They bring me out in a painful rash. I have no desire to be cured of this but would be interested in your diagnosis. Buy the book and carefully cut out a square of brown paper.
Wrap the book in this, taking care to tuck in the corners neatly. Then write, in big letters, on the cover, exactly the title you would like to give it. Hi William, I could really use a poem to give me a dose of courage! Next week I'm leaving for Cambodia to volunteer as a teacher- it's my first time travelling alone, my first time leaving Europe, and my first time teaching. I'm excited but I'm also terrified that I'm just not capable of doing this, I'm quite a nervous person and sometimes I feel like I might be mad for even trying.
Anything to make me feel like this step into the unknown is a good thing, would be so appreciated. Recite the punchy short poem by Christopher Logue, 'Come to the Edge'.
It dramatizes exactly this process of taking a frightening, life-changing step. Say it three times to get used to the idea that you can do it, even if it's frightening. Give special emphasis to the exhilarating last lines.
Poetry prescriptions: verse to cure all ills
Hello, I find laundry and tidying to be my most tedious chores. Can you write a poem about them that I can recite to myself while I do them, to ease the pain? Wendy Cope wrote one about how being in love makes shopping more fun, but I feel that slightly misses the point. To help you, here are a few things that I quite like about laundry and tidying:. The way clothes go slightly stiff after being on the radiators. How permanently clean and shiny the inside of the washing machine is. How tidying up makes everything harder to find, but also removes the urge to find it.
The magic of ironing, an otherwise therapeutic activity completely ruined by seams and buttons. The rest of it is just utterly tedious, especially the way the clothes all tangle, and the way nothing fits back in the drawers it came from, and if it does it'll remain permanently lost. You write so well about laundry. I like your list. It belongs above the ironing board.
In the pathway of the sun, In the footsteps of the breeze, Where the world and sky are one, He shall ride the silver seas, He shall cut the glittering wave. I shall sit at home, and rock; Rise, to heed a neighbour's knock; Brew my tea, and snip my thread; Bleach the linen for my bed. They will call him brave. Do you have a poem for someone who tends to take everything for granted, and enjoys very little in life? If you sit down at set of sun And count the acts that you have done, And, counting, find One self-denying deed, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind That fell like sunshine where it went - Then you may count that day well spent.
Or what about this, by Hafez? If the person of whom you speak is very resistant to joy, why not write this down and put in his or her pocket to be found when rummaging for a bus ticket. Yesterday I received the decree absolute dissolving my marriage to a woman I adored, but who cheated and lied to me for which I blame myself for being such a failed human being.
I am unable to write creatively myself anymore, though I used to, and this creative block is adding to my distress. It seems that the dread, the despair and the self-disgust are too huge to be translated to words - whatever happened to heartbreak being the ultimate inspiration? So, a prescription for loneliness, thwarted frustration and despair, if you will, please, doc I wonder if a sudden, collective burst of expression would help.
Everyone Sang by Siegfried Sassoon is an evocation of just that, where individual cares melt into a mass song. Everyone suddenly burst out singing My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away Recite it slowly before bed. I go and lie down where the wood drake Rests in his beauty on the water… I come into the presence of still water…. So successful did his cures prove that we've persuaded him to reprise the event for you So now's your chance to check into the poetry pharmacy. You asked, Dr Sieghart prescribed DanHolloway Man whose heart belongs to the neon and smog and broken streetlamps of the city finds himself stuck in the unending green of the country and needs a fix of home Dr Sieghart's remedy: ForgetIt Can you prescribe anything to resolve the enigma of the fever chart.
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I already obey the dying nurse Whose constant care is not to please But now she tells me that to be restored, our sickness must grow worse Whaaaat? Walk on, through the wind Walk on, through the rain Though your dreams be tossed and blown Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart And you'll never walk alone You'll never walk alone. No time to stand beneath the boughts And stare as long as sheep or cows. Dear Dr Sieghart, I am suffering poetry withdrawal due to writing not watching too much television.
I find it hard to guess if you are male, female or intersex, but - regardless - this poem by Adrian Mitchell ought to cheer you up When I am sad and weary When I think all hope is gone When I walk along High Holborn I think of you with nothing on. IsabellaRosselini I am a professional vocalist.
I dont want to give up music, but I cant escape the resentment towards it. I need to sing again, its just so difficult to overcome the brutality of it all really. Please write me a line or two to stop me giving up completely! C1aireA This is one for our books podcast audience, Could you prescribe something for poetry lovers who, for health reasons, for simply out of preference, find it easier to listen to poetry than to read it.
I would love a poem for getting over a break up - not a long marriage, but a short-lived passionate affair that could have been so perfect Dr Sieghart's remedy: I prescribe Elizabeth Bishop's One Art, which begins: Variation on a Theme by Rilke A certain hour became a presence to me; there it was, confronting me - a sky, air, light: It's on page of the Winning Words anthology. Hi William, Do you have any poems that clear up a hangover or diarrhoea preferably both?
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The Catholicism propounded by the French provincial priests in St. Lucia was a very hidebound, prejudiced, medieval, almost hounding kind of Catholicism. The doctrine that was taught assigned all Protestants to limbo. So we felt defensive about our position. This never came to a head, but we did feel we had to stay close together. It was good for me, too, to be able to ask questions as a Protestant, to question large authority. Nobody in my generation at my age would dare question the complete and absolute authority of the church. Even into sixth form, my school friends and I used to have some terrific arguments about religious doctrine.
It was a good thing. I think young writers ought to be heretical. Would you describe his creative work and how it affected you?
From the Archive, Issue 152
My mother, who is nearly ninety now, still talks continually about my father. He was very young when he died of mastoiditis, which is an ear infection. Lucia in those days was crude or very minimal; I know he had to go to Barbados for operations. He had a self-portrait in watercolor in an oval frame next to a portrait of my mother, an oil that was very good for an amateur painter. I remember once coming across a backcloth of a very ordinary kind of moonlight scene that he had painted for some number that was going to be done by a group of people who did concerts and recitations and stuff like that.
So that was always there. Rather, in a sense, it gave me a kind of impetus and a strong sense of continuity. I felt that what had been cut off in him somehow was an extension that I was continuing. I remember a couple of funny lyrics that were done in a Southern American dialect for some show he was probably presenting. They were witty little satirical things. I remember more of his art work. The original is an oil painting and even now I am aware of the delicacy of that copy. He had a delicate sense of watercolor. Later on I discovered that my friend Harold Simmons, who was a professional painter, evidently was encouraged by my father to be a painter.
Would you talk about their importance to you? When he found out that we liked painting, he invited about four or five of us to come up to his studio and sit out on his veranda. He gave us equipment and told us to draw. Now that may seem very ordinary in a city, in another place, but in a very small, poor country like St. Lucia it was extraordinary. One gets to the heart of the matter by a series of experiences in the same pattern, but in different colors. Love poems must be bounced back off a moon. Love a different Muse-woman and you get a different poem.
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Lust involves a loss of virtue, in the sense of psychic power. Lust is giving away something that belongs to somebody else. The act of love belongs to two people, in the way that secrets are shared.
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But promiscuity seems forbidden to poets, though I do not grudge it to any nonpoet. Felicity and pain always alternate. She serves as a focus and challenge. Here I use the English language precisely—hap: She gives hap; provides happening. Tranquility is of no poetic use. The first to use Muse in the sense of White Goddess was Ben Jonson—then it dropped down into weakly meaning self-inspiration of young men.