Thoughts while in hospital

It was rarely quiet, but sometimes in the afternoon, through the open window I couldn't see, I could hear the pat-pock of tennis balls, the laughter of parakeets and the flurry of ducks from the park below. Surreal, those moments.

Largely, the noise was that of health care and individual pain and self-pity. It went on and on and on.

It was too hot, too cold, too light, too dark.

For days I was eaten by an air mattress. I couldn't eat myself so...

There was a man who came mostly in the early hours. His name was Ange. In the darkest times, I saw the angel of death. But when he smiled...

Some just talked and talked. Some told them to shut up. Some went quiet and cried. Some shouted their pain and frustration. 

No-one left when they were supposed to. 

Things happened too quickly or too slowly. Or not at all.

People came and went. I was still there.

I remembered all the things I'd feared and written about and it felt like I had written my future, but there was no consolation in being right, just the hollow laugh at the irony. Before the tears flowed again. 

And the inability to just give up, however hellish it became, however much that seemed the easier option, the only option. A lifeline would dangle and be snatched back, again and again. Torment. No control. No escape. But still...

When the person you love and who loves you is there, then you fight to go on.

All I wanted, all anyone wanted, was to go home. 

That's not what I meant

Another huge gap between posts, but I've been distracted by life, and also by thoughts about poems and responses on Twitter. This sort of follows on from my previous post, but...

You've written a poem. You know what you meant when you wrote it. You want to share it, so you post it on Twitter. You wait to see what response, if any, you get. 

You get no response - not good. You delete it, go and sit in a corner and cry.

You get a positive response - people 'like' it, or actually say they like it/love it... - good. You think you've got it right.

You get a positive response - but then people say why they like it and you realise they haven't understood it - ie what they say is not what you meant. But that's still ok - right? Because once it's out there, it's up to them to see in it what they see - and they've found something to like in it, so that's good - right?

But then you think some more about what they've said and that it isn't what you meant and you think the reason for that is obviously that you didn't write it well enough to convey what you wanted to say. So that's not good. Because why are you writing it and sharing it if you can't convey what you wanted to say? You have failed.

Or you get one of those ambiguous responses - often characterised by just quoting one of the lines of the poem back at you - without further comment. What does that mean? That was the only line they liked? Did they even like that line? They just can't think of anything to say about the poem, but feel obliged to respond? (And that can so easily become the case on certain forums.)

Or you get a negative response. This is rarer - mainly because you don't go on any forums where this is likely to happen, or have blocked anyone who has responded in this way. (Though the odd backhanded compliment sneaks through.)

And then there is the other side of all this. When you read someone else's poem and you love it. Which of the positive responses above are you going to go for? Go safe with 'love it'? Can't go wrong that way. Or try to say why - and risk doing exactly what you don't want others to do to you - and end up upsetting the person you're trying to praise. Because you haven't got what they were trying to say, or express it badly... So you've failed, again. 

And you don't do negative responses. But then what do you say if you feel obliged to respond to a poem you don't like - quote a line?

Should you be worrying so much? Unless you're super-confident or super-not-bothered, chances are you're going to worry a bit. 

Ah, but those glorious, if less frequent moments, when someone loves your poem and tells you why, and they've seen it how you intended it - and joy abounds! And likewise, when you can do the same for someone else. And because of those moments, you keep trying - both ways. (With the tissues handy for when it all goes wrong.)

What do we want from poetry?

I've not been posting for a while, but reading the posts of others. Similar questions and thoughts seem to recur in many of them. Poets examine their own writing and reading and what's happening with poetry more broadly.

One of the questions that seems to arise a lot, in one way or another, is what do we want from poetry - as readers, and/or as writers. 

And why isn't poetry more widely read (as opposed to other forms of writing, or other activities - while totally appreciating the financial constraints).

These are just some thoughts about these questions (hopefully not repeating too much what I, or others have said elsewhere).

Poetry comes with many definitions - usually constructed by poets, academics and often publishers (and this is part of a much wider discussion). This is a poem. This isn't. And, in the case of publishers, this is what we want. 

These definitions often seem to constrain poets in writing - because they feel the need to be doing it 'right', or what is currently 'in fashion', or, more often, it's the only way to get published.

But this, it would appear, can lead to a form of poetry being produced and published that the general public doesn't want to read.

The favourite poem in the UK (according to various sources) is 'If' - Rudyard Kipling. The bestselling living poet, anywhere (according to various sources) is Rupi Kaur. If they're not, they're certainly up there. But their position/work is questioned in many ways.

Why are they so popular? And why are they questioned?

People often want a poem at a funeral. These are not necessarily people who normally read poetry. So why at a funeral?

My husband is not into poetry (there are exceptions - including mine, at gunpoint). He says 'why don't they just write what they want to say?' He's an intelligent man. But he doesn't want to have to 'decipher' the words. 

When his daughter/my stepdaughter died, way too young, her husband asked me for a poem for the funeral. She was not into poetry either. But she was a woman loved by everyone she met - there were hundreds at her funeral. I suggested Raymond Carver's 'Late Fragment'. Both my husband and hers agreed instantly. 

So what does any of that mean, if anything? 

I think people want to understand what they're reading. And get something from it - that more than anything. The 'something' is hard to define. Maybe something that can help them make sense of life, that expresses how they're feeling, or that brings comfort, or joy.

It's not about dumbing down. It's just about letting people in. And to state the obvious, different people want/like different things. 

I don't think poets should have limits on how, what or why they write - and it's up to them whether they want popularity, acclaim or (just) pleasure from their writing. But if they want their poems to be read by more than the few people currently reading poetry, then they - sorry, we - have to try and see what people actually want to read. And how, and where. Oh, and publishers would also have to publish that kind of poetry. Which comes first?

Poets and publishers can either go along with that... or not. I don't think there's just one right answer. But if they don't, at least it'll be clearer why poetry isn't selling to, or being read by, more than just the few.

Nature and health-care

Polly Atkin, in 'Some of Us Just Fall - On Nature and Not Getting Better', says:

'Wordsworth wrote 'let nature be your teacher', not let nature be your only recognised health-care system.'

Her book tells of chronic illness, disability, lack of good care, understanding, diagnosis and treatment in the health-care system. She finds solace and self-care in nature, but, as the quote above suggests, she wanted, but didn't get (or at least not for a very long time), the support she needed in the place it should have been.

Nature can also only provide some comfort when it is accessible and unspoiled. Swimming in fresh or sea water can only be beneficial if the water isn't contaminated with sewage. Wandering through woods or fields can only be beneficial if you are mobile, and if you can get to, and into. the woods or fields. And if they're not ruined by fly-tipping, littering or building works, etc. And so it goes on...

But even if you can access unspoiled nature - and you can hear and see the birds, the flowers, the trees, the water... this can bring some respite, moments of joy and you can be uplifted or calmed for that period of time, but it isn't a cure - physical or mental. It won't fix what's wrong with you. It may not be possible to fix it. But if you can get the health care you need - sooner rather than much, much, later, then you may be able to live a life with less pain or less fear, with more mobility, more peace and joy. 

This book was gifted to me by someone who understands my health problems - physical and mental, the joy that nature has brought me and my frustration with current health-care and the destruction/inaccessibility of nature. I pray for a time when nature and health-care can both provide the support we all need.

You can see it from here

I've talked before about my 'best-selling', self-published, genre-defying book, 'You can see it from here', and you may have seen photos/words from it here or on Twitter/X. It is very much inspired by the Isle of Sheppey, where I live, but it is about more than that one place, or the feelings that this island evokes in me. It is a mix of photos, poems and words - something for everyone? 

It is no longer available in print, but if you would like to see it, I can send you a FREE pdf version. Just DM me on Twitter/X with your email.

Elvis and me

I really only remember Elvis from his later years and the reaction to his death. I was too young before that. But I saw his performances on television and loved them. I saw the outpouring of emotion when he died and I could see that he was not thought of as just another singer, not just another man. He was 'The King'. He was a legend. He was Elvis. I've been watching clips online of him performing as part of my trawl through my musical memories and the feelings they evoke in me, and this, weirdly, is what came into my head. 

He might have died on the toilet, but he was still Elvis

Me, I could die

between rose silk sheets

on a four poster bed

with ruby satin drapes

in a plum velvet room

in a golden palace,

but I'd still be

just the odd woman

who sneaked away 

from the tour group

and hid there

until it was all over.

Inspiration

Our camellia started to bloom in February this year, earlier than normal, fooled by the unseasonably mild weather at the time, probably. The ferociously cold winds and rain that followed killed every bloom. And the leaves. There was nothing we could do. It now looks like an antler stand - the decorative type they make to hang jewellery on.

It is still beautiful in its own, sculptural way, but as it was by far the biggest plant we had, and now lacking its own natural jewellery, our tiny garden looks strangely empty, exposed. There's a poem in there, possibly, I thought. And then, out of the blue, it made me think : 'too many times I've seen the rose die on the vine...' (from the song: 'I'd rather leave while I'm in love')

Maybe it's because I've been listening to, and writing new poems about songs and the memories and feelings they evoke in me. This particular song I found slightly odd at the time - I was young and believed in everlasting love, possibly - but it's always fascinating to hear and think about songs from that time now that I'm much older and... whatever I am now. 

I've also gone back to my vast archive of photos for inspiration (even before I found the ekphrastic poetry challenges on Twitter). I post a photo most days - mainly just with a few words that come to mind, but I have a number of old photo-inspired short poems/haiku, which I might post more of online (I've tried a couple). As well as responding to the challenges. But in writing/responding now, I'm finding that my poems are taking a new turn - less direct, more tangential.

So many different forms of inspiration. So many ways to interpret an image.

I'm also still thinking of more ways to make all my poems - old and new - available free, and not just online - more on this to come. Feeling positive. And some days strong. I'm still working on that.