AN UPDATE

In February 2024 I went into hospital for a cardiothoracic operation which is on the main thoracic artery. I should have been home in about two weeks but whilst I was on the operating table I suffered three strokes which left me comatose for about two weeks, during which time I was living entirely in a deep and very realistic morphine dream. When I say the dreams were realistic I should also say they were pretty fantastical but totally believable. To me they were the only reality. I could not tell that I was dreaming. I am still not sure if some parts really happened.

The strokes left me incapable of reading, writing or drawing which are my three main interests. My degree has also been delayed again.

A year later I can write and use my smartphone, which had become a complete mystery to me, and I have listened to Audible quite a lot but I’m able to read books again. I still cannot draw. My keyboard skills are a struggle. I used to like walking in solitude and it often inspired poetry but although I can walk I can’t go out alone.

April is poetry month, and I have not written a poem since my stroke last year. I’m not actually sure whether I can still write poetry but poetry month seems to be a good opportunity to test myself out and so I do intend to try and participate this year and I will post the results onto Dreaming Path regardless of their merits. We shall see. It’s an experiment.

Day 14 ~ Shunning Poetry

In my teens I tried to write
But other voices squeezed my ear
In bed at night I oft times heard
The whisperings of sensuous Keats.
I thought that I should ‘modernise’
I sensed I should not be archaic,
Speaking from another time,
And so I read all the poets
Scrawling words on backroom presses,
The ones they published in black ink
That stained my stubby finger nails.
They shunned rhyme, rhythm, soundscapes
Often angry, sometimes clever.
Derivative, derivative
Was the cry that pinned me down.
So I put away all books
And went to listen, kept my silence,
As poets talked all night
Over wine and cigarettes.
I heard the need to find your voice,
The need to fall in love with words,
The need to see it as a puzzle,
Never driven by ideas.
Let sounds and music steer your way
And see the thoughts emerge

Writing fantasy

what writing is like

 

sitting in a room

the room becomes a wood

a wood i know so well

a vague story in my mind

the vision of a path

music and hushed sounds

i light the fire

invite them

i will sit and wait

until they gather round

whispering their tales

taking me to places

i never planned to go

Writing

my thoughts today are not inspired
no deep emotions stoke the inner fire
no image scampers out across the page

the world bursts in with wings and horns
distracting me, declaring I’m no poet
all my hopes bereft, forlorn

poems are made of dancing words
delicious words that tumble out
marked with flows and rhythms

they skitter-scatter on the page
they fascinate, seductive
they have power and strength

imposing form upon it
an ode, a ballad, sonnet
I try to see connections
until they find direction
seeking out….
what’s that word?….
ah yes – perfection

Distraction

i write
she sits by the fire
stretched on a rug
smiling
i try to write
how distracting
how beguiling

the bees in their hives
lazily buzz
outside the cottage door
my pen drips honey
sticky, sunny, runny
not a word reaches the page

i stare at the page
keep glancing at her
remembering moonlight
starlight
firelight
last night
and honey
always more honey

Pan is out there
in the garden again
spreading his scent
in the air
the sweet floral notes
that play
with his deep musky darkness
wafts through the window

the silver bells
on her ankles jingle
as she uncrosses her legs
she is dreaming

i watch every movement
her toes to her thighs
they invite me
delight me
excite me
unwrite me

What we will do for love ….

Asked to write a love poem and finally lost for words!
This love? that love? how many have there been?
and who of them was first? probably fair Psyche,
she who burned Eros’ wings, in the dark unseen
and put his feet to flight. There’s a lesson there.
It’s hardly likely, after that, I’d fall in love so quickly ,
but I did, with Guinevere, and she ran off with Lancelot!
ah how women do deceive! it made me feel quite sick!
After that I sat about and thought.
It all seemed like a shot in the dark.

Wendy was too soppy. Maid Marion seemed brave and kind
but she was always off with Robin shooting arrows in the wood.
I wanted one who was strong and good, the sort I couldn’t find,
one who liked what I did instead of what they thought I should.
Some one who understood! I was young and stupid.
So much for Cupid! Wild thoughts ran round my head.
A friend came by to see me, said “STOP READING BOOKS!”
”If you want to know what women are like drag one into bed”.
So I did. I chose one only for her looks. A big mistake.
It’s more than looks that make a girl. I soon found out.

I went back to the library and searched amongst the shelves.
I read history, not mythology. I was seeking hard, firm facts.
Not much mention of the woman I needed there.
Battling, defeated, Boudicca had some appeal,
Joan of Arc, a little mad, Cleopatra sounded bright.
All were doomed. Past age. All done and dusted, Dead.
And then I found the poets. Their voices burned the page.
Poems of love and loss and passion, sacrifice, desire
It set my heart afire. Visions of real love filled my throbbing head.
I saw that you must work at it, losing is better than never having.
Its torture, sad, tragic, maddening. It’s happiness, joy, and magic.
It’s worth fighting for and always trying. Real Love is never dead.

I sat in a noisy cafe, reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets,
glanced across the room. I saw her there composed.
She seemed complete.
She was reading Keats. I smiled.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art…”
Good start. Our glances became frequent.
I took up courage, walked across. “You like T.S. Eliot?’
”Oh yes! I love him! Dylan Thomas?”
I smile again, nodding, offering her coffee.
We smiled and talked and talked. I walked her home.
Spent all night writing poems on her doorstep.
Fortunately it was summer. I didn’t freeze to death.
My poems only purpose was to make her love me.
I wanted her to love me more than all the poets.

She inspired me. She desired me. She was the first –
my sonnet.

 

 

 

a worm

blackbird below in the garden
after the fallen rain
turns his ear to the ground
listens,
poised, focused
strikes

me, up here in the window,
watching, looking, searching,  
seeing, focused
writes