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.

The old poems

While I spend some time thinking about the new poems I'm writing and want to write, I thought I'd share some of the old ones that didn't make it into print - though some got shortlisted. This week, one I wrote about my mother, who was a primary school teacher for a short period of her life, before serious ill health stopped her working.

Teacher

Look at their little faces

as they sit there waiting

for me to tell a story.

There was some chatter

but I silenced it

and now they all look to me.

I shall tell them

of a princess

locked in a tower.

I shall tell them

of the life

she dreamed she'd have.

I shall watch

their little faces waiting

for the rescue, the escape.

I'll let them wait

and then I'll say

The End.

The road to happiness

On X/Twitter this week, lots of people have been reporting the number of rejections they've received for submissions to poetry magazines.

I am pleased to report that I have had 0 rejections this week. That is because I do not currently have any submissions in.

And it would appear that even if you get a poetry collection published, the chances are you won't sell many copies (30-60, but definitely under 100).

I am therefore also feeling pretty pleased because my self-published genre-defying poetry/words/photograph book sold 87 copies, back in 2019/20. (I gave away the rest of the 100 print run to friends and family.)

So, while not submitting or getting published, I have, as I said I would, spent my time recently exploring the many online poetry resources. There are so many, I could spend my entire life doing just that, if inconvenient chores like shopping, cooking, cleaning, repairing my collapsing home, etc didn't get in the way.

This exploration has left me both inspired and overwhelmed. My mind keeps darting off in different directions and won't settle on any one. I have, however, drafted quite a few new poems, and even tweeted one or two. They have received a positive response. And I'm pretty chuffed about that too. 

The road to happiness is clear.

Writing and connecting

There is a whole world of writing out there. If you write alone, for yourself, then maybe you can stay outside it. But even then, you read, and what you read will affect you, consciously or unconsciously. 

And if you want your writing to be out in the world, then you can't ignore that world, and that world seems to have 'rules' and 'shoulds' about how to write and what. You may react to it in different ways at different times - accept it/reject it, but you can't escape the fact it exists.

But there's still the 'you' that is 'you' alone and the 'you' that has to find your way in that world, and that can mean judging yourself and what you write from that point of view, even when you don't want to. And finding yourself judged by it. Or even excluded by it. Just like life generally, I guess.

And what you write may not be read by others in the way you intended, or may not 'fit'.

Fundamentally, for me, writing is about storytelling. It's about expressing myself and wanting to communicate, connect. Writing has helped me see things differently, to see connections...

This week there has been a lot of new sharing and connecting on Twitter/X, much of which has been inspired by Matthew M C Smith and TopTweetTuesday and I've been really happy to be included and to share.

It's easy to feel that you're not part of the wider world - of writing - or in general. And to cut yourself off, or feel cut off. Some of the things that were shared this week were blogs and websites - and these are ways I can connect - and through Twitter/X.

I've talked about ways forward for me before, but I think now that these points of free access are the way for me. I, like many people, don't have the money to buy all the books and magazines available - much as I would love to, and I'm lucky that I have many in my home that I've acquired in the past, including from friends, and they are still wonderful to go back to.

But, for the future, I can connect via the huge variety of online resources, and likewise contribute and express myself in the same way. 

 

Not there

There's a place, I think - 

a path, an avenue of trees,

and a church at the end

and a graveyard

and behind

there are fields that lead down to the sea

and the light is glowing on the water

and a boat moving slowly

and there are birds

so tiny on the shore

and the distant call of gulls

and I'm walking

and I'm still

and I hear it

and I feel it

and it's where I want to be

and am not.

First published in Seaborne magazine

Normality will return

And those who were undervalued before

will be undervalued again.

And those who were vulnerable before

will be vulnerable again.

And the things we vowed to remember

we will forget.

And the things we vowed to change

will be unchanged.

Normality will return

with all its inadequacies.

And more people will lose the fight.

I've posted this before, but it seems right to post again this week, nationally and globally.

Too early, too late

It was only March

but already bees were on the blossom,

blue tits were nesting,

too many things were happening too soon.

He said he'd heard it on the radio,

The Last Spring - by Grieg,

and I, thinking it a good thing to do,

bought him the CD.

We sat and listened to it together

and he said nothing.

Not thinking, I said it was beautiful

and he said nothing.

The days grew longer

and the time shorter,

the blossom faded

and the blue tits left.

When he died in May

then I knew what it was he didn't say.

First published by Indigo Dreams Publishing

Different versions of me

I've been thinking about, and reading, poetry, rather than writing it, lately. I've been looking back at lots of my old poetry and wondering how I manage to have such an inconsistent style of writing. I didn't come up with an answer. Nor to the question why so many different types of my poetry have been published - and so many haven't. Right poem, right place, wrong poem, wrong place, rubbish poem, etc... 

The following poem, which is unusual even for me, got accepted for publication, but I withdrew it after about 18 months of waiting for it to be published, because I was having a bit of a breakdown at the time and just got cross, which was unfair on the publisher (maybe?), but I couldn't deal with it then. I could resubmit it somewhere else, but I think it stands as good a chance of getting read here as it would anywhere else, so...

The end of the world happened

in a hotel bar on the edge of somewhere

where a man of a certain age

had just been told, without a hint of irony,

that he could check out any time he liked,

and having polished off the nuts

and another double, decided

to say yes to the woman in the lipstick

the same shade his wife had worn before

and knew for once he wouldn't have to pay

and

in a carpark outside a pub in Dungeness

where a woman of a certain age

had just been told, without a hint of irony,

that she could check him out any time she liked,

and having had her cod and chips

and Sex on the Beach, decided

to say no to the man who looked like

all the others and the shag on the shingles

and settled for a fag on the edge of nowhere.

In the beginning (a child's puzzle)

Dad: Look at this poem - what do you think?

Me: I think it's about love.

Mum: Poet emerges from fish?

Me: Keats.

Brother: What shape was Keats' DNA?

Me: A troubled Felix.

Frustration

I wasn't going to write a post this week. 

It's been another week of frustration. Trying to fix the gas boiler - the hassle, the expense, the lack of resolution - 'a new one is a better option' - yes, if I happened to have that kind of money, which I don't. And then seeing what not having it working has done to the electricity bill which has just come in. 

And then trying to get a doctor's appointment, and a hospital appointment, and medicines, and any kind of comprehension of the stress that's causing.

But then, I thought, as I'm already fuming, I'd write something about how annoying some tweets and posts are when it comes to poetry. Don't get me wrong - there are some open discussions about poetry - where people are genuinely asking for ideas, and discussions about a poem or a pamphlet which accept their subjectivity, and/or are descriptive rather than judgmental. And there are really supportive people out there too.

But the ones that make me angry are the ones where people don't just say what they think. They say, or imply very strongly, that they're right, and therefore everyone else is wrong. You don't like something - fine. Don't tell me I shouldn't like it. And vice versa. You don't think the form of the poem is right - fine. That's your opinion. It doesn't make it a fact. And so on.

It's hard enough for people to put their work out into the world, or to try to connect, without being told that what they've said or done is wrong, when what is really the case is that one person's opinion differs from another's. Some things are facts. Some are just opinions. I wish people would remember that. And be kinder.

Little things that matter

There are two worlds, it would seem. There is the bigger world where all the news is bad, on a scale that we struggle to comprehend, let alone know what to do about, except protest. And there is the smaller world which is our individual life and the lives of those closest to us. And we struggle to deal with that too. And poetry takes on those struggles.

The struggles themselves are evoked, but always too, it seems, the clutching at something that could give hope. And those straws that are clutched at seem to be the little things - the touch of a hand, the texture of a rock, the sound of a bell, the smell and taste of food, the colours of a flower... so many possibilities.

But even these are ambivalent - because it can be the last touch of a hand, a rock that cuts, the bell that tolls, the food from a homeland long lost, a flower that is dying...

The daily rituals that provide some comfort can at the same time remind us of someone who is no longer with us to share those rituals. And nature, which everyone seems to turn to (or are, at least, encouraged to turn to), likewise holds sorrow as well as joy - the sea we used to walk to together, the erosion and destruction...

But so rarely does a poem seem to hold no hope. Despite the struggle, the feeling of powerlessness to change things, the losses, the poet seems to need something to hold onto - the moments, the little things that matter.

And when I'm trying to find something to hold onto:

blackbird's song at dawn

nature's continuity

blackbird's song at dusk

But even then...

in chill morning sun

grass sparkles; banks of purple

lift above the sea;

oystercatcher's distant call:

remember this was the dream

First published by Indigo Dreams Publishing

Later

You worry about what you've said to them,

then you wonder if they worry about what you've said to them,

then you worry about what they've said to you,

then you wonder if they worry about what they've said to you.

Then, years later, out of the blue,

they tell you they forgive you

for something you don't remember

you'd said to them.

Then, later still, you realise

you didn't tell them that you don't forgive them

for the things they don't remember

they'd said to you.

Sea star mass mortality event

The sunflower

tore off its petals,

the rainbow

slumped,

the pink and purple 

cut to white,

the morning sun

melted

and when night came

the stars

had lost their reflections.

 

First published by Fly on the Wall Press

Do you think this poem stands on its own (with title), or does it need a footnote with background info? Is there enough in the poem itself, or should there be more? I often wonder. It was published as is.