STRESS TEST

I thought I’d done with pandemic and aftermath poems – it seems I haven’t 

 

STRESS TEST 1

Before all this

This 2020 thing

Had you asked

I would have answered

Hand on heart

And honestly

Never lonely

Self-contained

Embrace my time alone

But this

Months of cleaning empty houses

And coming home

And walking dogs

And coming home

And closing doors

That glass

Fracture so fine

Invisible to the naked eye

Until

The ping of a nail on the rim

Non-object

Formless

Functionless

A pyramid of crystal on the draining board

 

STRESS TEST 2

Before all this

This 2020 thing

Had you asked

I would have answered

Hand on heart

And honestly

Never bored

Always busy

Little projects on the go

But this

Months of too much time

Too little money

And anyway

No place to go

That driverless car

Hits the impact bar

Crumple zones crumple as they should

And

A crash test dummy

Describes a perfect arc

Until it flops

Head down

Fucked

 

STRESS TEST 3

Before all this

This 2020 shit show

Had you asked

I would have answered

Hand on heart

And honestly

Enough friends or at least acquaintances

Familiar faces at every venue

Always someone to share

A coffee

A glass of wine or two

But this

Reading verse into the void

Convincing at all times

Otherwise it’s shouting poetry in an empty house to no-one

That steel bar

Takes kilogram after kilogram of weight

Until

One last gram
And broken

Of no more use.

 

 

 

key worker

 

My dog

It seems 

Has deemed himself a key worker

Responsible for 

Social distancing

Open brackets – Feline – Close brackets

Patrols the house all night

On tippy paws at windows

Barks 

2 metres….woof….2 metres

The cats are unimpressed

Stop

Stare

Respond with that well known 2 claw salute

And hiss

Same household motherfucker

Can’t bear to break it to him

That the clap on thursday nights

Is not for him

Or his sort

French bulldog

Just hope 

That he’s aware

Become beware

That when this ends

Someone may decide

He’s not needed anymore

Unless of course

He can grow 2 thumbs

Learn to pick the crops.

 

today has been a good day

Today has been a good day

A friend messages to let me know

He’s baking sourdough bread

And he would like nothing more

He says

Than to stand at my door

Cradling a loaf

Still oven warm

A loaf that we would tear apart with bare hands

Smear the hunks with that good Polish jam

Sit in the small sliver of my garden that gets the morning sun

Drink coffee out of mugs as big as bowls

And pretend that we’re in France 

Or somewhere else

But

Of course he can’t

So

Instead 

Sends a photograph

And in return

I unearth the cherry jam

Now lost behind a stack of tins

Take another picture

The promise

Of jam

Tomorrow.

Dog Day Afternoons

The Dogs

Delightful and delighted by these strange days

Loving every little scrap of lockdown

Finally convinced the human care-givers to chill

Relax

Embrace the rhythm of a dog day afternoon

Meals that last an hour or two

Naps because there’s not much else to do

And everyone’s excited now

By post

And Amazon

And Deliveroo

The dogs would like to remind you though

It’s their job to jump with joy at doors

Not yours

Potting on in a pandemic – draft & then version 2

Today I am potting on geraniums

No prize winning specimens these

Not liable to win awards for best in bloom

But shunted into corners of the supermarket

Final home for plants that didn’t make the grade

And left

To fade and die

Flower buds already fragmenting, failing, falling

Leaves bruised from just much too much touch

But

I have hope

And a tiny bag of compost saved for just such an emergency

Live

I breathe

Live

One glance up at unseasonable skies

Helps me decide it’s far too cold

So

Tonight

My kitchen is full of tiny pots

But

Tomorrow

They can take their chances

Go outside.

Corvid 19

 

“I’m worried about this Corvid virus “ she said

And for one split second I saw us all transformed

Ravens

Crows

And magpies

Strut along the pavements

Why fly when you can walk?

Eyes bright with smart

Quick to fix on shiny somethings

Fun Fact

Corvids display a love of beauty

A sense of the aesthetic

Hide their treasures carefully

And return to stare

 Perhaps enjoy

Each rook a curator of their own museum

 

survival strategies for surviving a solitary holiday season

1. get a dog – this will require forward planing – a dog is not just for Christmas
2. walk the dog- a dog will allow you to leave the house at least twice a day in peak holiday periods
3. if asked how the day is going ,answer carefully ” it’s nice to get some peace and quiet” – no lie but implied that your home is full of light and noise and company and not just four walls closing in
4. put up a tree, a tree and lights, no matter if tawdry, it’s all display, hiding your shameful solo state  from passers by
5. do not go on social media
6. do not go on social media
7. do not go on social media
8. count your blessing – no really count them – no mounds of debt, unwanted socks, hissed rows in kitchen’s over who forgot to get the gravy stock
9. put on some lipstick – red is best
10. if you must go on social media then use generic xmas images – robins, snow or suited santa
11. send up beat texts with gifs of dancing bears, be vague about the details of your day
12. pace yourself – two presents to open, take it slow, the same with wine – no-one likes a maudlin drunk
13. if you must post pictures of your actual day – cheat – use photos from others years when things were better – no-one checks or cares
14. a Christmas dinner of cheese or cake or whiskey from the bottle is fine and saves on washing up
15. do not complain about the chorus of late night karaoke from the house across the street
16. do encourage neighbours to dump their Christmas Day detritus into your half empty bin
17. consider small acts of kindness – even to yourself – especially to yourself
18. hug the dog ( see 1)  and go to sleep.

Tears

In my defence, I am struggling with another bout of chronic insomnia and am therefore experimenting, sadly unwillingly, with writing at very odd times of the day or when I am completely exhausted.
It has an odd effect on writing, I’m not convinced its really the way forward.

Tears…..

Her days have a new rhythm now
A recognise able tune, familiar, but with a new syncopation
Get in car…..familiar
Fingers fumble to find the measured tones of Radio 4…familiar
But the crying is new
And she has a new routine to manage this
Mirror
Signal
Manoeuvre
And then, head on steering wheel, salt tears mixing with that chemical
That spray the Kosovans on the corner squirt liberally over the dashboard when they swarm over the filthy car
That spray that makes old cars new

The tears are time limited
5 minutes and she is ready to go
Has become practised at emergency make up repairs
Stalled,stopped at the traffic lights, waiting to make that tricky right hand turn

But

The tears have become more frequent
No longer need the nudge of those other voices, other sounds
She carries them
Internal radio
Even in silence

She has become adept at dabbing, mopping
Crumpled tissue always at hand
Sometimes
She wakes at 3,4 am
And finds that her tears have begun before the day itself

Finally,
Tired
Embarrassed by her mute mourning
She takes herself to a doctor
He,
Shines lights, pokes and prods
Pronounces
She has blocked tear ducts
Her crying is a symptom, not of the world tearing itself apart, but her own physical malfunction

There is a pause

He

Scratches his nose

Rubs his own eyes

Says there seems to be a lot of blocked tear ducts

These days.

Strategies to Survive a Summer Storm

1. Make no mistake, this is a snow day, sans snow.
A day when all bets are off, routines abandoned, rythmn lost.
This is not a day for useful enterprise, cupboard mining, tax return or improving books.

2. Before it breaks, before the sturn and drang, stand and wait, wait at the window, on a balcony, in a garden.
Wait in air so leaden with promise, with threat.
Dragged down, earth bound, in bondage.
Wait
Smoke a cigarette and watch the smoke, hang in the heavy air.
Familiar tobacco scent cutting across a hint of metal, electricity in the air.

3. The first flash, first fork is a signal.
Gather together small children, pets and adults of a nervous disposition on a life raft of duvets on the largest double bed
It is permissible to collect extra pillows, soft toys and snacks of a comforting nature for this voyage.

4. Priority places should be allocated to those who can remember the techniques for calculating the exact distance of the storm from your roof top.
This calculation can contribute to the primary numeracy curriculum and therefore this storm day is technically a learning day.
Relax.

5. No food or drink consumed on a storm day has any calorie, fat or sugar content, but choose carefully, ensure that all snacks celebrate the spirit of summer storm.
Consider rum, hard bread, small fish.
If all else fails, consider crisps, conveniently packaged in water-proof bags.

6. Tell stories of storms gone past, remember to embellish.
The horse hit by lightening, its’ metal shoes quadraphonic conductors.
The man drowned when the stream became a river, became a torrent,became the sea.
Mr Noah
Mrs Wolf

7. Be kind to those who become fearful, they are right, the gods are angry.
Do not share the statistics of the likelihood of lightening strike.
It will not help.

8. Exile, exile immediately, anyone who, peering into the sky, suggests that
“It seems to be clearing up”
This is a day to catastrophise,
To watch the world wash away.
Street by street.

9. Eventually, you will have to succumb to the irresistible rythmn of the rain on the roof.
Open the door, deep breath,
give yourself up to the storm.
A shower of power.
Stand and wave a fist at Thor and all the gods whose names you have forgotten.
Or
if you are less heroic, more self conscious,
sing quietly to yourself
“I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain, what a glorious feeling” and as the words peter out, find a puddle to stamp in.

home

This weeks’ writing task for my school based writing group – 300 words on the topic of lost, deserted, dangerous or abandoned places.

“But it wasn’t like that”, I want to shout out, set them straight, but when I look around everyone, all these strangers, are silent, intent on the performers moving along the corridor, so i duck my head down, start fiddling with the buttons on my winter coat.

“You don’t want to go to that” said Norah, when it was our turn to make the lunch, ” Might raise a lot of, you know, stuff”.
I wanted to argue with her, explain, but the words were sticky that day, so i ran the zip up and down on my cardigan, taking comfort in the feeling of wool against metal.

Tony brought it up at the weekly meeting, mentioned the poster in the community centre, asked how we were feeling about it and i wanted to say, excited, looking forward to going back, but you have to be careful how you answer those kind of questions, so i said nothing, just rolled the loose threads in my pockets into tiny soft balls.

So, Saturday, my library day, I take my books, but I don’t turn right at the end of the road, i turn left and i walk up the hill, heading towards the miles of metal railings and the big gates and when i get there, there’s a woman, she’s dressed as a nurse, but i know she’s not one, I can tell, but she’s smiling, so i smile too and there’s a little crowd, so i tuck myself at the back and we walk up the gravel drive towards the front doors.

Mr Carmichael would be cross, the gardens are all over-grown, flower beds choked with weeds, he was proud of the flowers, always made sure that the vases were full, cheered up the day rooms, some of the men helped him, we would watch them, know who was having a good day. Sometimes, at the Saturday night dances one of the men would have a flower in his pocket, give it to the woman he was dancing with and she would hide it in her locker until all the petals had fallen off.

I head towards the side door, the womans’ entrance, but two more of these people appear, they’re dressed as doctors, but they’re not, too young, not busy enough and now i know we’re were heading, the tunnel.

The tunnel was famous, a mile of corridors, everyone used it. It was where you saw stuff, heard stuff, caught up with gossip, news. Sometimes people just walked it or on bad days stood still, shrank against walls until someone came and took you back, put the kettle on.

And now we’re standing in a little huddle and in front of us are these young people and some are wearing strait jackets and pajamas and some are dressed as doctors and they’re screaming and shouting and now I really want to tell them, but I bite my cheek, hard enough to draw blood and I half close my eyes and i’d like to rock , but that’s attention seeking behavior, so i don’t.

I’m drifting now, remembering……………

Saturday dances, men one side of the room, women the other, piano and then later, years later, a record player and sometimes wanting to dance and sometimes feeling the music pour through your hands and sometimes it all being too much and being taken back for quiet time and the kettle on.

The laundry, warm, steamy, the smell of soap and hard work and the jokes and the nice Irish nurse, the one who would share her cigarettes.

Fish and chips on Friday and jam roly poly with custard.

The men had a barber, but the ladies had the WRVS women, shampoo and set, the smell of warm hair and setting lotion.

Concert parties, everyone, well everyone judged good enough to be an audience, in neat rows, nurse on the last seat, the one nearest the aisle, a good sing along and a nervous comedian.

And days when the sky seemed too near and you needed to hide under the blankets and someone would save a slice of cake from tea and leave it, quietly, on the bed-side locker.

The young people are writing on the floor now and there’s an abandoned wheelchair placed carefully halfway down the tunnel, everyone in the small audience is focused, all attention on the performers.
i take a deep breath, rub my fingers along the fabric of my good winter coat and quietly slip away.

It’s time to go home, to the home, I walk out of the main doors for the second time in my life and my feet make a soft crunching noise on the gravel path and i wonder what’s for tea.