal ****** function then let it be.

The life expectancy for American medical doctors is 58 years.
The life expectancy for Haitian voodoo witch doctors is 62.7 years.

WEB: Dr. Dean Burk (March 21, 1904 – October 6, 1988), head of the cytochemistry section of the National Cancer Institute has reported that in a series of tests on animal tissue, the B17 had no effect, but released so much cyanide and benzaldehyde when it came in contact with cancer cells that not one of them could survive. He said, “When we add Laetrile to a cancer culture under the microscope, we see the cancer cells dying off like flies.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the Web : In 1972, Dr. Dale Danner, a podiatrist from Santa Paula, Ca., developed a pain in the right leg and a severe cough. X-rays revealed carcinoma of both lungs and what appeared to be massive secondary tumors in the leg. The cancer was inoperable and resistant to radio therapy. The prognosis was: incurable and fatal. At the insistence of his mother, Dr. Danner agreed to try Laetrile, although he had no faith in its effectiveness. Primarily, just to please her, he obtained a large supply in Mexico. But he was convinced from what he had read in medical journals that it was nothing but quackery and a fraud. "Perhaps it was even dangerous," he thought, for he noticed from the literature that it contained cyanide. Within a few weeks the pain and the coughing had progressed to the point where no amount of medication could hold it back. Forced to crawl on his hands and knees, and unable to sleep for three days and nights, he became despondent and desperate. Groggy from the lack of sleep, from the drugs, and from the pain, finally he turned to his supply of Laetrile. Giving himself one more massive dose of medication, hoping to bring on sleep, he proceeded to administer the Laetrile into an artery. Before losing consciousness, Dr. Danner had succeeded in taking at least an entire ten-day supply -- and possibly as high as a twenty day supply -- all at once. When he awoke thirty six hours later, much to his amazement, not only was he still alive, but also the cough and pain were greatly reduced. His appetite had returned, and he was feeling better than he had in months. Reluctantly he had to admit that Laetrile was working. So he obtained an additional supply and began routine treatment with smaller doses. Three months later he was back at work.

   Mr. David Edmunds of Pinole, California, was operated on in June of 1971 for cancer of the colon, which also had metastasized or spread to the bladder. When the surgeon opened him up, he found that the malignant tissue was so widespread it was almost impossible to remove it all. The blockage of the intestines was relieved by severing the colon and bringing the open end to the outside of his abdomen -- a procedure known as colonostomy. Five months later, the cancer had worsened, and Mr. Edmunds was told that he had only a few more months to live.
   Mr. Edmunds, who is a nurse, had heard about Laetrile and decided to give it a try. Six months later, instead of lying on his deathbed, Mr. Edmunds surprised his doctors by feeling well enough to resume an almost normal routine. An exploratory cystoscopy of the bladder revealed that the cancer had disappeared. At his own insistence, he was admitted to the hospital to see if his colon could be put back together again. In surgery, they found nothing even resembling cancer tissue. So they reconnected the colon and sent him home to recuperate. It was the first time in the history of the hospital that a reverse colostomy for this condition had been performed. At the time of the author's last contact three years later, Mr. Edmunds was living a normal life of health and vigor.
Thomas W Case Apr 2020
I love the country life,
in between the feral cats
and hawks.
Morning coffee March
I sip it with Irish crème and  smile.
Last night I fell
asleep inside her.
Safe and sound
and domesticated in her
tight wet walls.
We came together in
determined silence.
Family in the next
room.

I love the country life;
the ponds and streams and
sun soaked meadows.
The wild asparagus and
gooseberries.
In her arms my spirit rests.
My tired wings
find a nest better
than the barn swallows,
stronger than the eagles.
I'm a brook trout
swimming through
her veins.

I love the country life.
Coonhounds and cornflowers,
coyotes yipping and
bobcats tiptoeing up on
shocked field mice.
Last night, after we died
a little in each other's arms,
I gently rubbed her
cheek and kissed her
eyelids, nose, and lips.
I breathed in deep the
smell of lavender, ***, and
home, the safest
fragrance I know.
The country life is beautiful.
Jude kyrie Nov 2016
Going home is a melancholy journey.
Thousands of miles over oceans.
Back into the warm  
Autumn morning of Englands countryside.
This is the old country farmhouse we were all brought up in.
My mother me my siblings.
The warmth of the late Indian summer day
steam shadows over the old orchard.
The old house is full of ghost
walking around its lichen-covered stone.
I can see my mother sat in the shade
a basket of fruit in her lap.
Awaiting her oven and pastry dough.
The apples have fallen now.
The garden a wild place with raspberry brambles
black Currants and gooseberries
Gripping each other in a tangled fury.
As hard as we once held onto each other
So long ago.
The drone of the feeding bees
Have a happy sound of plenty.
The grapes ****** dry of their sweetness.
Their overloaded bodies filled with nectar.
The only intrusion a pair of dragonflies
Bouncing In carefree harmony in the scented air.
I pick up the bushel basket
that mom used to collect her fruit.
I hold it close to my heart.
And see her smiling again.
In the corner a small scruffy boy
with an even scruffier dog
eats an over-ripe  pear.
From the littered ground under the tree.
It is only another ghost
But I think it is me.
Just got back to Canada from a visit to England
Jude
Ekta Apr 2021
We marry
On the basis of queries
Concerning and confirming
The age difference and dissimilarity
Between the prince charming and his to be fairy
No introductions primarily
The birthmarks entitled as scary
No emotional reciprocity
Only inquiries about the popped cherries
And advices, unchary
By the gooseberries
Hardly any knowledge of monetary
Big mouths begging for a huge dowry
Somehow her decorum works as a parry
This is how we get married.
CANCER IS A VITAMIN-DEFICIENCY DISEASE: HOW TO CURE IT: DO NOT SUBMIT TO RADIO- & CRYO-ABLATIVE & CHEMO- “THERAPIES” — TAKE PANCREATIC ENZYMES — AVOID CERTAIN FOODS & HABITS — TAKE VITAMIN B17 (1 to 6 grams daily on a full stomach) AND THE VITAMINS LISTED BELOW — EAT THE CARCINOLYTIC FOODS LISTED BELOW — “Therapeutic” radiation, in any amount, harms living tissue. (Röntgen rays, electromagnetic radiation, x-rays, x-radiation, ionizing radiation, corpuscular radiation can be implemented for diagnostic purposes, but never for therapeutic benefit.) Chemo- “therapy” poisons healthy tissue [necrocytotoxin – a toxin that produces death of cells]. Of the 4 protocols in traditional (allopathic) cancer “therapy”: surgery (cutting), radiation (burning), cryo-ablation/cryosurgery (hypothermia) & chemo/chemical/chemicocautery (poisoning/toxifying), only manual surgery possesses some legitimacy when malignant (cancerous) growth has reached a certain stage. It is far better to avoid cancer than to treat it. Cancer is the body's inability to stop the process of healing, the same natural process in producing a placenta (that one pound ***** attached to the uterine membrane which serves to nourish a developing baby). The essential anti-cancer (tumoricidal) vitamin is VITAMIN B17 (known as Amygdalin, and as Laetrile when synthesized from apricot pips). If you have cancer you must greatly reduce, or avoid: caffeine, tobacco, red meat, alcohol, corn syrup, cane sugar, tomato products. [U.S. cancer rates: the year 1900 : 3%; 1950 : 20%; 1972 : 27%; 1999 : 39%; by 2020 : 50%]

VITAMIN B17 is abundant in these foods: the seeds of apples, loquats, pears, pumpkins, watermelons; as well as in apricot kernels, bamboo shoots, barley grass (research: Dr. Yoshihide Hagiwara) & wheat grass, beet tops, bitter almond, blackberries, boysenberries, brewers yeast, brown rice, buckwheat, cashews, cherry kernels, cranberries, currants, eucalyptus leaves, fava beans, flax seeds, garbanzo beans, gooseberries, guyabano, huckleberries, lentils, lima beans, linseed meat, loganberries, macadamia nuts, millet, millet seed, peach kernels, pecans, plum kernels, pokeberries, prickly ash bark, quince, raspberries, sorghum cane syrup, spinach, sprouts, tapioca (manioc), vetches and watercress. A person whose diet is deficient in these nitrilosidic foods (those foods rich in Amygdalin, the substance of which the molecularity is 1 part: the natural analgesic benzaldehyde, 1 part: hydrogen cyanide, 2 parts: glucose) is incapable of stopping the over-production of healing cells thus this person has cancer. To aid the pancreas a patient should take pancreatic enzymes & eat fresh pineapple and papaya. Supplement your diet with the nutrients (of which 95% of Americans are chronically deficient) that compliment Laetrile (vitamin B17): ① zinc (which is the transport mechanism for Laetrile/vitamin B17) ② vitamin C (build up to 6 grams a day) ③ manganese ④ magnesium ⑤ selenium ⑥ vitamins B6, B9 & B12 ⑦ vitamin A ⑧ vitamin E (at least 2,000 I.U.) A cheap, over-the-counter, *****-analysis pregnancy test is accurate in 92% of cases at detecting cancerous cell activity in the body. Men & women can test for cancer upon rising with a pregnancy test as cancer and pre-embryonic cells are virtually indistinguishable (in functionality) from cells designated as: adenocarcinomal, adenocarcinomic, adenocarcinomical, ameboid, amniotic, amniotical, anaplastic, anaplastical, angiogenetic, angiogenetical, angiogenic, angiogenical, angiosarcomal, astrocytomal, astrocytomic, atypical, basal, basaltic, blastocystic, cacoethic, cancerial, cancerian, cancerigenic, cancerigenical, cancerillic, canceritic, cancerogenic, cancerogenical, cancroidal, cancerophilic, cankerous, carcinoembryonic, carcinoembryonical, carcinogenic, carcinogenical, carcinoidal, carcinomal, carcinomatoid, carcinomatous, carcinomic, carcinosarcomal, cholangiocarcinomal, chondrosarcomal, chordomal, dedifferentiated, desmoistic, desmoplastic, desmoplastical, dyscrasial, dysgerminomal, dysgerminomic, dysplastic, dysplastical, embryonal, embryonic, embryonical, endometrial, endophytic, epithelial, epitheliomatous, endophytic, exophytic, extra-embryonic, fetational, fetoplacental, fetoplacentic, foetational, fibroblastic, germinogenic, gestational, glioblastomal, histometaplastic, Hürthle, hypermutable, hypermutagenic, leiomyosarcomal, leukemial, leucaemicus, leukaemic, leukaemical, leukemic, leukemical, leukocythemic, leukocytomic, liposarcomal, lymphomal, lymphomic, macroglobulinemiac, malignant, malignantal, malignantic, malignus, medulloblastomal, melanocytic, melanomatous, melanotic, metastatic, metastatical, Müllerian, mutagenic, mutagenical, mutated, mutational, mycoplasmal, mycoplasmic, myelodysplastic, myelodysplastical, myelomal, myelomatoid, myelomonocytic, myelomonocytical, myeloproliferative, myxoid, myxoidic, necrogenic, necrogenous, neo-blastic, neo-embryonic, neo-fetal, neo-formative, neo-genetic, neo-genetical, neo-plasiac, neo-plasmatic, neo-plasmatical, neo-plasmical, neo-plasmic, neo-plastic, neo-plastigenic, nephroblastomal, neurofibrosarcomal, odontogenic, oncogenic, oncologic, oncological, osteosarcomal, paramalignant, paraneoplasmic, paraneoplastic, paraneoplastical, pathogenetic, pathogenetical, pathogenic, pathogenical, placental, placentational, pleiomorphic, pleomorphic, polycythemial, polymorphic, polymorphical, pluripotent, pre-cancerous, pre-embryonal, pre-leukemic, promyelocytic, promyelocytical, proto-embryonic, proto-leukemic, pre-squamous, pre-tumorous, proto-oncogenetic (gene), proto-tumorous, pseudocystical, quasi-neoplastic, sarcoidal, sarcomal, sarcomatous, seminomal, squamous, toxicogenic, toxicogenomic, trophic, trophical, trophoblastic, trophoblastical, trophoplasmatic, trophoplasmic, tumefactive, tumefied, tumid, tumidus, tumoral, tumorigenic, tumorigenical, tumorlike, tumorous, tumoural, tumourous. Watch (available on You-Tube) G. Edward Griffin's "World Without Cancer."

IN BRIEF Concerning Cancer: 1. Take a pregnancy test just after waking up. For men a positive result means either cancer or a false positive. Take another test the next day. If a man gets 3 positive results then likely he has cancer somewhere. For women a positive result means (if she's able to become pregnant) she's pregnant or she has cancer, or she's pregnant and she has cancer, or a false positive (the test result is wrong). 2. Several positive pregnancy test results = cancer. What next? STOP eating red meat, sugar, corn syrup. STOP drinking *****. STOP (or at least cut back on) smoking. 3. Eat fresh pineapple & papaya. Take vitamin B17 (at least 1 gram daily) and wheat grass and/or barley grass liquid or capsules (they're rich in vitamin B17), on a full stomach daily (you can't overdose on them ~ they're not poisonous). Take a zinc supplement. Take pancreatic enzymes. REVIEW: TAKE pregnancy tests to detect cancer. TAKE vitamin B17 (and as many of the listed vitamins as you can, especially zinc). Eat fresh pineapple & papaya. STOP eating red meat & cane sugar. It will take several weeks on B17 therapy to turn out negative pregnancy test results. The tumor WILL NOT shrink much even after the cancer is gone because only 10% of the tumor was cancer. The tumor MAY swell temporarily as the vitamin B17 kills malignant cells. NOTE: Vitamin B17 therapy WILL NOT destroy the tumor! Vitamin B17 therapy will destroy the malignant cells (cancerous cells) of the tumor and within the tumor. Only 5% to 10% of the cells comprising a tumor are cancerous cells. In time the tumorous growth will be absorbed, in whole or in part. Unless the tumor is cosmetically displeasing, impinging nerves or blood vessels or hampering normal ****** function then let it be.

The life expectancy for American medical doctors is 58 years.
The life expectancy for Haitian voodoo witch doctors is 62.7 years.

WEB: Dr. Dean Burk (March 21, 1904 – October 6, 1988), head of the Cytochemistry section of the National Cancer Institute has reported that in a series of tests on animal tissue, the B-17 had no effect, but released so much cyanide and Benzaldehyde when it came in contact with cancer cells that not one of them could survive. He said, ”When we add Laetrile to a cancer culture under the microscope, we see the cancer cells dying off like flies.”
Donall Dempsey Sep 2023
THE PATHWAY OF HER SONG

Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
only her song visible

camouflaged by
her ripening gooseberries
Granny sings to the summer

I follow
the path of her
song

pillowcases & tea towels
drying on bushes & branches
Granny and the birds sing

I step on each note
a pathway
through the air

Granny's garden overgrown
with Time
her song still rests upon the air

Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
hidden by Death

I step upon each note
still following
the pathway of her song

*

She was always Granny to me and I loved her dearly. She was almost blind by this time and when we went down to Ballea she would feel your face  with her fingertips as if she she were sculpting you out of thin air...it was always lovely to be created by Granny...you felt brand new as if you had just popped into the world that second.

I went back to Ballea when it was half a ruin and Nellie's bedroom had no ceiling and was flooded and her brass bed was a ship for a chicken and photographs floated face down as if dead...this is one I rescued from the waters of time...hence its state but I kinda love it all the more for that...in that it should by rights be gone but...it isn't. I loved her immensely as any little boy who had a granny like her...would do. I used to curl into her little flower covered apron which I thought were tiny tinchy stars and she would croon songs to me or just sounds that soothed...she was incredibly beautiful to me and a constant source of wonder. Her garden with goosegogs and an abundance of flowers was my paradise...I would sit for hours covered by flowers and eating too many gooseberries and the world couldn't find me...there was just the universe of me until granny's voice called me into being and I ran towards her open arms.
After she died I came back to find her iconic apron torn up and used to polish shoes...I used to hug it and cry and cry.
It was as if she had been cut out of the universe and where she should have been was a granny shaped hole that looked into the nothingness.
HOW TO CURE IT: DO NOT SUBMIT TO RADIO- & CRYO-ABLATIVE & CHEMO- “THERAPIES” — TAKE PANCREATIC ENZYMES — AVOID CERTAIN FOODS & HABITS — TAKE VITAMIN B17 (1 to 6 grams daily on a full stomach) AND THE VITAMINS LISTED BELOW — EAT THE CARCINOLYTIC FOODS LISTED BELOW —

“Therapeutic” radiation, in any amount, harms living tissue. (Röntgen rays, electromagnetic radiation, x-rays, x-radiation, ionizing radiation, corpuscular radiation can be implemented for diagnostic purposes, but never for therapeutic benefit.) Chemo- “therapy” poisons healthy tissue [necrocytotoxin – a toxin that produces death of cells]. Of the 4 protocols in traditional (allopathic) cancer “therapy”: surgery (cutting), radiation (burning), cryo-ablation/cryosurgery (hypothermia) & chemo/chemical/chemicocautery (poisoning/toxifying), only manual surgery possesses some legitimacy when malignant (cancerous) growth has reached a certain stage. It is far better to avoid cancer than to treat it. Cancer is the body's inability to stop the process of healing, the same natural process in producing a placenta (that one pound ***** attached to the uterine membrane which serves to nourish a developing baby). The essential anti-cancer (tumoricidal) vitamin is VITAMIN B17 (known as Amygdalin, and as Laetrile when synthesized from apricot pips). If you have cancer you must greatly reduce, or avoid: caffeine, tobacco, red meat, alcohol, corn syrup, cane sugar, tomato products. [U.S. cancer rates: the year 1900 : 3%; 1950 : 20%; 1972 : 27%; 1999 : 39%; by 2020 : 50%]

VITAMIN B17 is abundant in these foods: the seeds of apples, loquats, pears, pumpkins, watermelons; as well as in apricot kernels, bamboo shoots, barley grass (research: Dr. Yoshihide Hagiwara) & wheat grass, beet tops, bitter almond, blackberries, boysenberries, brewers yeast, brown rice, buckwheat, cashews, cherry kernels, cranberries, currants, eucalyptus leaves, fava beans, flax seeds, garbanzo beans, gooseberries, guyabano, huckleberries, lentils, lima beans, linseed meat, loganberries, macadamia nuts, millet, millet seed, peach kernels, pecans, plum kernels, pokeberries, prickly ash bark, quince, raspberries, sorghum cane syrup, spinach, sprouts, tapioca (manioc), vetches and watercress.
   A person whose diet is deficient in these nitrilosidic foods (those foods rich in Amygdalin, the substance of which the molecularity is 1 part: the natural analgesic benzaldehyde, 1 part: hydrogen cyanide, 2 parts: glucose) is incapable of stopping the over-production of healing cells thus this person has cancer. To aid the pancreas a patient should take pancreatic enzymes & eat fresh pineapple and papaya. Supplement your diet with the nutrients (of which 95% of Americans are chronically deficient) that compliment Laetrile (vitamin B17):  ① zinc (which is the transport mechanism for Laetrile/vitamin B17) ② vitamin C (build up to 6 grams a day) ③ manganese ④ magnesium ⑤ selenium ⑥ vitamins B6, B9 & B12 ⑦ vitamin A ⑧ vitamin E (at least 2,000 I.U.)  

A cheap, over-the-counter, *****-analysis pregnancy test is accurate in 92% of cases at detecting cancerous cell activity in the body. Men & women can test for cancer upon rising with a pregnancy test as cancer and pre-embryonic cells are virtually indistinguishable (in functionality) from cells designated as: adenocarcinomal, adenocarcinomic, adenocarcinomical, ameboid, amniotic, amniotical, anaplastic, anaplastical, angiogenetic, angiogenetical, angiogenic, angiogenical, astrocytomal, astrocytomic, atypical, basal, basaltic, blastocystic, cacoethic, cancerial, cancerian, cancerigenic, cancerigenical, cancerillic, canceritic, cancerogenic, cancerogenical, cancroidal, cancerophilic, cankerous, carcinoembryonic, carcinoembryonical, carcinogenic, carcinogenical, carcinoidal, carcinomal, carcinomatoid, carcinomatous, carcinomic, carcinosarcomal, cholangiocarcinomal, chondrosarcomal, chordomal, dedifferentiated, desmoistic, desmoplastic, desmoplastical, dysgerminomal, dysgerminomic, dysplastic, dysplastical, embryonal, embryonic, embryonical, endometrial, endophytic, epithelial, epitheliomatous, endophytic, exophytic, extra-embryonic, fetational, fetoplacental, fetoplacentic, foetational, fibroblastic, gestational, glioblastomal, histometaplastic, Hürthle, hypermutable, hypermutagenic, leiomyosarcomal, leukemial, leucaemicus, leukaemic, leukaemical, leukemic, leukemical, leukocythemic, leukocytomic, liposarcomal, lymphomal, lymphomic, macroglobulinemiac, malignant, malignantal, malignantic, malignus, medulloblastomal, melanocytic, melanomatous, melanotic, metastatic, metastatical, Müllerian, mutagenic, mutagenical, mutated, mutational, mycoplasmal, mycoplasmic, myelodysplastic, myelodysplastical, myelomal, myelomatoid, myelomonocytic, myelomonocytical, myeloproliferative, myxoid, myxoidic, necrogenic, necrogenous, neo-blastic, neo-embryonic, neo-fetal, neo-formative, neo-genetic, neo-genetical, neo-plasiac, neo-plasmatic, neo-plasmatical, neo-plasmical, neo-plasmic, neo-plastic, neo-plastigenic, nephroblastomal, odontogenic, oncogenic, oncologic, oncological, osteosarcomal, paraneoplasmic, paraneoplastic, paraneoplastical, pathogenetic, pathogenetical, pathogenic, pathogenical, placental, placentational, pleiomorphic, pleomorphic, polymorphic, polymorphical, pluripotent, pre-cancerous, pre-embryonal, pre-leukemic, promyelocytic, promyelocytical, proto-embryonic, proto-leukemic, pre-squamous, pre-tumorous, proto-oncogenetic (gene), proto-tumorous, pseudocystical, quasi-neoplastic, sarcoidal, sarcomal, sarcomatous, squamous, toxicogenic, toxicogenomic, trophic, trophical, trophoblastic, trophoblastical, trophoplasmatic, trophoplasmic, tumefactive, tumefied, tumid, tumidus, tumoral, tumorigenic, tumorigenical, tumorlike, tumorous. Watch (available on You-Tube) G. Edward Griffin's "World Without Cancer."

IN BRIEF Concerning Cancer: 1. Take a pregnancy test just after waking up. For men a positive result means either cancer or a false positive. Take another test the next day. If a man gets 3 positive results then likely he has cancer somewhere. For women a positive result means (if she's able to become pregnant) she's pregnant or she has cancer, or she's pregnant and she has cancer, or a false positive (the test result is wrong).

2. Several positive pregnancy test results = cancer. What next? STOP eating red meat, sugar, corn syrup. STOP drinking *****. STOP (or at least cut back on) smoking.

3. Eat fresh pineapple & papaya. Take vitamin B17 (at least 1 gram daily) and wheat grass and/or barley grass liquid or capsules (they're rich in vitamin B17), on a full stomach daily (you can't overdose on them ~ they're not poisonous). Take a zinc supplement. Take pancreatic enzymes.  

REVIEW: TAKE pregnancy tests to detect cancer. TAKE vitamin B17 (and as many of the listed vitamins as you can, especially zinc). Eat fresh pineapple & papaya. STOP eating red meat & cane sugar. It will take several weeks on B17 therapy to turn out negative pregnancy test results. The tumor WILL NOT shrink much even after the cancer is gone because only 10% of the tumor was cancer. The tumor MAY swell temporarily as the vitamin B17 kills malignant cells.

NOTE: Vitamin B17 therapy WILL NOT destroy the tumor! Vitamin B17 therapy will destroy the malignant cells (cancerous cells) of the tumor and within the tumor. Only 5% to 10% of the cells comprising a tumor are cancerous cells. In time the tumorous growth will be absorbed, in whole or in part. Unless the tumor is cosmetically displeasing, impinging nerves or blood vessels or hampering normal ****** function then let it be.

The life expectancy for American medical doctors is 58 years.
The life expectancy for Haitian voodoo witch doctors is 62.7 years.

WEB: Dr. Dean Burk (March 21, 1904 – October 6, 1988), head of the Cytochemistry section of the National Cancer Institute has reported that in a series of tests on animal tissue, the B-17 had no effect, but released so much cyanide and Benzaldehyde when it came in contact with cancer cells that not one of them could survive. He said, ”When we add Laetrile to a cancer culture under the microscope, we see the cancer cells dying off like flies.”
Donall Dempsey Sep 2021
THE PATHWAY OF HER SONG

Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
only her song visible

camouflaged by
her ripening gooseberries
Granny sings to the summer

I follow
the path of her
song

pillowcases & tea towels
drying on bushes & branches
Granny and the birds sing

I step on each note
a pathway
through the air

Granny's garden overgrown
with Time
her song still rests upon the air

Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
hidden by Death

I step upon each note
still following
the pathway of her song

— The End —