Literature – Page 4 – Middle Age Fanclub

Poetry Blog: ‘Routine’

It’s been a while since I wrote any poetry. Anything complete, that is. There are several pages of notes and drafts in various notebooks and on my phone, as it goes and I definitely need to find time to get some of them finished. I know that there are notes and stuff because I’ve just looked. Every so often when I look I find one that I remember little or nothing about, although they’re usually from some stage of my time at home recovering from heart surgery last year.

Today’s poem is one of them. On first view it looked more or less complete, but once I read it again I made a few changes and additions and came up with what’s below. It’s a poem about the frustration of the every day routine, when the every day routine is slow, dull and painful.

Routine

As the gulls cry above
they seem to mock you,
gliding as they do, freely,
uninterrupted across another slate grey sky
almost laughing at the state you're in.

Beneath there is no flight, no such freedom
as you struggle through the curtained drizzle,
checking your pulse, taking deep breath after deep breath,
careful to slow your steps 
and evermore conscious of how helpless you must look,
knowing that you will collapse like a man at the end of a month long expedition,
somewhat gasping and groaning at your discomfort,
but trying to hide your fatigue 
as you return indoors
where only the slow death march of daytime TV
and snacking await.
The beard, the boredom and the bitterness
that come with early onset uselessness slowly grow,
the ticking of every clock in the place 
the only soundtrack to both your thoughts and your days,
while you sit, restless, clueless about how this all came to pass.

I’ve no idea when this was written. It could have been any of several weeks where I just couldn’t see an end to the weakness and fatigue that I felt. What I do know is that I felt angry. Livid at the fact that while having a pacemaker fitted was undoubtedly essential for me, it came with no real warning. I never would have suspected that the palpitations and dizziness I’d been experiencing on and off for months would have needed anything more than tablets to be sorted out. Maybe that’s why I’m an English teacher and not a cardiologist!

While I’m still a little angry and frustrated, the days of freezing cold, lonely walks are long gone. And while I’m not as healthy as I’d like to be, I’m a lot better than whenever this was written.

I’m gradually coming to terms with the changes that surgery has brought about and slowly recovering, although I think it’s going to be a lot longer before I feel quite myself again. So the poem is reflective of the kind of bleak times that I rarely, if ever seem to have anymore, but it intrigued me when I found it.

Anyway, I hope it made for a decent, interesting read! Feel free to leave a comment.

Book Review: ‘The Wild Silence’ by Raynor Winn

For my entire life I’ve been guilty of falling for stuff because of the way it looks. Pebbles and shells on the beach or rivers we paddled in were frequently brought home because I thought they looked lovely and it felt like life would be enhanced by having them with me. When I was younger I worked in a scrap yard and would pocket coins and other interesting trinkets while sorting through random scrap metal. It felt like treasure at the tender age of 14. As I got older I bought records and books based on their covers.

‘The Wild Silence’ is one such item. It came into my possession because I loved the cover. The blurb made it sound quite interesting to me, but I couldn’t put it down because of the cover. It was from one of those trips to the budget book shop. My guard is always down here and I can spend far too long browsing the shelves and then far too much buying the treasure I’ve gathered.

‘The Wild Silence’ is a memoir that tells the tale of Ray (Raynor Winn) and Moth (her husband) who are fighting to keep their heads above water amidst health issues and homelessness. But this isn’t a story set on urban streets. Instead, Ray and Moth find themselves sheltering in a chapel in deepest Cornwall, having walked the South West Coastal Path while homeless, camping in remote spots nightly.

It’s an interesting juxtaposition; the desperation of their homelessness set against their existence surrounded by the raw beauty of nature. Human pain and bewilderment played out in a rugged yet idyllic setting.

Having lost their home and their livelihood – a Welsh farm – Ray and Moth had been left battling the elements as well as financial ruin. However, ‘The Wild Silence’ finds them somewhat settled in the chapel with at least some sort of future ahead of them. Moth is battling against a debilitating condition, but has began a degree course as he hopes to lecture in the near future. Meanwhile Ray is left in a home that’s not hers, worrying about whether Moth will even make it to his lectures, on edge until he checks in, while trying to avoid the people in the village where she lives.

The book is a tale of a vivid struggle with a quiet, yet quite lovely triumph at its end. Moth and Ray have only each other. In the end, their existence and love is a huge win for the human spirit.

Following on from the best selling memoir ‘The Salt Path’, ‘The Wild Silence’ shows us that there is always a glimmer of light in the darkness. It is beautifully written and I found myself easily picturing the various settings for the novel as well as rooting for Ray and Moth throughout. While ‘The Wild Silence’ can be quite a bleak read at times, it is ultimately uplifting. Ray finds a way to regain her confidence and faith in her fellow man, while Moth simply finds a way through strength and sheer bloody mindedness.

I’d thoroughly recommend ‘The Wild Silence’ although I’d tell you to read ‘The Salt Path’ first! I didn’t, but having heard of the first memoir, I kind of understood what was going on after a little while. Winn writes beautifully which means that we’re willing her and Moth to ‘win’ as we read. When they get their first break it’s a blessed relief and even though their struggles are far from over, we’re left with a sense of hope that is fulifilled by the end of the novel.

I give ‘The Wild Silence’

Poetry Blog: Wandering the park

This was a poem that I wrote the bones of on my phone while I was out and about. It was written during one of my daily walks when I was recovering from heart surgery at the beginning of the year.

It was at a time when I wasn’t as exhausted as I had been and so was able to take a bit more in. Previously, thoughts had been restricted to just getting home without running out of steam and my gaze would be either firmly fixed ahead or glancing at my watch. By this point I wasn’t so out of breath and just generally tired, so was able to have a bit of a look around as I walked.

The more I noticed, the more I found myself coming up with description that would turn into lines that could be used in a poem. So eventually I stopped and made some notes on my phone. Later I would sit with the notes open on my phone at the side of me and a notebook in front of me. The result was this poem.

Wandering the park

A thin carpet of frost covers the ground,
juxtaposed at the furthest point by a crisp blue sky,
giving the landscape a glamorous and temporary identity
and changing things for all who pass through.
Birds scamper about, pecking repeatedly yet in vain at the frozen ground,
while blackbirds, a thrush and wood pigeons compete for space.
Overhead, a magpie heckles from above, perched safely,
high up in a skeletal tree.
Leaves, scattered at the foot of trees are dusted at the edges
with pristine white and crunch underfoot as I wander from the path.
Elsewhere a squirrel joins the birds; not quite a friendly gathering,
but not quite enemies either,
each just happy to ignore the other,
joined together in the same cause.

A short one, this. I’m guessing it was too cold on this particular January morning to be stood about making notes! But, as ever in the park, there was a lot going on and it was nice to feel well enough to be able to tale the time to watch.

Most mornings during that time I’d take photos, mainly just to put on social media to remind people that I was still alive! While I was looking for the phone notes, I noticed the date of writing them, so went back to my photos to see if I’d taken any on that morning. Here are some of them.

I remember it struck me that while I was about the only person in the park at that time of day, the wildlife had come out in force. Too cold for the usual dog walkers to stand around while their pets sniffed anything and everything. Only me daft enough or desperate enough to sample the early morning light and freezing cold. But it was the kind of hour or so that I actually really enjoyed while I was recovering – just still and peaceful, giving me time to think things through and make a little more sense of what I was going through.

So, a shorter poem today, but for me personally, some reasonably positive memories from what was actually a pretty dark time. I hope you enjoyed the poem!

Book Review: ‘Mad Blood Stirring’ by Simon Mayo

‘Mad Blood Stirring’ was interesting to me for lots of reasons. First of all, as a high school English teacher and long time Shakespeare fan, I recognised the title…although not as quickly as I should have! It took me a little while for that particular penny to drop and it would be the first of many! But, the title is of course a part of a line from Act 3 of Romeo and Juliet and serves as an unheeded warning to Mercutio. It’s a warning that translates well in Mayo’s novel too.

Also of interest to me were the events of the time. The novel is set in 1815, just after the Anglo American war of 1812, which I simply wasn’t aware of. I just assumed everything was done with between the two countries following American Independence. So, the idea of thousands of American prisoners incarcerated on Dartmoor piqued my interest a bit, simply because it was a chunk of history that I had no knowledge of whatsoever.

Mayo, of course is better known for his career as a radio DJ, but he’s been writing novels for a while. I first discovered his writing years ago with his YA novel Itch, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I never did get round to buying the other two in the trilogy though and my next forray into his work was over a decade later with Mad Blood Stirring. It’s safe to say that I waited too long!

Mad Blood Stirring is a many layered story, but it revolves around the comings and goings over a few months in Dartmouth Prison in 1815. The inmates are all American prisoners of war, despite the fact that the war has long since ended. There is still no treaty for their release however and trouble is brewing. As with Romeo and Juliet, there are factions with a grudge and it’s not just between the Americans and the British guards. Ill feeling and prejudice is rife within the prison population and trouble is never too far away.

Mayo has taken the facts of this time and woven together a brilliant narrative, focusing on the lives of two inmates in particular; Habs and Joe, who develop an unlikely friendship and eventually embark upon a perhaps even more unlikely romance. Habs is one of the black inmates, forced into a block of their own by white inmates and their prejudice, while Joe is white and new to Dartmouth and its strange set of rules.

But tension is simmering across all 7 blocks of Dartmouth prison, meaning that the ‘cast’ of the novel grows and grows. The men have been away from home for far too long, conditions inside the jail are abysmal and although talk suggests that peace is close, their freedom still seems a long way off. In actual fact, America has all but abandoned them. Elsewhere, Elizabeth, the Governor’s wife is in love with the prison doctor and the whole of Block 4 are on edge and exhausted after deciding to put on their latest production – Romeo and Juliet – for the other inmates. With the threat of violence around every corner and the whiff of potential freedom occasionally drifting through the air, there’s something happening to keep us on edge all over Dartmouth prison.

And so we have a tale where despite violence and death never being far away, love, comradeship and a yearning for culture somehow manage to blossom in among the choking poison of incarceration, racism and hatred.

Mayo has written an excellent novel, with many strands to the narrative. There is a great deal truth here too, but Mayo manages to somewhat brighten up the darkness of Dartmouth prison with his characters and their dynamics. The violence here is stark – and I guess that’s to be expected – but while the tension and treachery will keep you on edge throughout, characters like Habs, Joe and King Dick (yes, that’s really his name and he’s someone who I imagined as a cross between Brian Blessed and King Ezekiel from The Walking Dead) help to alleviate that ‘edge of your seat’ feeling just enough to make it an enjoyable read. There is interest beyond the obvious hellishness of thousands of men in a remote jail.

A slight criticism might be that there are just too many characters to keep up with at times, but then I guess with over 1000 men in just one block, we were always going to come across quite a large cast. I did sometimes struggle to keep sight of Habs and Joe though, as I read about another twist in the tale or another group of dangerous inmates.

Overall though, this is a cracking read and if you’re a fan of historical fiction you’re sure to enjoy ‘Mad Blood Stirring’. Even if – like me – the genre is not your usual thing, it’s still an enlightening tale and the fates of the characters are sure to keep you hooked. A gripping read packed full of grit and violence, but with a twist of romance and hope.

I give ‘Mad Blood Stirring’

Poetry Blog: Horizons

Readers, I’m at a difficult stage in my life. Lots of things have come together to unsettle me somewhat over the last year or so. This is a poem that is closely linked to the questions that have arisen and the feeling of not really knowing what to do.

Firstly, there’s my age. I turned 50 last year, leading to the kind of existential questions you might expect; what have I done with my life, could I have been a lot better at life if I’d tried harder and no, seriously, what have I done with my life? That kind of thing.

Turning 50 also (sort of) focuses your mind on the amount of time you might have left, which wasn’t exactly helped by heart trouble at the back end of last year. Let me tell you, if anything is going to channel your thoughts about mortality, it’s lying in a hospital bed wondering if you might die!

The heart episode also made me look ahead in a more positive way; considering ambitions and achievements and also changes to my lifestyle. In short, it made me focus on retirement and what I need to do to get there a little earlier than I might have been planning.

Horizons

Horizons,
staring back, unflinching,
dead eyed and offering no answers,
intent, impassive
yet begging us to continue with our gaze,
fizzing with promise,
aching with hope,
pulsing with the mystery of what could be
a cliff to drop blindly over,
a plain to explore,
a yellow brick road to dance down
or just a maze to get lost in.
Still, time after time we head in their direction
with no plan in place
and no answers guaranteed,
because this may well be all we have.

I wanted to convey the sense of moving forward and its inevitability, while also stressing that fact that I don’t really know what moving forward looks like at the moment. Hence, conflicting ideas about exploring and getting lost. I don’t think I’m too old to explore or take my life in a different direction, but I’m not sure how to do it. So, while there are decisions to be made and temptations ahead, I really don’t know if they’d make me any happier or comfortable than I am now. So, in essence, my mind is focused on moving forward, but in a way I don’t exactly know how to. I presume we all feel like that now and again though.

I liked the idea of a horizon and the fact that we don’t know what’s just past it. So, we can move forward, but can never quite be sure what’s next. I mean, when I went into hospital I was expecting medication and maybe an overnight stay. I kind of knew I’d get fixed, but I wasn’t ready to be told I needed a pacemaker. Nor was I prepared to feel ill for so long or be away from work for months. But, during all of that time, I moved forward, I guess.

So horizons are exciting in a way, while also holding the potential to be absolutely terrifying. If you think of the horizon at sea, then we know that over the horizon there’s more sea, but not exactly what that might hold for us. It could be a good or a bad thing. I think that’s what I’m trying to say in the poem anyway! As ever, I hope that you liked it.

Poetry Blog: ‘Adjustments’.

When I got ill at the back end of last year, it’s safe to say that it came as a bit of a shock. I should have known really, as I’d been having problems with my heart for around six months. I just didn’t really let anyone know, preferring to keep things to myself in the hope that it would just pass. It’ll come as no surprise to learn that I have no medical qualifications whatsoever…

After having my pacemaker fitted, life changed. I didn’t really realise just how poorly I was. To me, this was just a setback and while I was in hospital where the biggest ask of the day was to avoid the attention of the bloke in the opposite bed, I felt okay.

It was the recovery that would cause me problems. I was constantly tired, unable to do lots of previously routine things and ended up being signed off from work for 4 months.

The poem is about the changes that I felt happening at the time.

Adjustments

The white beard is the most noticeable thing,
and it's salt and pepper by the way, if we're trying to be kind,
but when one side of you doesn't really work
one's vanity is forced to take a back seat.
The worried looks and constant stream of questions
come from both sides; yours because you see what I don't,
mine because I feel what you cannot.
The daily walk in the early morning frost and biting cold
is new; pleasant and frustrating all at the same time,
a conundrum that's vital if I'm to get any better.
The layers help because everything and everywhere is cold 
and channeling my inner Inuit is the only way I know of fighting back
and easily the best way of hiding too.
The fractured sleep and vivid dreams are an irritant, 
but one that I have lots of time to deal with all of a sudden.
The lethargy just isn't me.
not usually,
but then, there's nothing of the usual about this present normality.
Similarly, the new sleep positions are restrictive, 
but then again the lack of choice might just set me free.
Or keep me awake.
As for the guilt and the fear, well there's no positive spin
to be found here; a work in progress is what it is I guess and I have it on the authority of those in cardiology that these things will eventually pass.
Life will move on in time and a new version of me can finally emerge, 
whenever that may be.
For now, I have to make adjustments.

The title was the first that came to me in the writing of this poem, which is unusual as I usually struggle for a title. I was thinking about the way things had changed for me while I was ill. I wasn’t working, my routine was different and even my appearance had changed. Thinking about it all was an unavoidable yet dangerous thing to do though as it never failed to make me feel down. At times not only did it feel like everything had changed, but also that it would never go back to normal.

In short, I came upon the idea of these somewhat traumatic changes being more like adjustments. I was still me…just adjusted in quite a few ways. It didn’t matter if I could shave or wash properly. It didn’t matter that for a while even 10 or 15 minutes of walking left me exhausted and it didn’t matter that I felt frightened or guilty; I had to tell myself that it would pass. And as frustrating as it was that it took so long to feel even vaguely normal, what mattered had to be that one day I’d feel like myself again, even if I’d had to make a few adjustments along the way.

I hope you enjoyed the poem and that anyone who reads regularly isn’t getting bored of me telling them I was poorly once!

P.S. In case you’re wondering, the picture is of an Inuit, as referenced in the poem. It was how I felt out walking in winter in the big coat, hat, gloves, scarf and several layers that were needed to make me feel like I might make it home from a walk and not be half human, half block of ice!

Poetry Blog: ‘A Familiar Face’

This is another poem about being poorly. I’m conscious that I’ve written quite a few poems and articles around this theme since the run of the year, but I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me for getting a little bit obsessed with the failure of my heart.

Luckily, people are always very complimentary about these poems and I’ve received some incredibly supportive messages as I’ve been recovering, which has been a real help. I keep finding these poems tucked away in notebooks on scrap paper and figure that I might as well put them out as a blog. I’ve said this before, but if I don’t they’re just words on a bit of paper that no one other than me will read. Well, what would be the point of a blog in that case?

A Familiar Face

Amazing how, after all this trouble and time,
the answer could be hiding in plain sight.
The thing you feared the most, yet least expected,
the solution to the mystery you'd never have suspected
has come back to haunt you, bring chaos where there was relative calm.

For some time now, you've sensed its approach,
felt the uncomfortable sensation of its hot breath on your neck.
The thing you wouldn't name, but still recognised,
the terror that you lived with, but couldn't look in the eyes
lands a blow to leave you weak at the knees
and grabbing at thin air for balance.

So now, a new danger from a familiar face,
as you fight against yourself, your own failing,
knowing that whatever you do, whatever changes you make
may not be enough
and while all around you wish you well,
offer love, support, concern,
you have never felt so helpless, so frightened, so alone.

There were question marks, asterisks, scribbles and arrows all over this poem when I found it, which suggests that it was another one written in the early hours. The scribbles tell me that it might have been one I wrote after first deciding to go back to bed, but then sitting back down aware that there was another idea or another line still stuck in my head. I’d have been more sleepy than I realised, hence the mistakes and scribbles.

It’s another poem about being ill. This one focuses on the frustration I felt at the fact that my heart worries had come back to trouble me and the fear I had about just how bad I felt post operation.

When I first got poorly having had an episode of palpitations and dizziness in May of last year, I remember explaining to my wife that it frightened me and that I was determined not to end up back in hospital. A month later I was in hospital having tests on my heart. And then, just the other day I read a Facebook memory about a run I’d done in training for the last 10k race that I ran. It was early October of last year and I’d just done my last training run of about 12k and commented that I’d do anything at all to avoid anymore trips to the cardiologist. Sadly, less than a month on, I’d not only collapsed, but had been admitted to hospital to be told the next day that I’d have to have my pacemaker fitted. Life comes at you fast, as they say!

Fingers firmly crossed, but I feel better than I’ve felt in a while, despite a small setback about a month ago. Here’s to less heart-related poetry!

Poetry Blog: ‘You can’t unring a bell…’

A poem with a message, this one. It’s about not giving up and for me personally, it’s about the health problems I’ve had and the importance to me of not giving in to them. It’s about getting better. If it means something to anyone else or helps in any way, then that’s a rather lovely bonus.

I know that everyone has their problems, their bumps in the road and that some people have it far worse than others; far worse than me. But I’m a big believer in working my way back into the right frame of mind or the right headspace. So this is a poem about the fact that we can’t change a lot of what happens to us. It happened. It will leave a mark. But for me personally, I think it’s important to keep moving. For me, I need to recover and there’s been a lot of telling myself that lately.

You can't unring a bell.
its sound resonates across rooms, miles, borders
and the act that made the sound cannot be changed.
Eventually, the noise will stop, but the memory will always remain.
You can't illuminate the darkness with a permanence
that will mean you never have to stumble down a path again.
What's done is done now though.
Sometimes it will feel like one beating too many,
the volume of the punches thrown
is sure to leave bruises
and you'll feel like you can't get up.
Haul yourself to your knees,
grab someone or something for support,
clear your head and try, as best you can,
to get back up on your feet.
Let your eyes adjust to the darkness.
Let you body stop aching.
Breathe and then feel your way back, however slowly, into the light.

The poem started with just the first line. I heard it somewhere – I don’t remember where – and I really liked it. I didn’t really know what it meant, apart from its literal meaning. So, I wrote it down on a scrap of paper to come back to. When I got back to it, the poem just flowed around the idea of moving on from whatever it is that happens. You can’t unring a bell, but it will getting quieter.

I understand that it’s never just as simple as that and that’s what I was referring to with the metaphor of the bell. Once it’s rung, it’s rung. Once it’s stopped making the noise we will still hear it, still remember what it sounds like. We’ll suffer with the things that happen to us and we perhaps won’t forget them. But it’s hugely important to try and move on.

I hope you liked the poem. It’s a short one, but I hope it means something to more than just me.

Poetry Blog: ‘Reach’.

A couple of weeks ago I posted a poetry blog and a bit of an angry rant of a poem called ‘Simple as that’. That one was a poem about the troubles I’ve had with my heart in the last few months. Well, apologies because I’m writing about the same thing again. I suppose this is inevitable as my health dominates every day at the moment, but I’m sorry if this seems like I’m raking over old ground. You can take it from me though, there’s a lot to talk about on this subject!

This poem is, in a way, the partner poem to ‘Simple as that.’ Where that one was pretty much furious in tone, this one could maybe be viewed as me feeling just sick and tired of it all. It’s one written when I wasn’t sleeping so well, so probably written around 2am one Winter morning and I would have felt like just giving up.

Anyway, have a read.

Reach

You're not quite in any kind of hell, 
and while you're very definitely moving forward
it's sometimes hard to tell,
like trying out the treadmill in diver's boots,
a head full of questions, but no answers
and of other people's made up thoughts and opinions
as the paranoia kicks in and leaves its mark
alongside all of the other scarring.
Suddenly mortality is on the agenda
and you sleepwalk your way through hours, days,
contemplating just how long you might have left.
Every stretch, every reach, every twist is some kind of pain,
the opportunity to hold someone who matter has gone,
replaced by something tentative, mechanical.
Some days are more positive, so you lose yourself in song,
contemplate enjoying things again
and force yourself not to think that you're just glad to be alive,
because that particular platitude feels like nothing more than consolation.
Every piece of good news and every milestone is blighted by doubt.
One day things will be normal again,
your smile not forced, the back of your mind not crowded with clouds.
For now, moving on is just out of reach.

At the time of writing this poem it just felt like I was never getting better. Yes, I’d be able to do a little bit more every day, walk a little further, maybe even do some dishes, but I found it very frustrating. I’d gone from being very fit and capable – for my age – to being very slow and poorly and old! I really didn’t enjoy this at all!

I’d been told not to raise my left arm above my head for at least a week, for fear of dislodging my pacemaker wires, and that this was a process that would be difficult and uncomfortable for 6-8 weeks. Six to eight weeks of having pain when you lift an arm up! It meant that shaving, washing, washing my hair etc were difficult to say the least and I needed help getting in and out of my clothes. I mention mortality in the poem; not because I thought I might be nearing my end though. It was just that I used to be out on my daily walk, knowing that when I got home the day would be more or less at its end as I wouldn’t be able to do a lot more. It felt like I was wasting time and I began to think about that in terms of having already probably lived half of my life. It was just about what I’d be able to fit into what was left, I suppose.

Things have got better. I’m nowhere near where I want to be but know that it’s going to about steady progress with the odd stumbling block. I hope you liked the poem.

Poetry Blog: ‘Simple as that’

When I was ill – think death’s door to ramp up the drama, dear reader – I had numerous sleepless nights and chunks of these solitary hours were taken up by writing poems. Although I talked a lot about what was going on with my weakling heart, there was still a lot left unsaid. You can’t burden people with everything that’s going on in your head, can you?

As I began to get better and slept more, I sort of forgot about these poems. Some were repeatedly drafted, others clearly unfinished; snapshots of how I was feeling. Some were in a notebook, while others were scribbled down onto random bits of paper retrieved from our ‘drawing cupboard’ which still somehow exists, despite both kids being way beyond sitting at the table drawing. All were collected up and thrown together with the vow that I’d revisit them when the time was right. I took a picture of this one complete with scribbling, arrows, asterisks and late night handwriting. Quite a bit to decipher some months later!

This poem is a bit of a rant, to say the least and the more I read it back, the more I’m convinced I was channeling my inner John Cooper Clarke, yet without his gift for words.

'Simple as that.'

This heart of yours is having a laugh; it's as simple as that.
The sole aim of the holiday was just to relax
but your body wouldn't even allow that 
and instead you collapse at the airport, then
practically pass out on a promenade bench in the heat,
before having to call for help weeks later, 
when giving out paper became a bit too much for your health.
False hope in the hospital once again ended
when they then decided that your heart is need of being mended
and you're treated to an operation surely designed for pensioners
that you cannot help but keep on mentioning as
you're put on a ward with people 30 years older than you
and a crazed Slovakian, who laughs in his sleep and howls at the moon.
Consolation is thin on the ground, unlike the tea 
and the biscuits that shouldn't really be allowed,
you another have scar that is ugly and crap and in truth
your chest is beginning to resemble and Ordinance Survey Map.
Back home you discover a penchant for pyjamas that was never there before
style, much like your dignity has now been slung across the floor
and any remaining semblance of cool has been traded in,
there's no doubt about that, without so much as a crossed word,
let alone a fight and now, my friend, you look like a twat.
On top of this, you cannot leave the house without a hat
to keep you warm, cannot get to sleep until it's almost dawn,
cannot wash properly, cannot tie your own fucking laces, 
cannot walk down the street with anything other than shuffling paces,
you cannot run, you cannot dress yourself, cannot rant, cannot rave
and now you look like a tramp because you cannot shave
meaning that, as December looms with its festive banter,
your surprisingly white beard has you turning into Santa
and as life is forced down this prematurely ageing path,
this heart of your is having a fucking laugh.

So clearly I was a bit on the angry side then! And it’s easy to look back now and smile about it all, but believe me it was a horrible time in my life. Around 4 months of being stuck either in hospital or at home, feeling a bit sorry for myself, fending off peoples’ best wishes and enquiries and bein unable to do very much at all. And even before that, we were unable to enjoy a holiday because I collapsed in the airport. I suppose it’s all there in the poem! Apologies for the swearing if that’s offensive, by the way. Just words to me and words that had to be in there in order to capture my feelings, but I know some people don’t like that kind of thing.

I rarely bother with rhyme but in this poem I’ve made a conscious effort to use it. I was determined though that it wouldn’t be a simple rhyming poem. Instead, I opted for mixing up the rhyme so that while for large parts of the poem it’s quite traditional, occasionally I threw in a bit of internal rhyme just to mess with the structure. I wanted to do this just to try and reflect the disorder in my life at the time. I mean, for quite a while I never knew when I was going to simply fall asleep – often in the middle of a conversation – so it was hard to enjoy an ordered, planned day!

I wanted to present the poem as a bit of a rant and so there aren’t many end stops in there. Believe me though, when you’re sat on your own, wide awake at 3am, you can become prone to a bit of a rant, even if they have to be quiet ones!

As ever then, I hope you enjoyed the poem. Feel free to let me know what you thought!