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Day 1 – The Trap

NaPoWriMo

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The stairs lead up to where he is trapped on the stained sofa a neighbour has lugged up to the square room with its bare floorboards.  The windows are shut so that neighbours will think he is out, and he has propped cardboard and old paintings against the panes; nobody must see in. It is Spring, but the room is as dark as a winter afternoon, and crisp and sweet wrappers rustle underfoot as you walk across to sit on the only chair in the place – the only possible place to sit, given that the sofa has been a setting for several bouts of incontinence.  If you risk it, you will rise up from it damp, and with a faint whiff of piss, which will follow you around until you can shove your clothes into the washing machine and take a shower. He will not meet your eye. He thinks you are to blame for what he has become.

The world and the door

a terrifying distance

across that hard floor.

April 1st.

My mum.005

I do not know how much time I will be able to devote to NaPoWriMo this year. Mum is very frail, and I am spending most of my time caring for her. Every morning I wonder if she is still alive.

She used to snore.  When we went youth hostelling, I had to poke her to make her turn over, so that other hostellers didn’t poke her instead. Now she is quiet, and her chest hardly moves, so I have to move in close to be able to tell – alive or dead?  So far, she has always been alive…

Black and White

Fifty long years on, the children in that buried school might have had children of their own by now …

I am still vibrating in a very high register about what happened in Kensington last week, and to try and mute it, I have worked on words to push it far enough away that I can digest it without being sick.  Reading  about the disaster I remember from being a little girl made me sicker for a while, and then I started to see that things are NOT the same. That maybe, just maybe, social media and the fact that the fire happened in the heart of our capital and not in Wales, might mean that the response is more human this time around.

Engels pointed out that the English ruling classes murder their poorer brothers and sisters, and that hasn’t changed. Maybe it will change soon. I hope so.

 

We got our television late –

Granada Rentals, black and white.

 

We gazed on heaped black rubble

piled deep beneath the sleeting rain,

on screen, a school lay drowned in slag and rock

and slate, white staring faces taut with pain,

a silent village and its children gone.

 

The men in charge avoided blame;

they had not known the stream

was there, the thin blue thread

on map efficiently ignored.

 

They offered fifty pounds a head.

 

Lord Robens kept his job, the cash

kind people all around the world

had sent to parents brutally bereaved

was used for diggers to shift the slag

the coal board had let slip.

 

At highest level shameful things

were said behind closed doors:

that grieving mothers could have

more children, after all;

they were unused to money;

would squander and waste it,

not knowing how to spend it well.

 

People who had lost so much

ignored by men who’d wanted cash

to pay their annual bonus, clinging onto rank,

who saw their choice as black and white,

and chose that which would keep them tight

tucked snugly in with wealth and power.

 

Last week I watched a tower block burn,

a beacon blazing in the black night sky.

Scarlet fire, a funeral pyre, voices cracking in despair,

and children – could they be children –

falling like cinders, clutching at air?

 

Last night, I dreamed I watched it on

our rented set, its aerial bent

Black heap, white faces taut with pain.

Families who had lost so much,

ignored by men and women saving cash

but raking in profits for their private stash.

Who fake their tears and still shake hands

behind the padlocked doors of power,

who see the choice as black and white

and plump for profit every time,

in spite of desperate screams for help,

the death toll as it rises.

Fifty long years on,

the children in that buried school might

have had children of their own by now

to ask how many need to die before

the high and mighty do what’s right

 

VETERAN STEW

This is another poem in the collection which is slowly accruing. The poems in the collection are about my brother. He was a marine and national standard tri-athlete before he contracted Multiple Sclerosis, and he is bearing his situation with stoicism for the most part.  I am finding it harder.

 

VETERAN STEW

Take:

One vulnerable man – the veteran perhaps,
a cluttered flat, black sacks of crap –
old papers, soiled pants, sweet wrappers.
Three neighbours, like Furies, sitting
on the stained sofa, pecking and fighting,
filching whatever they can.

Now whisk in his “carers”, who do not care –

 

who come at odd times, and ask him what

he needs and, when he tells them that he’s fine,

pencil a quick note in his file, smile and

leave, trailing righteousness as such men do.

Finally: weigh out the forces of life, of death,

season the mix with a handful of dust;

pour it slowly into an earthen pot, and stew.

 

Every night and every night – Day 30

A little late again, and I am still missing one day’s poem, but nearly done and, whether the poems are good in their raw state or not, I have seen that I can be drawn into writing in the old way, and I have had a chance to read others’ poetry and learn from it.

Our prompt was to write about something that happens again and again, and this poem is another in the collection I am building about my brother and MS. I am still not sure about using him as the subject of poems, but part of me wants to commemorate him in some way.  It is like that line at the end of Death of a Salesman, “he’s a human being and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid.”

At shortly before eleven
his sister will come.
She will watch him take his pills
and she will offer him food
and tell him he must eat it
or the pills will make him sick.

He doesn’t want to eat it.
because, if he eats, he will
have to void his bowels which means
mess, stink, filth – embarrassment.

Sometime later, others come.
They check his meds and offer
him food which he does not want
to eat, as, if he eats,  he’ll
have to void his bowels which means
mess, stink, filth and helplessness..

Every night and every night
lying staring at the light,
begging Death come take his soul.

And in the morning
his sister will come
to watch him take the pills
which cannot cure him;
she offers him food
and tells him to eat;
he doesn’t want to.
Because, if he eats…

And the others come.
They offer him food
he doesn’t want to eat
because ….

Night after night
stares at the light,
petitioning Death.

And in the morning
his sister comes

 

Vast – Day 29

Nearly there. Only one more day to go. The prompt today was to choose a favourite poem and then take one word from it, and use that word to spark  a new poem.

My poem was Ozymandias, by Shelley – it says something about the brevity of the rule of tyrants, the arrogant and the vain, but also conjures for me a huge immensity of nothing – the tyrant’s statue is just a couple of legs now, and the head, half buried on the sand.

My word was “vast”. I tried for a sonnet, but it’s not right. I will rethink at some other time.

Our orbits were light years apart in space
the cosmic gap between our hearts was vast,
yet I rush to you at a reckless pace,
my modesty all gone, the die is cast.
You may not want to choose this Argosy?
Get over it.  We will collide, fly high,
merge, two galaxies, for eternity
leave far-flung, starry tendrils in the sky.
I Andromeda, you the Milky Way,
our constituent parts an open chain
spread across the heavens like petals
over the grass after hard April rain.
Our haloes of dark matter discarded,
we will be wrapped in a glory of stars.

Goodbye, dear – Day 28

Skeltonic Verse today. Two beats/stresses to a line, which makes it dimeter, and you rhyme away until you run out of words, or sensible phrases. Here’s mine:

 

Well, my dear,
it’s very clear.
I overhear
you’re only here
to point and jeer.

Never fear –
you’ll disappear,
my buccaneer.
I am sincere,
and, loud and clear,
I volunteer
to kick your rear
away from here
to stratosphere.

That feel severe?
I’ll shed one tear
as souvenir.

 

Synaesthesia – Day 27

A poem about taste. My sense of taste is not that good; I am prone to eating tubs of peanut butter, marmite on toast or whole jars of pickled onions (none great for making or keeping friends) but I wondered what I would think of others if saying their names triggered a taste, which is what sometimes happens when a person has synaesthesia :

The men I’ve known all left
a taste behind them –
sweet or sour or bitter.
I favour the name Steve –
it tastes of ginger biscuits.
John tasted of caramel, he
was a sweet snack to nibble on.
Shaun was distinctly fishy.
Paul was chicken vindaloo,
packing quite a wallop.

I liked the look of Robert,
but to say his name was like
sucking on a rusty nail –
until I shortened him to Bob
when he turned tasty
a flavour to savour:
egg fu yung –
chicken breast –
lemon zest –
and the rest.
I shall keep his name ever
on the tip of my tongue.