Wendy Cope Quotes

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half. And that orange it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park This is peace and contentment. It's new. The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all my jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I'm glad I exist.

The day he moved out was terrible – That evening she went through hell. His absence wasn’t a problem But the corkscrew had gone as well.

My heart has made its mind up And I’m afraid it’s you. Whatever you’ve got lined up, My heart has made its mind up And if you can’t be signed up This year, next year will do. My heart has made its mind up And I’m afraid it’s you.

Write to amuse? What an appalling suggestion! I write to make people anxious and miserable and to worsen their indigestion.

On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes, the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes. I wipe them away with a black woolly glove And try not to notice I've fallen in love On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think: This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink. But the juke-box inside me is playing a song That says something different. And when was it wrong? On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care. the head does its best but the heart is the boss- I admit it before I am halfway across

Bloody men are like bloody buses — You wait for about a year And as soon as one approaches your stop Two or three others appear. You look at them flashing their indicators, Offering you a ride. You’re trying to read the destinations, You haven’t much time to decide. If you make a mistake, there is no turning back. Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by And the minutes, the hours, the days.

Reminded of favorite poem by Wendy Cope which goes: At Christmas little children sing and merry bells jingle. The cold winter air makes our hands and faces tingle. And happy families go to church and cheerily they mingle, And the whole business is unbelievably dreadful if you're single.

Making Cocoa For Kingsley Amis It was a dream I had last week And some kind of record seemed vital. I knew it wouldn't be much of a poem But I love the title.

i love you. i'm glad i exist.

Differences of Opinion 1 HE TELLS HER He tells her that the earth is flat -- He knows the facts, and that is that. In altercations fierce and long She tries her best to prove him wrong, But he has learned to argue well. He calls her arguments unsound And often asks her not to yell. She cannot win. He stands his ground. The planet goes on being round.

Two cures for love 1. Don't see him. Don't phone or write a letter. 2. The easy way: Get to know him better.

I am a poet. I am very fond of bananas. I am bananas. I am very fond of a poet. I am a poet of bananas. I am very fond. A fond poet of 'I am, I am'- Very bananas. Fond of 'Am I bananas? Am I?'-a very poet. Bananas of a poet! Am I fond? Am I very? Poet bananas! I am. I am fond of a 'very.' I am of very fond bananas. Am I a poet?

what's the use of poetry? you ask. well, here's a start: it's anecdotal evidence about the human heart.

Bloody men are like bloody buses - you wait for about a year and as soon as one approaches your stop two or three others appear.

i spell it out on this fridge door you are so wonderful i even like th way you snor

With luck we've a few more years Of sunshine and drinking and laughter And airports and goodbyes and tears.

Healthy people understand that others have the capacity to choose to end relationships and it serves as motivation for them to learn to relate in healthy and loving ways. However, when we are driven by shame, we don't just fear losing a relationship, but we live in terror that if we let anyone really get to know us, we would never be desired, pursued, or loved. In us, that fear can be worked out in the development of unhealthy denial, workaholism, perfectionism, chameleon-type behavior, and sadly, even revictimization... When we live in denial or present a false self out of fear... we will do anything to be accepted by people... When we begin to tell the truth about what happened to us we also begin the process of turning about from this type of idolatry... When we begin to tear away our layers of illegitimate shame... When our own vision is not distorted by our shame we can discern what was our responsibility and what wasn't.

Everybody in this room is bored. The poems drag, the voice and gestures irk. He can't be interrupted or ignored. Poor fools, we came here of our own accord And some of us have paid to hear this jerk. Everybody in the room is bored. The silent cry goes up, 'How long, O Lord?' But nobody will scream or go berserk. He won't be interrupted or ignored. Or hit by eggs, or savaged by a horde Of desperate people maddened by his work. Everybody in the room is bored, Except the poet. We are his reward, Pretending to indulge in his every quirk. He won't be interrupted or ignored. At last it's over. How we all applaud! The poet thanks us with a modest smirk. Everybody in the room was bored. He wasn't interrupted or ignored.

Another Christmas Poem Blood Christmas, here again. Let us raise a loving cup: Peace on earth, goodwill to men, And make them do the washing-up.

Not to mention mythic creatures in the rubble…. —WENDY COPE, “A POLICEMAN’S LOT

A Green Song (to sing at the bottle-bank) One green bottle, Drop it in the bank. Ten green bottles, What a lot we drank. Heaps of bottles And yesterday's a blank. But we'll save the planet, Tinkle, tinkle, clank! We've got bottles - Nice, percussive trash. Bags of bottles Cleaned us out of cash. Empty bottles, We love to hear them smash And we'll save the planet, Tinkle, tinkle, crash!

Nine-Line Triolet Here's a fine mess we got ourselves into, My angel, my darling, true love of my heart Etcetera. Must stop it but I can't begin to. Here's a fine mess we got ourselves into - Both in spin with nowhere to spin to, Bound by the old rules in life and in art. Here's a fine mess we got ourselves into, (I'll curse every rule in the book as we part) My angel, my darling, true love of my heart.

Despite its pacific demeanor, tolerance is an internally unharmonious term, blending together goodness, capaciousness, and conciliation with discomfort, judgment, and aversion. Like patience, tolerance is necessitated by something one would prefer did not exist. It involves managing the presence of the undesirable, the tasteless, the faulty—even the revolting, repugnant, or vile. In this activity of management, tolerance does not offer resolution or transcendence, but only a strategy for coping.

When I turn to my phone to cope with stress, I don’t return to my family more able to handle the stress. When I sneak away to social media, I don’t return to my husband and children more socially available. When I put my face in Facebook, rather than the Good Book, I don’t find the help I need when it’s time to face my family again.

And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It's new.

Ten books that helped my mind 1.  Letters to a Young Poet – Rainer Maria Rilke 2. Poems – Emily Dickinson 3. Henry David Thoreau’s journal 4.  When Things Fall Apart – Pema Chödrön 5.  The House at Pooh Corner – A.A. Milne 6.  Bird by Bird – Anne Lamott 7. Meditations – Marcus Aurelius 8. Tao Te Ching – Laozi 9. Serious Concerns – Wendy Cope 10. Dream Work – Mary Oliver

Defining the Problem I can't forgive you. Even if I could, You wouldn't pardon me for seeing through you. And yet I cannot cure myself of love For what I thought you were before I knew you.

May you live in interesting times.’ –Chinese curse If you ask me ‘What’s new?’, I have nothing to say Except that the garden is growing. I had a slight cold but it’s better today. I’m content with the way things are going. Yes, he is the same as he usually is, Still eating and sleeping and snoring. I get on with my work. He gets on with his. I know this is all very boring. There was drama enough in my turbulent past: Tears and passion – I’ve used up a tankful. No news is good news, and long may it last. If nothing much happens, I’m thankful. A happier cabbage you never did see, My vegetable spirits are soaring. If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me. I want to go on being boring. I don’t go to parties. Well, what are they for, If you don’t need to find a new lover? You drink and you listen and drink a bit more And you take the next day to recover. Someone to stay home with was all my desire And, now that I’ve found a safe mooring, I’ve just one ambition in life: I aspire To go on and on being boring.

It wasn’t you, it wasn’t me, Up there, two thousand feet above A New York street. We’re safe and free, A little while, to live and love, Imagining what might have been – The phone-call from the blazing tower, A last farewell on the machine, While someone sleeps another hour, Or worse, perhaps, to say goodbye And listen to each other’s pain, Send helpless love across the sky, Knowing we’ll never meet again, Or jump together, hand in hand, To certain death. Spared all of this For now, how well I understand That love is all, is all there is.

Our brains work automatically to create strategies for avoiding unpleasant feelings (such as anxiety) and masking their severity. This avoidance is built into our neural pathways and wiring and helps us manage stress and keep going. But as our internal and external lives/environments change, we often outgrow these coping mechanisms or they just stop working.

Coping with the strains in her own marriage, she told me that she had a simple way of getting around the tension with her husband: that you should always be polite with each other and that you should always have sex when the other wants it. Because sometimes manners and sex are all that you will have. And that, she said, is enough to get you through the worst of it.

New Season No coats today. Buds bulge on chestnut trees, And on the doorstep of a big, old house A young man stands and plays his flute. I watch the silver notes fly up And circle in the blue sky above the traffic, Travelling where they will. And suddenly this paving-stone Midway between my front door and the bus stop Is a starting point. From here I can go anywhere I choose.

Normally, as we grow older, we become progressively skilled in coping with life. In most departments, we acquire techniques on which we can fall back when interest and attention wilt. It is part of maturity that there is always some reserve we can tap. But this is not so in prayer. It is the only human activity that depends totally and solely on its intrinsic truth. We are there before God, or rather, to the degree that we are there before God, we are exposed to all that He is, and He can neither deceive nor be deceived. It is not that we want to deceive, whether God or anybody else, but with other people we cannot help our human condition of obscurity. We are not wholly there for them, nor they for us. We are simply not able to be so. Nor should we be. No human occasion calls for our total presence, even were it within our power to offer it. But prayer calls for it. Prayer is prayer if we want it to be.

I will need no one is the resounding and self-affirming mantra of the narcissist, particularly for male narcissists. You owe me is more often the female narcissist’s recurring refrain. These underlying themes are, of course, completely outside of the narcissist’s awareness—an automatic tune that plays repeatedly in the background thanks to well-grooved memories. This intricate memory system is also where self-preserving well-worn masks that assist in coping reside.

An open relationship allows you to be a better lover to yourself as well as to others. It opens your perception and helps you cope with the reality of human nature, which is to seek out love, to give love, and to receive love over and over again in its many forms and many faces. One

Letters to a Young Poet—Rainer Maria Rilke Poems—Emily Dickinson Henry David Thoreau’s journal When Things Fall Apart—Pema Chödrön The House at Pooh Corner—A. A. Milne Bird by Bird—Anne Lamott Meditations—Marcus Aurelius Tao Te Ching—Laozi Serious Concerns—Wendy Cope

Twelve years ago I left Boston and New York, and moved east and west at the same time. East, to a little village in Devon, England, a town I’ve been familiar with for years, since my friends Brian and Wendy Froud and Alan Lee all live there. It had long been my dream to live in England, so I finally bought a little old cottage over there. But I decided, both for visa and health reasons, living there half the year would be better than trying to cope with cold, wet Dartmoor winters. At that point, Beth Meacham had moved out to Arizona, and I discovered how wonderful the Southwest is, particularly in the wintertime. Now I spend every winter-spring in Tucson and every summer-autumn in England. Both places strongly affect my writing and my painting. They’re very opposite landscapes, and each has a very different mythic history. In Tucson, the population is a mix of Native Americans, Mexican Americans, and Euro-Americans of various immigrant backgrounds — so the folklore of the place is a mix of all those things, as well as the music and the architecture. The desert has its own colors, light, and rhythms. In Devon, by contrast, it’s all Celtic and green and leafy, and the color palette of the place comes straight out of old English paintings — which is more familiar to me, growing up loving the Pre-Raphaelites and England’s ‘Golden Age’ illustrators. I’ve learned to love an entirely different palette in Arizona, where the starkness of the desert is offset by the brilliance of the light, the cactus in bloom, and the wild colors of Mexican decor.

Flowers Some men never think of it. You did. You’d come along And say you’d nearly brought me flowers But something had gone wrong. The shop was closed. Or you had doubts – The sort that minds like ours Dream up incessantly. You thought I might not want your flowers. It made me smile and hug you then. Now I can only smile. But, look, the flowers you nearly brought Have lasted all this while.

Letters to a Young Poet—Rainer Maria Rilke Poems—Emily Dickinson Henry David Thoreau’s journal When Things Fall Apart—Pema Chödrön The House at Pooh Corner—A. A. Milne Bird by Bird—Anne Lamott Meditations—Marcus Aurelius Tao Te Ching—Laozi Serious Concerns—Wendy Cope Dream Work—Mary Oliver

Mindfulness as a conscious practice, including meditation, yoga, and other mindful activities, has been shown to reduce passive or avoidant coping, such as reliance on alcohol, in response to stress.

It is the same with anxiety: As a general form of negative emotion or discomfort, it’s the brain-body’s way of telling us to pay attention. Our built-in system for managing our negative emotions, of processing, responding to, and coping with negative emotions in particular so that we can maintain or return to homeostasis, is called emotion regulation.

Ten books that helped my mind Letters to a Young Poet—Rainer Maria Rilke Poems—Emily Dickinson Henry David Thoreau’s journal When Things Fall Apart—Pema Chödrön The House at Pooh Corner—A. A. Milne Bird by Bird—Anne Lamott Meditations—Marcus Aurelius Tao Te Ching—Laozi Serious Concerns—Wendy Cope Dream Work—Mary Oliver

A typhoid epidemic in the ghetto killed more than a hundred people a day. The same wagons that delivered the mildewed bread were used to cart away the corpses. Coffins were in such short supply that the dead were wrapped in shrouds and stacked in corridors, and the crematorium had to cope with a thousand corpses a month.

DIFFERENCES OF OPINION Wendy Cope I HE TELLS HER He tells her that the earth is flat—He knows the facts, and that is that. In altercations fierce and long She tries her best to prove him wrong. But he has learned to argue well. He calls her arguments unsound And often asks her not to yell. She cannot win. He stands his ground. The planet goes on being round.

Bloody Men Bloody men are like bloody buses— You wait for about a year— And as soon as one approaches your stop Two or three others appear. You look at them flashing their indicators, Offering you a ride. You’re trying to read the destinations, You haven’t much time to decide. If you make a mistake, there is no turning back. Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze While the cars and taxis and lorries go by And the minutes, the hours, the days. Wendy Cope