THE PHILOSOPHY OF PEACE

Will was born out of Kantian negation.

Schopenhauer’s aisle of pessimism,

the pursuit of happiness. The philosophy

of Nietzsche and his will to power must

have been like two great minds imploding,

the bright sparks that surged a burst

of energy. Why can't we harness that?

positive negativity to give us a leg-

up over the peace walls.

You can kill all you want but don't blast-theme his traditional hate his bloody name. Prod and taig you are bound to this land for god and for ulster, this is

the philosophy of peace.

Remember you have to give peace to get peace, the marching Irish sea-son is bordering upon us. Sectarian hatred rules ok, again.

Will we ever get over this hurdle. I want to go to the bonfire, a super duper one, said,

Atilla Joszef to warm a nation but

I can't get out of bed. I’ll lay here in

my disabled bubble.

Listen to the words

bursting free, are we drowning or waving

I hope the latter will one day be. We have got to let the world move on. This is

a catch 22, let's be a united Irish/English.

We are what we want to be,

ignorance fuels the flames of hatred.

Is this too much to ask for from an Irish-

Brit, the shell of a man in a hell-cell.

Good Friday agreement what a joke means

Nothing just a day on the Christian

Calendar, a thorn in my side, no parole

from disability.

What happened to compassion-humanity. Do you know your blaspheming out to kill our sons, just fodder?

Magic and loss expression of thought,

the man said

"There is no time."

My will of Schopenhauer pessimism.

My solitude is the poets essential-

loneliness, my Nietzschean will to

power, god is dead we murdered him.

Who will wash the blood away?

we have to give peace to get peace.

Are we just barbarians on another

brutal crusade??

Footnote:

Nietzscheism: The philosophy of Nietzsche, emphasizing the will to power as the chief motivating force of both the individual and society.

Arthur Schopenhauer 1788 – 1860) was a German philosopher. He is best known for his 1818 work The World as Will and Representation (expanded in 1844), which characterizes the phenomenal world as the product of a blind and insatiable noumenal will.[19][20] Building on the transcendental idealism of Immanuel Kant,

 YAWN

The doorbell rang and echoed through loneliness, 

he pressed the key fob around his neck and the blue-

dis-abled automatic door swung open and a girl stood 

there holding a bouquet of multi-coloured tulips. 

He had ordered them online to say thanx to the care-

workers Rachel, Tirna and his niece Stacey.

‘You get more hope from negativity, he thought than sentimentality’. He was a filthy realist in a wheel-

chair paralyzed down his right side. All his long-

term memory was erased during a massive stroke, 

it lmost killed him. They say he died for seconds, 

on the operating theatre. He couldn’t remember that, 

his childhood, a marriage of eighteen years,

 and three sons being born. 

After a year in rehab hospital from having physio

to stand, living with the fact of never being able

to walk as the stroke bled through his memory

and his balance. Speech therapy to mumble like 

a drunk Jap with damaged vocal cords. A, E, I, O, 

FUCK you every day for a year, learning to wipe 

your ass and toothbrush and be a good little 

stroke victim.

When released I lived with my mother but his brother

was an alcoholic, which added to my confused damaged mind. 

He rented lived like a dog alone for three years.

How I survived is beyond me, living with broken windows 

in freezing winter. He recalled one Christmas in bed 

with coat, gloves a monkey-hat and the heating broke. 

Wind whistling through broken windows. I have never 

before lived in such dispair.

the ouThistles as tall as a man.

What son does that and can sleep, you wouldnt let a dog

live like that let alone  your motherd 

v ngalow, swith six rooms but the wheelir could only acess

bathroom, kitchen,  sitting-room every room is

a sitting-room a whellchair trionented hell-hole had very ble

little do with the world. He lived in his ownroom four rooms 

four walls of his o wn he had disabled, hadn't much to 

do with

He woke from a stroke/coma just seconds after he 

was declared dead. He sat bolt upright like some-

one given an adrenaline boost but this not fiction.

He sat now in his wheelchair and had to make 

a life in this strange reality of forgetting to remember. 

His computer was his only link to the outside world. 

The world rumbled up and down the road beyond his dis-

abled cul-de-sac.

He had been a year on a re-hab stroke ward that was like

living one flew over the cuckoo's nest. Tried living

at his after his release, he knew who they were but

for the life of him, he had no memory recall. 

fusion, he lived like a dog alone in a private rented

bungalow, with six rooms but the wheelir could only acess

bathroom, kitchen, sitting-room inair every room

is asitting-room a whellch trionented hell-hole had very 

little do with the world. He lived in his ownroom four rooms 

four walls of his o wn he had disabled, hadn't much to 

do with anyone, family and friendooms he had no memory of tthey

drifted away, his sons still called, his firs born every week

butned cul-de-sacwdiableor soe called it, like atprisoner locked in his locked-in-syndrome.

For ten or so years he had tried to live independently in his own world of recovery.

Everyday he wrote a blog, trying to capture memory. Forty five years of his memory 

was erased, he remembered snippets from his short term memory bank but no 

detail of when or why, everything seemed fragmented to him.  

 He went on Spotify after reading a review in a music magazine on the new C.D. 

Yawn by Bill Ryder-Jones.

Clicked on the track,’ no ones trying to kill you’,  and it was as if the track spoke

to him remembering his time just after taking his stroke when he thought the nurses

were out to kill him. He was so paranoid then, the drugs that kept him alive 

were making him hallucinate.

He had nothing in his mind, his brain was like porridge gruel, all he could do was grip

the blankets of his hospital bed in a white knuckled clench and hope. Thinking he was in

 a Stephen King story, He saw a man behind his bed with a chainsaw ripping up

body parts and throwing them in a skip then he woke in a cold sweat.

The next track he heard was, don’t be scared, I love you, and his senseless scars

were healed it was as if the record was speaking to him. He remembered

that same feeling was just like that when he read Raymond Carver, Henri Michaux,

Keats, Kavanagh or Robert Lowell a universal felling then he remembered a line

By Fernando Pessoa who said

The ward

i must have been drifting in and out of con scienceness like i was between worlds, between life and death, dont ask me why i didnt drift over to the other side, I had no sense of time during the stroke, it was as if i was left out in the dark, i dont remember too much about the early stages of taking the stroke. One minute i was on the edge of the bed the next i was on the floor crawling into my mothers room asking her what was happening thats how suddenly it happened. You can't issue blame on to much drinking or smoking if its in the family blood there isnt much you can do about it its going to happen wether you like it or not but i did live to excess. The clinical smell of unsmelt death lingered through the ward the smell wafted through the corrridors. The next 48 hours were crucial to my survival,i pulled through and the doctors seemed not to know what to do with me. it was as if they wanted me to drift to the otherside. Now that i think back to that time i think my thoughts told me that i was a wasted lump of flesh unable to move or speak my onlyway of communicating was with my eyes. for the first few days it seems i was kept in a ward wher e everything seem ed behind me. the wasted corpes were amputated and placed in a box and shipped away now i know this isnt true but my mind was playing terrible tricks on me. dreaming that day and night were only different by the changing of a sign. thats all i had to focus on that was real everything else seemed to change. after a few days i was shipped off to the royal, without that oxygen i dont think i would have survived i would have just drifted off to sleep. it seemed i dsidnt need anything else it was my life saver. it also sent me cuckoo my mind was racing with all kinds of thoughts. i was really paranoid i remember one night trying to reach my bed side thinking they were killing someone and i was next.

the nurses were brilliant but my mind was just messed up i didnt know wether i was coming or going.it still feels like im in limbo and ill wake from this terrible dream any minute.after my mir scan and trying to fit a traceotomy i was shipped to forester green hospital. i didnt know what to expect but once i settled in it was a great place. everyday i recieved speech and physio and all the staff were great. i learn t a lot from that experience knowing that people are generally good people and not the negative view the way the world is percieved in the real world by tv and the media. i remember one guy with ms was shipped in beside me after three or four conversations we had a rapour like to brothers the staff seemed to trust me and the feeling was mutual. most of the peopkle i met in there were young people which blows away the misconception that strokes are concentrated on the old one guy inthere was just fourteen so much for that myth. some nights it was like one flew over the cuckoos nest in there. norman who was trying to stop someone stealing a car and was hit on the head. sometimes he thought he was the president he was a great artist during his previous life. but since that night he wasnt the same. i must say the things he came out with were hilarious i remember being bent double at his humour even now writing this i am laughing out loud remembering it. i knew the nurses wanted to laugh but couldnt. picture this a room full of respite patients and people with brain stem injuries it was crazy in there you can picture the scene. in hindsight my time at forester green was brilliant and i was treated very well by all the staff and all this is over ill go back there to say thank you. its been over a year now i spent some time visiting joss cardwell centre which is a rre- hab centre and i must sat the people ther were great but it was just a pain in the ass gettin ng there each day and not knowing what time i would return home. even that was like limbo as milan kundera said in the unbearable lightn ess of being, we have nothing to compare this life with because we live it only once. this never happened to me before so i was lost not knowing what to expect. everyday was an event i didnt know what was going to happen. even now writin g this still in a wheelchair with a voice that still isnt right and wearing a splint on one leg. my right side is stilll very weak butim getting there its just filling in the time but even now its like limbo between worlds and any minute now something will happen. i dont know what id have done if my mind were effected. i remember a poem by raymond carver what the doctor said. the doctor had counted tumours on his brain carver knowing that he was going to die didnt want to hear the enevetable. he even wrote now on his cigarette box in black permanent marker.being a writer i dont know what i would have done had my mind been effected. i dont know who to thank as i wasnt drawn to any great light and im not sure god exists out there. im keeping my options open who am i to say there is or isnt ,millions of people have believed it for thousands of years. im the type of person that has to touch and feel a thing to believe it. i am slowly but surely drifting in between worlds. between the world of the disabled andd the able bodied. iam drifting into the real world i know my time will come when i drift to the otherside but im not ready yet. it feels good in limbo i have loads of time to put things into perspective. i remember a pencil drawing i cant remember who its by but its a picture of a head with open drawers. thats the way it feels right now as if im sorting out the drawers and putting everthing in its place. i will tell you the conclusion to this essay when i get there.the world im drifting through is nice good music, great views of nature, poetry and art filling my world ive just got to learn patience and let the truth slip by. drift here between worlds.
 

 Writ this as an essay before my stroke, I must have been a good tutor, no memories of those times. I have amended it as a poem think it works better wish I could write like that today?

THE POETS ESSENTIAL LONELINESS

“I think the artist, feels lonely. 

Perhaps his recourse to art,

in any form, comes from his 

essential loneliness.”

                                              William Carlos Williams

You have got to give a poem something of your-

self and a little time and respect before you can 

wear the poem like the scales of Elizabeth bishop's 

fish or William Stafford's dark, to kick it over the edge 

and listen to the wilderness, finding a way into

a poem so that it expresses a truth, finding 

the poem essential loneliness.

I think it’s very respectful how the American 

writers pay homage to their favourite writers 

before they begin to read a word of their own. 

We need to learn from that and give thanks 

to the writers who inspired us. Poetry is like 

the spokes of my wheelchairs spoken word

turning through life at a different 

motion, language.

All words are dis-abled and need the care 

to appear on the page but then it’s time to 

share the poem. Too much emphasis for me 

is put on plagiarism and I think we have 

to learn to trust each other.

Poets aren't marched into a stanza like 

a regimental troop, ok we pay homage 

to the soldier war poets but we are also

breaking away from that regimental con-

formity that corals us into nice neat stanzas.

The road to poetry isn't along the road of war upon 

war, we have got to break free of old regimes 

and follow the beat poets or the poets of the day 

into the new refreshing poems of tomorrow. 

We are being cloned by the past, but we are moving 

forward with a captive mind into what Chezslaw Milosz 

called 'a more spacious form' only with men like him 

are we free of old regimental way's that feed our poetry 

and our education into a dog-eat-dog system.

Only with our darkness and negativity of the past can 

we turn this muck into gold and break the shackles 

of the past and step into the enlightened future that 

awards people without the foot-stomping circus act.

We are not a pack of performing animals we are 

a group of civilised people called humanity without 

the brain-washed divides of war. 

It's time to share things freely, honour and respect 

don't come down to how much money you have 

in your pocket. We have to live in a consumerist 

society but don't let greed rule the day ok 

we need a little to get by but it’s getting out of hand. 

Only when you give, do get your poems back 

in a new fresh-eyed perspective that takes 

onboard the criticism and turns your writing 

into a shared poem of trust.

Good honest writing will always find a way through 

the bullshit metre we can see a lie a mile off. 

Raymond Carver in the book 'fires' says no tricks. 

We’ve got to be able to trust people and just like 

giving and receiving a poem we've got to give 

and receive trust with the magic of truth. 

There are no tricks in writing you can read all the self-

help books you want and steal other writer's thunder 

but that won’t make you into a writer, not until you stop 

kidding yourself. There is only one truth and that's 

your truth, write the poet's essential loneliness and that essential loneliness will come back and make you 

less lonely.

                 POETRY IS LIKE SUNSHINE IT'S FREE