Tag Archives: POEMS


Syria as a causeway between the sea and the desert-(map from , 'SYRIA, LEBANON, JORDAN' - John Bagot Glubb

Syria as a causeway between the sea and the desert-(map from , ‘SYRIA, LEBANON, JORDAN‘ – ————-(John Bagot Glubb)


Book By John Bagot Glubb




Now, upon Syria’s land of roses

Softly the light of eve reposes,

And, like a glory, the broad sun

Hangs over sainted Lebanon;

Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,

And whitens with eternal sleet,

While summer, in a vale of flowers,

Is sleeping rosy at his feet.


To one who looked from upper air

O’er all the enchanted regions there,

How beauteous must have been the glow,

The life, now sparkling from below!

Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks

Of golden melons on their banks,

More golden where the sunlight falls; –

Gay lizards, glittering on the walls

Of ruined shrines, busy and bright

As they were all alive with light;

And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks

Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,

With their rich restless wings, that gleam

Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm west, – as if inlaid

With brilliants from the mine, or made

Of tearless rainbows, such as span

The unclouded skies of Peristan!

And then, the mingling sounds that come,

Of shepherd’s ancient reed, with hum

Of the wild bees of Palestine,

Banqueting through the flowery vales; –

And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,

And woods, so full of nightingales!

AUDIO – Syria

…………..- Thomas Moore (Ireland 1779-1852)

From ‘Paradise And The Perl’



The Game


This mystery will not go unsolved,

will not destroy what has yet to be born.

With so much at stake we all must rise

and save us all from an enemy within.


And yet, mystery is a part of life

Not in itself a destructive force.

It’s the power of collective thought

Seeking out the imagined, the real


The clues of this conundrum tell a story

of a contest that we cannot hope to win.

No longer playing by the rules we have memorized

we must evolve and learn a new game.


To reach inside yourself, and confront your fear

Is often easiest when approached as if a game;

Life’s ultimate challenge is yourself – always

The enemy without far easier than that within.


The enemy within will never leave you totally

Confronting outside enemies at day, they hide

But as it’s time to sleep, you reach inside, and find

The ugly monsters that the daylight can’t abide


Yet by dawn’s light be brave enough to slam the door

Shut on night’s turmoil, on words and foes alike.

Consciously, if only for an hour, or thirteen,

Be lucid enough to declare peace with the unsolved.

 “Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war.”


Doves Of Peace


A collaborative Twitter poem by @jdubqca @afcoory @MyVogonPoetry @vivchook @Brudberg @Permabloom






Collaborative Twitter Poem by

@JDubqca @Permabloom @MyVogonPoetry @Vivchook @Troublegummer @afcoory


Image: Pencil drawing of girl’s head for his painting ‘The Mill’ by Edward Coley Burne-Jones 1870

Remember the dreams I’ve stacked up,
my roll of meticulously assorted Life Savers?
They look back all stale and faded when I peek in
from torn wrapping; yet whole still.
There is no question we shouldn’t dream again
or find reasons for bringing us back together.
I especially remember the deep dark chocolate
and how it made the weekend whole.
I recall you saying Dark is best – because it’s bitter,
yet sweet. You said it’s like life, and dreams –
not always easy, but worth trying.
The sugar-coated confection of our love
once filled life with flavor.
Lingering sweetly on the tongue and frozen in time.
But rigid stacks of memories
the sweetness cannot yet disguise,
holes of emptiness I once ignored.
Passion infuses reality; colours imperfections.
Augments and yet deludes us.
We use our memories of our dreams for sustenance,
A gentle demolition with each taste,
So we are compelled.

><><> Updated 2 April 2016 ><><>

‘A Mad Girl’s Love Song; Sylvia Plath And Life Before Ted’

by Andrew Wilson is …

A MUST READ FOR ALL SYLVIA PLATH FANS… a comprehensive biography which certainly helps the reader to better interpret Plath’s poetry. I believe that Plath never fully recovered from the sudden death of her father when she was eight years old. His presence ameliorated somewhat his wife’s obsessiveness over their daughter’s upbringing.  After he died, her mother’s interference in Plath’s education and later, her life choices, stifled her creativeness and her sense of her place in the world.

Eventually Sylvia Plath would commit suicide by putting her head in a gas oven while her two children slept in the next room. She was 30 years old. Her previous attempt at suicide , which she barely survived, was dramatic and bizarre.  She had suffered from severe depression since her teens and had been treated with sleeping pills and ECT. She was also an insomniac.

Her husband, the poet Ted Hughes, left her for another woman. Sylvia struggled to care for their two young children, and to earn enough money, while continuing to write.  She was not close to her possessive mother, but found it difficult to escape her over-bearing influence. During the early stages of her treatment, she was advised not to have any contact with her mother. Ted Hughes remarried, and his second wife also committed suicide, four years after their marriage.

Sylvia Plath’s son, Nicholas, killed himself in 2009 following a history of depression.


Mad Girl's Love Song


Rear cover of The Bell Jar (click on image to enlarge)


Semi-autobiographical, The Bell Jar  is well worth reading,  if you wish to know more about Sylvia Plath from her own perspective. It also features some of her pen and ink drawings.

-Anne Frandi-Coory 14 December 2011



Viciousness in the kitchen!

The potatoes hiss!

It is all Hollywood, windowless,

The flourescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,

Coy paper strips for doors –

Stage curtains – a widow’s frizz.

And, I, love, am a pathological liar,

And my child, look at her, face down on the floor,

Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear –

Why she is schizophrenic,

Her face red and white, a panic,

You have stuck her kittens outside your window

In a sort of cement well

Where they crap and puke and cry and she can’t hear.

You say you can’t stand her,

the bastards a girl.

You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio

Clear of voices and history, the staticky

Noise of the new.

You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!

You say I should drown my girl.

She’ll cut her throat at ten if she’s mad at two.

The baby smiles, fat snail,

From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.

You could eat him. He’s a boy.

You say your husband is just no good to you.

His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl.

You have one baby, I have two.

I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.

I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.

We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,

Me and you.


Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap.

I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.

The smog of cooking, the smog of hell.

Floats our heads, two venomous opposites,

Our bones, our hair.

I call you Orphan, orphan.  You are ill.

The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.

Once you were beautiful.

In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: ‘Through?

Gee baby, you are rare.’

You acted, acted, acted for the thrill.

The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.

I try to keep him in,

An old pole for he lightning,

The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.

He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,

Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.

The blue sparks spill,

Splitting like quartz into a million bits.

O jewel! O valuable!

That night the moon

Dragged its blood bag, sick


Up over the harbor lights.

And then grew normal,

Hard and apart and white.

The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.

We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,

Working it like dough, a mulatto body,

The silk grits.

A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on.


Now I am silent, hate

Up to my neck,

Thick, thick.

I do not speak.


I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,

I am packing the babies,

I am packing the sick cats.

O vase of acid,

It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.

He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate

That opens to the sea

Where it drives in, white and black,

The spews it back.

Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.

You are so exhausted.

Your voice, my ear-ring,

Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat.

That is that. That is that.

You peer from the door,

Sad hag, ‘Every woman’s a whore.

I can’t communicate’.


I see your cute décor

Close on you like the fist of a baby

Or an anemone, that sea

Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.

I am still raw.

I say I may be back.

You know what lies are for.


Even in your Zen heaven we shant meet.


Plath’s pen & ink drawings from ‘The Bell Jar’

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