Don’t ask for my secrets
And I won’t tell you lies.
Don’t look in my eyes
There is no surprise.
You birthed me, you held me
And what do you see?
A rival? A victim?
You took everything.
What’s more – I let you.
I didn’t know – how could I see?
Dead from your past
You poisoned me.
The one who should love me
Above all other –
Don’t look at me and expect
“Mother.”
Picture this:
The pain, the hurt, the betrayal. She loved her little boy. Admittedly, he had not been brought into the world for the best of reasons; but once she had him, and held him, she resolved at once to be the best mother she could possibly be. This person – this perfect little person – this alchemy of maleness conjured from her female body was a source of pride and love and tender protection. Into their world of two came more, friends, acquaintances, family. And the rot began.
Picture this:
Pain. Pain as if your liver, your lungs, your very heart were on the outside of your body, no longer protected by flesh and bone, but exposed and painful, as painful as someone pressing on a fresh bruise or digging a screwdriver into the tender flesh of your gums over and over. And the rot took hold.
Picture this:
The little boy grew, and absorbed, like a sponge, all these outside influences, and in spite of his mother – despite her – became an addict. Her own mother betrayed, colluded, enabled. And her body ached, her heart hurt and her soul wept.
Imagine that.
Thought we’d squeeze in another Poetry Pimple before the end of the month…
Every unkind word,
Every mean look
Or spiteful gesture
Each nasty word
Each liberty you took
The casual blatant disregard
I will gather these gems of bitterness
And hoard them to me
Greedily like a dragon with its gold.
Then, one day when you are watching,
I will cast these gems before you
And watch you squirm
Then as you are watching
I will laugh
And you will burn.
Sky Mirror by Anish Kapoor – the reflection caught a lovely summer sun and sky
Waking up freezing
Coughing and sneezing
Preparing to meet
Another day of wet feet.
Whipped by the wind
And beaten by rain
Hailstones enough
To cause physical pain
And that’s just Spring…
Summer, true Summer
Benevolent and caring
Paddling pools and suncream
And ice cream sharing
The warmth collects
Like molten oil
In aching bones
While others boil
Not me…
I rejoice in the baking heat
Life is good!
Life is sweet!
Hell won’t be hot enough for me.
And that was this month’s Poetry Pimple… Happy Friday everybody!
Regular readers will know that like a fair proportion of the population , I am afraid of the dentist. Not my actual dentist per se, as she is super-model beautiful, softly spoken and blessed with a silken touch on her instruments.
I had a tooth out yesterday… no Tooth Fairy for me; mind you, I don’t really think she would have wanted this tooth, although I did not lose it through lack of care. I am extremely conscientious when it comes to looking after my teeth, precisely because I am so afraid of the dentist.
For years, though, this particular tooth has bothered me. I’ve tried all the sensitive toothpastes on the market, it’s had various fillings – even a root canal or something – I didn’t listen too much to the gory details about that…
My previous dentist dismissed my complaints of it not feeling right, too hot, as being perfectly normal, as it was a gold filling which does obviously retain heat. He reprimanded me for not flossing the area: “But it HURTS!” He replied: “No pain, no gain.” Yeah right.
Then, last year, I changed dentists. As a matter of course, on my first routine check up there, x-rays were taken, and when I went back to receive the results, I was horrified to find that the previous dentist had slapped a filling and root canal on top of an underlying abscess that was already present. The actual bone in my jaw was losing density… as my current dentist pointed out to me, showing me a cloudy grey blotch in a whole sea of blotches, that I eventually made out was my head. Eugh.
The tooth was granted a period of grace to see if it would somehow magically right itself. It didn’t. It throbbed and buzzed like a wasp in a bottle… it was the sort of thing that you would scratch until it bled if you could. So, yeserday, the tooth’s time was up.
Palms sweating, nervously clutching clear Fluorite (good for teeth) and Amber (natural analgesic) I lay back in the dentist’s chair as she tenderly rubbed the special numbing cream into my gum before injecting the anaesthetic. Lots of it. I am hyper-sensitive to pain, an actual recognised medical condition – I’m not just being a big wuss – and moments later, the tooth popped out as easily as an apple falling off a tree.
“It’s all over,” my lovely dentist soothed in dulcet tones , “just rinse and then you can go…”
I leapt to my feet and shot out, pausing only to mutter “’ank ‘oo!” and glance back disbelievingly at the sweaty outline I left behind on her pristine dentist’s chair. I suppose that’s one less tooth to worry about in the future, and to be honest, I’m glad it’s gone, rather like when the annoying neighbour whose car alarm goes off all the time at 4.00 a.m. moves away…
And I leave you with this cautionary tale from the poet Pam Ayres that my father found amusing… and I, quite frankly, find terrifying…
Fluorite and Amber… very useful for dentist trips…
My thanks must go to Gillian of Paper Puff for the idea for the name of what is becoming a regular ‘spot’ on my blog… if you pardon the pun!
Dark/Light
The black night of my soul is drawing in,
As thick as blood and bitter as sin.
Bones are aching, teeth are grinding,
Passion dead, hatred binding.
Lost am I: lost in the pit
How can I be when I do not fit?
Torn to pieces, shredded and bare
How can I live when I do not care?
Reaching out, I touch your fur,
Feel your paw, hear your purr.
How could I forget that you were there?
My little cat, full of love and care.
Misremembered fragments and half-forgotten phrases;
Fine, dark eyes and a sad-souled girl.
Who are you? Where do we belong?
Whose stories are these, whose lives am I seeing?
Roads of description and paths of light;
Worlds both real and imagined
And always there is you.
Half a step behind and sometimes in front;
Never quite sure if I’ve found you or not,
If our lives touch in this lifetime
Or not.
Sometimes with a film star gloss;
Othertimes just you, more real
And near.
But always love. Always.
Come, my friend,
And let us go,
If only for a while.
For I have tales to tell
And things to show
That may not make you smile.
Come with me a little way,
Just to see how humans play.
Loving and crying.
Fighting and dying.
See, see, see what you have done!
With blade and bomb,
Poison and gun.
Cities laid waste
Children dying.
The earth is crying.
Death wind sighing.
“I’m going home. I’ve had enough.
Why are you showing me all this stuff?”
“It’s dead, it’s gone.
There’s nobody there.
No one left, no one to care.”
“Come, my friend,
And stay with me.”
And Death, he smiled,
For it was he.
This poem was originally part of a set of five that I called ‘Cameron’s Quintet’, and is basically a reflection of the state of some of our streets. There is so much generated each year and the festive period usually sees an upsurge in this…
Please. Think twice before throwing something away… re-cycle… re-use… re-purpose… Donate…
Gangs of cans loiter in corners
Cheek by jowl with fast food wrappers
Sweet papers and pizza cartons jostle by the bins
Cushions of chewing gum trap the unwary.
Cigarette ends huddle in gutters,
Lost sheep looking for their shepherd,
Blotches of blood outside the chippy
Carpet the way forward.
Shattered shards of glass like
Dragon’s teeth glimmer
Mysteriously, beckoning to the
Lone plastic bag tumbleweeding by.
These random remnants
Signpost into the dark.
#CleanForTheQueen
I have a wonderful friend, Garfield Hug’s blog, and we’ve known each other since I first started on WordPress, back in March this year. Do go and pay her a visit, she’s very funny, informative and a lovely person.
Obviously… she likes Garfield, so this post is really a bit of fun for her. (Although I literally COULD NOT find Garfield…)
I have a friend who’s very dear,
Her blog is fun and full of cheer.
She lives far away in Singapore
And by Garfield she sets great store.
To cheer her up I thought I’d find
Lots of Garfields – have I gone blind?
I hunted high, I hunted low,
Far and wide for Garfield did I go…
“I’ve not seen Garfield here in years!”
I said and then burst into tears.
It had me tearing out my hair –
Couldn’t find Garfield ANYWHERE!
I promised Garfield Hug a Garfield treat,
Perhaps you’ll find a drawing sweet!
So. Here he is in all his glory
Complete with this – a little story.
