RESOLUTIONS

All I’ve got to do is stop
eating trash – start
walking fast, to slow
down the onset
of death.

All I’ve got to do is be
energetic
tick the boxes – see
entertainment
in gym.

All I’ve got to do is swim
instead of float
facing front – not up
pay attention
take part.

All I’ve got to do is grow
a love of sport
bore myself to death –
not list’ning, go
away.

All I’ve got to do is find
a way to play
when I’m not looking –
vacate my mind
maybe.

All I’ve got to do is stop
messing around
pound the pavements, right?
You’re hounding me
I’ll try.

All I’ve got to do is learn
to accept death.
Flattened by a bus
or heart attack –
who cares?

A HAIKU AFTERNOON

Trains growl through tunnels;
a promising presence deep
but ordinary.

I cafe-culture
from Nero to Nero, one
solvent afternoon.

I should be sticking
feathers and glitter on things
that dangle from strings.

A LITTLE BIT OF SEX

THE SALESMAN

‘Let me clean your carpets
your toes will think they’re in Persia’
His top lip stretched
and crumpled, stretched
and kissed.
I sorted my face into a quiet smile
the one my mother used.

‘Be bad luck to say no’
He had wrists
like emergency room doctors’
long brown hairs curled
at the strap of his watch
I couldn’t get away
from the thought of his fingers
inside me.

‘I’ll trim your hedge then’
His eyes kissed my feet
tossed
a laughing mouth
into the shade.

‘You’ve a couple of loose tiles’
It was cooking on the step
a breeze sauntered through the house
and flapped cotton against my legs.

‘I could save your life’
He leaned nearer
and spread his hands
under my eyes.
I watched the sun spin
on gold sleepers
while the smell of me seeped
out of the neck of my dress.

Published in Iron Magazine 1995

SCRAPS

In searching for scraps of work to build a blog post I found this poem I wrote for Carrie’s 50th birthday earlier this year; I made her a scrapbook of our holiday in Gran Canaria.

CARRIE

My friend spreads her branches
all the way from Aberdeen
down the wind to me.

A tree with hands like rafts
and a heart to slice for stepping stones;
she is my wand.

We are driving music, rock legends
for grown-up women
and elegant drunks.

Stages of our growth are evident
in albums, in sequences, in
sentences finished.

The future flashes images of dreams
and rings around trunks till
zimmers surround us.

And this, is a funny find; I have no idea where it’s from, except a vague recollection of a game we played on WF in Writewords...yeah that was definitely it. Different people gave the POV and subject. Actually it was Facebook. Oh, I am getting old. 

Here’s my piece: handbag from pov of poor student.

My God, she must’ve made this. She’s crocheted it with straw; never seen anything like it; little fans or shell shapes with bobbles, and bloody bells. Bloody hell, but it is kinda cute. There’s hardly anything in it - eight pens is a bit excessive. I like the fancy rosettes on the front. Cosmopolitan: that must be some kind of label, not for her though; that wouldn’t describe her – she matches her bags. It’s scary how she discovers the stuff she wears and cooks up. I think one day this bag will be in a museum; someone will take it apart and analyse it all to hell – and come out with bollocks. It’s practically empty and I can’t find what I’m looking for.

‘Where’s your purse Mum? It’s not in here.’

STILL WITH THE PENIS

This poem is about twenty years old but is now so dated that I don't think anywhere would take it. Its place is here, uncovered, with all the others in the post below.

BALLADE FOR SINGLE WOMEN


Cavaliers on the weekend tour
we keep eyes peeled for well-heeled
men with wallets, and hair just groomed.
My hot lips squint from lurching cheers
in clouded rooms, guessing careers
comparing body parts to heights
though any one might test the means
come the end of the long long, night.

Sliding from cocktail to bar, Whores
they call us. We laugh at sneers
slant eyes across pints of Coors
nudge elbows ‘Had him last year -
condommed to the armpits, no fear’
and necks stretched against boisterous bites
walled up dark lanes with trembling knees
come the end of the long, long night.

Now bare-back riders buck no more
no sucking and jumping bones, dears –
safe sex penetrates…no encore.
Fingers don’t feel the same here,
turns the spear into a gloved peen;
in these diseased years thighs are tight
the months are passing, now eighteen
come the end of the long, long night.

Envoy

So cancel my ticket to ride
blow sweet kisses, goodnight good knights,
sing softly of white wine and beer
come the end of the long, long night.

WORKSHOPPING

My local writing group organised a day of workshops last Saturday. I had the greatest day; just being in a workshop, talking and writing is better than the best carrot cake you can imagine; better than whole bottles of Tia Maria, Drambui or 12yr old whisky! And a free lunch to boot. I felt sorry for some of the group who had to look after tables of books, hand-crafted cards and the tombola; some of them were bored out of their pencil cases. I was in my element; the tutor on my workshop was an American poet called Gerry Stewart…and she got a lot of work out of me. I left the table with a whole poem and the makings of another two on the same theme; which was living with my son, right now, this minute. This is the rough poem:

VISITING

Wires beating rhythms up walls, throbbing
Natalie Imbrulgia into speakers
out of tweakers – woofers.

Middle Child undivides my attention.
He’s cooking scrambled egg with cheese –
the maturity blares around my tongue.

Time sings here and my hands are soft
from squeezing T-shirts in his long bath.
He has nothing, and he shares it all with me.

I get high as a kite at writing sessions, especially if I come away with lots of work. I’ll let all this stew now in my notebook and see what happens. I usually can’t write about the present; I find myself waiting years to tell a story or use my life and experiences – that’s probably why most of my writing is about death and sex! Except this.

She talked about using themed verbs in our writing; I’d forgotten that my son was a musician so have just added those above on the day – I’ll need to work on them and find out more about tweakers and woofers so I can use them intelligently. Maybe I’ll interview him, yeah, that would be fun; I’m sure he’ll manage to slip a black hole in there somewhere – the thought of inviting him to SPEAK is terrifying.

THE BACHELOR

His gum-coated tongue laps up flies
in a slow rolling motion. He goose-steps
with long black legs through trampled night sand
flicking up a fine dust.

She nestles into tall gutterings, curls
up to high-flown paper and leaves, and sleeps till
the sun sinks. Rain runs off her brown back,
only snow disturbs her.

At first light, sated, he walks the shoreline
ducking his head, sucking up water – a rasping
whistle through his teeth – the spray loosens rough
gum from his tongue.

They live separate lives. She attracts him
with a low murmering, excitement pitches
vibrations as far as half a mile, in waves
five minutes apart.

He picks up the signal, flies back and forth
across the river in a bid to escape but comes
closer to her position on every return journey
until he lands at her feet.

Mating over, he dances in rage – now leaving
now charging, though he is weak already.
He leaves her to bury the eggs, and screams
at the opposite bank.

She fucks him twice a year. The eggs hatch out
when the ground is soft, April, October….frost
would suffocate the young, they must fight
their way out with still-soft claws.

The moment their eyes open, necks stretch and
feet hook into a rival’s head, red is the first
colour they know. She clambers over his strong thighs
eyes on the road ahead.

Published in STAND Magazine 1993

JOY BECOMES JOAN

August Bank holiday weekend 2006

It’s very early in the morning, about 5.30. I’m sitting with Joy. We’ve come to the end almost, but she is strong-hearted; she’s hanging on like a real trouper. She hasn’t had any real food for 2 weeks now, since the stroke, and only a few sucks of water through a sponge on a stick in the last few days. She has been sleeping through most of the day but is pretty restless all night. Her daughter and I are spending the nights with her; we feel that she shouldn’t be left alone at this stage, and she really does need some reassurance during the night. It’s hard, watching her struggle…a bit like Lilly, my mother-in-law, and that was hard. So I’m sitting now, in the darkened room, just a tiny lamp going, with my coffee. The house is full of family.

The day I returned to work Joy had had a stroke; she’d slept all that day as I took over from Fi, but woke and spoke a couple of times, so we thought it was just minor and that she would recover. She did, to some extent, but gradually began to fade. The doctor was there every day – he was such a star; he lived nearby and used to pop in on his way home or back to the hospital. Those first few days I had Joy up and sitting in her chair, but it was a real effort; she’s little but dense in weight. It became apparent that the stroke was debilitating and more serious that we had thought, so she stayed in bed – Joy loved her bed and that was no hardship for her. The daughter of the house arrived and we shared the nursing. In the first week we tried to feed Joy up as much as we could, with fortified drinks and beef soup. But by the end of that week she was barely taking a few sips; the doctor told us just to give her little drinks of water and to clean her mouth with the sponge-on-a-stick.

‘Thank you darling,’ whispers from Joy; she was clinging on to life. Everyone had to return to work so there was only me, her daughter and Middle Son left. She slept most of the day but was awake quite a lot of the night, waving her hands in the air, trying to catch something but we couldn’t find out what. The doctor said that it was the effect of dehydration on her system; her body was shutting down. At night Daughter and I took turns to stay with Joy: during the day we cleaned out cupboards. When everyone was there at bank holiday weekend, we had such fun looking at photographic discoveries – they, trying to work out who was who. There were a lot of tears too; this was a very loving and caring family, much the best I’ve ever worked with.

On the first day of September Joy’s breathing began to alter its rhythm; she’d been lightly sedated the night before, and was breathing heavily. The three of us were working all over the house, looking in on her all the time. I called when I heard the change – I’d been through this before and knew what would happen. We sat on the bed, around her as everything slowed down. I remembered watching Lily taking fewer breaths and all of us counting, waiting for the next, and the one that would never come. Joy stopped breathing several times and we thought she had gone, then she’d heave another and we’d laugh.

‘You go girl,’ I said to her. Daughter could only nod; she felt disgusted with herself that she couldn’t speak, and Son was ever stoical and correct while we blew our noses with the tissues I'd snatched from the window sill. Then there were no more last breaths. She was gone and we were glad she’d made it.

ARE WE THERE YET?

The hiss and hum of the airbed
fills the room. Joan shifts around -
dying is a knackering business.

Breathing is difficult; just when you think it’s over
another phase moves in, for an hour
or two, then life returns.

I want to scream
‘Go Joan go…get the hell outta here…
fly on the last gasp of summer.’

Hours roll into days, and they pass.
The family gathers memories, giggling
at naked babies and ancient greats in old sepia.

We ply doctor and nurses with questions
they can’t answer; we want timetables -
definite possibilities.

‘Why am I still here?’ she whispers
as starvation settles into the bed.
Her heart carries on, regardless.

Check-in is now closed.
We count the spaces between breaths.
Time of departure N/A

FUNERAL

I moved to another blog for a while but didn't like it; trying to fit in some things from a later date.

WAITING

I imagine there's a queue...
perhaps a light flashes
when it's your turn...and
it must be worth it -
why else would we wait
with broken and worn bodies?
We do have time to stand and stare.

This man Pete waited and waited.
When he moved he creaked, like
an old grandfather wardrobe,
joints well past their sell-by date.
He'll be glad to march
into the next world, kneel
in that great garden, prune
a multitude of fruit bushes.

The people he leaves behind
will arrive on his new doorstep
one day, and he will down tools, laughing
'I've been waiting for you!' 

A FUNERAL

The funeral was the other day, Thursday, and it all passed without a hitch. Two days earlier, when we were cutting flowers for the florist, Joy had a little weep for the first time. She asked me when Gent was coming and I had to tell her that he had gone, that he was up there in heaven waiting for her. That was the first time it had really sunk in. So we both had a little cry and I wheeled her out to the garden so the others could share in the moment (the others being, the Australian contingent of the family).

She hasn't done anything like it since. She answered questions as if she knew what was going on, and that Gent was really dead and that this was his funeral, but there was no emotion. The funeral service was wonderful. It was done by the local vicar who had seen to Gent while he was in hospital, so he knew him pretty well; and a while ago, the church had got Gent to do a potted biography; everyone was riveted - what an interesting and worthwhile life he led. This was the first church service that I've ever enjoyed; there were a lot of deep silences, where you could spread out your mind, just meditate and relax into the wonderful atmosphere. He did this at the crematorium and the thanksgiving services. All the children, grandchildren and great grandchildren stood up to say something; there were lots of tears but all of them conquered their emotions to make us all smile and laugh at the funny stories and glimpses into the family life. I don't know how well Joy could hear; she has a huge problem with background noise, and seems very deaf, when she isn't normally.

When we left the church at Ottery St Mary, and stood outside, the bells tolled especially for Gent. The sun was beating down and people were patting shoulders and hugging, comforting each other, relieved that it was all over. Joy sat in her wheelchair, smiling and gracious with anyone who was brave enough to come over and re-introduce themselves. I think there was about 150 people there - he was well-loved, and a pretty important man in the area. He had an OBE and a CBE and the title of Brigadier, and he had done so much in his life for a great many people. He will be sadly missed. Joy is aware that there is something missing in her life, but not quite sure just what it is.

Well, now it's just me and Joy. The last of the family went home today and Joy immediately reverted to her usual bedtime, which is as soon as possible - half past six tonight, but she has had a wild time this past week. Some days I couldn't get her to have an afternoon nap, 'No, I don't want to leave all this,' she would say, 'I'm not leaving the party.' We'd finally persuade her a little while later. She is so stimulated when they are all around, but when it gets too noisy she wants to leave. This time last year she couldn't bear to have people in the room; she'd get up and storm off and I'd have to go after her; she'd be in bed with all her clothes on, even shoes. One of her granddaughters got very upset. Joy kept saying to me, 'Who are all these people, why don't they go?' But now she loves it all!

LOST

I can’t get him out of
my mind…is racing

all I can see is vile
vile anger grinding

my teeth, trembling
when I think of

my children in tears
and no explanation

we feel guilty
and innocent

a silent year, then
‘fuck off’.

Like a child
I can’t understand -

not knowing why
is a hard lump

my throat’s
choking back tears

impossible to speak
without screaming

kill him dead
KILL…

But no…
too expensive;

he must live
with his loss.

HOW LATE AM I?

If I sat on my exercise bike
my view would be
of bold and confident women
soft and rounded but not bearing
great bellies and arses
like mine and my mother’s.

They would walk with long strides
and get where they’re going in a flash;
like I used to…when I were a lass
a woman, a young mother.

My destination would be a future
that was wrapped around my past….
the figure I was then would sail this ship
in style, with panache
and a fabulous wardrobe of smart
smart trousers, and suits
and dresses that would show off
a sharper chin and
my old legs that everyone loved.

READING AND WRITING

Thinking that I should get some writing back out there in the poetry mags, I wrote a poem for a competition about love; I can’t really remember what it was like, being in love. When I read of all that madness I begin to wonder if I was ever, really in love. Just like my memories of old granny, the tyrant, I only retain the bad stuff. They said they wanted poems on both falling in and out of love…I naturally chose the latter and created this rant below:

HAMMERED FLAT

My head is full and bursting
with glimpses
of long-sleeved blouses and light-weight
jumpers
arrayed at eye-level;
a regiment at my right hand.
Any one of them would fit
my situation.

In my line of fire
the back of his head smirks;
it dares me
to reach for blunt objects
poison darts…
carefully planned alibis, and
mysterious gangsters
from a murky past.

I picture rooftop parties
and mountain picnics,
his startled shape, flailing
on the wind, like
an inebriated seagull
tumbling and squawking
at the woman with her hand out…

not saving, but waving.
Cheerio then… bastard.

Captain Correlli’s Mandolin…again am stuck in the middle, and have started reading other books; I always do this with his novels. When you begin them you are captured and charmed by the characters and the settings but soon slowed down by the history lesson. I like history but there seems to be something stilted about the way he uses it in his novels; I’ve read three of his now and this happened in every one. When I turned 40 I stopped reading books if I got bored half-way through; the first book I discarded like that was ‘Oscar and Lucinda’. Again, charmed at first but bored flat eventually. So I’m not going to read him again.

In the last couple of years I’ve got into Wilbour Smith; his books are fantastic. You are getting a history lesson in a novel but it’s well-fictionalized. You just can’t put them down; a great read. Also in this time been through the Jean Auel series, ‘Clan of the Cave Bear’. What an amazing read they are, though the sex gets a bit gratuitous at times; but then again maybe that’s because I’ve completely lost my sex drive and, subconsciously, don’t want to be reminded of it. I was really pleased to hear that ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife’ won a big prize last week; it's one of the best books I've ever read, though I think it should have ended earlier than it did. I’ve got the last Harry Potter with me, think I’ll dump the captain for now and get into that.