Spring

A small poem on not wanting to engage in the expansive nature of spring, wishing to remain in hibernation rather than face the onslaught of feelings and emotions that spring ushers forth..

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I Do Not Accept Drinks From Disapproving Men (A Hymn)

You got me when I was not looking, charged along the track without a warning

With unintended force you crashed into my calm

Pushed me to the very edge, I know you meant no harm

And I trust your well-meaning, your kindness-filled desire

To oil the machinations of us, to lift us ever higher

To clarify and reinstate our stations, yet I fell at every word you mentioned.

His words hit like a bowling ball - a strike for him, nothing for me at all

Knocked down with a clean fast sweep, tangled mess, feelings in a heap.

Winded, empty, helpless, confused, his meagre message left me bruised

Faux kindness ripped my soul to shreds, insides exposed, aching, raw and red

And no-one wants to see that - who wants to see that?

The entrails of despair and pain, pieces of gut chewed over and again

Till only sad acrid bile remains, semi-liquid, half-baked frame

Unfulfilled body collapses in again, spark kicked out; fuse blown again.

The force of each blow radiates through brittle bone

Teased, torn and tingled, every sinew, muscle, tendon

Tender parts provoked to rage, tissue flutters in wild daze

With saddened shudder veins vibrate, each artery impaled with desperate ache

Sorrowful shivers sent to every atom, naked cells quake suspiciously

This deadly sense of poisoned void trips me, tips me, closer to insanity. 

You disapprove because you feel that I have taken your love for granted

But this is not true, I value you and the trust we both have planted.

He disapproves because, well, I don’t know, but the disapproval itself is clear

Amidst these howling winds it’s bitter taste is all I hear.

Your words made me feel I was a failure; his words make me feel I’m a fool

Either way I am undone and on this unworthy cold spring night

I know that loneliness has won.

All signs of renewal have been suppressed like the hyacinth, forget-me-nots and starflower

She picked from the garden to comfort me with stems cut too short for water

Slow sacrifice to the drowning maid, instead, with attentive care we laid

White here, yellow, blue and purple there, petals pressed firm on to the page

Faces peer up as pages come down - crushed the life out of their colourful ways

Pushed and pressed to preserve past beauty, to keep them safe, these sorry souvenirs

Of what once was. Forget me not, but I know you will. And he will too I fear

(and would it have been worth it after all?)

Beneath love’s dark waves I am slipping, slipping, falling, drowning gasp of ocean air

Fills tired lungs, ache from crying, soothed by grave waters, suffocating

With death’s silent scream narrating.

All this love and no hope of salvation; all this love and no air to breathe

Not in these slow murky whirling depths, slowly strangled by malicious weeds.

All this love and no arms to cling to; all this love and no lips to kiss

No fingers to caress each moment, soothe with undulating bliss.

No heart to accept love and reciprocate feelings, to embrace and hold and welcome it home

Drowning with all these other lovers in all this love, yet I am here, alone.

We’re all alone with our unique obsessions, each lonely soul in its private passion

All this love and not a drop to drink; all this love our poor hearts to sink.

I want to scream ‘fuck off!’ at you, to push you away, away, away

Because the distance I already feel is more than I can bear today.

I want you gone because I need you here and I cannot have it my way

To have you here, it is forbidden, and what would our neighbours say?

I need to delete your omnipresence, unsubscribe from your daily views

Unfollow your voice on my video feed, block every last trace of you

Because you can do nothing for me now.. (it’s just me and the pain, again)..

His voice shakes. Is he laughing or crying? I can no longer tell, perhaps I never could

Perhaps all I knew were guesses at best - mere approximations of hopefulness

My heart harboured for him, from him, to you, to him, of you, of him

For you, from you and him, and you..

Can I only live this life if I erase him? How can I possibly live without you?

There is air on the surface, that much I know.

But for now, on this loneliest of nights

I will sink to the bottom and forget how to breathe.

The Room, Part 1

I felt haunted by the maddening fever of Charlotte Gilman’s Yellow Wallpaper from the moment I was handed the paperback book in sixth form English class. I can still remember the dusky faded lemon cover that seemed to emit dust and sorrow from every papery pore. The smell of sadness, hopeless entrapment, filled my school-girl nostrils and nothing ever felt or smelt quite the same after that moment. Perhaps, not so deep down, a part of me knew that one day I’d find myself in a room of my own – not expansive and freeing like the space advocated for so earnestly by Virginia Woolf, but restrictive and binding, as slowly suffocating as Gilman’s lonesome character’s room.

I am not trapped here by any supercilious, arrogant, self-righteous, ignorant or fearful man, or indeed by a patriarchal society that wishes me to remain silent and insignificant as all good women should do. Patriarchal suppression may be highly analogous of my situation, but it is not that, at least not directly that, which keeps me here.

On the screen-that-is-often-nearby, I watch Ben Whishaw play Ben Coulter, the unfortunate boy incarcerated for a crime he did not commit, or at least, we and he are fairly certain he did not do the murderous deed, but perhaps he simply cannot or will not remember what actually took place.

I find myself in similar situ, imprisoned for some deed or thought that I do not recall, and am most probably quite innocent of, and would remain so if it were not for the infernal, distinctly chiding voice that crows louder with each new dawn.

‘It’s all your fault

You are to blame

So, suck up your punishment

Accept your shame’

If there is always a cause for each effect as the tech-heads in Alex Garland’s DEVS proclaim, then perhaps somewhere along the pitiful line of my younger life something I did or failed to do, something I said or did not say, even perhaps a thought that entered my mind may have led to this particular set of circumstances. Perhaps a series of actions and inaction, or conversations had and silences kept, or thought processes that did or didn’t take place, allowed a portal between two (or more) multiverses to open up and one feed into another enabling this sorry state to begin to manifest itself, slowly but surely, painfully creating this extraordinary mess I find myself in.

Perhaps it was always meant to be this way, was decreed by the gods, ordained by the stars that I would one day find myself here. Perhaps it was always going to be thus, regardless of anything I said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do. Perhaps my wilful, desperate, pleading, bleeding thoughts had nothing to do with it – with this chaos. Perhaps I have no control whatsoever over this reality. 

The idea of a kind of fate or destiny offers a morsel of relief and acceptance at times of depletion. Mostly, however, I find it difficult to accept this as a valid, pre-ordained fate – a particular set of circumstances chosen by the universe or multiverse or by a divine being or even by my own pre-human-self to live through. And endure. If it didn’t kill me first.

I’ve always loathed the story of Job – his endless suffering on top of suffering seems so futile and wasteful. What is or was the point of all that pain? The physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual breaking of a human life? To what end? And for what purpose?

I feel the weight of sorrows – not all my own, lying heavily upon these bony shoulders. A weight far heavier than one human, one woman ought to bear. But we do, don’t we? Women have bourne the world’s weight on our shoulders, heads, and broken backs for time immemorial just as surely as we have born the next generation and the next and the next within our cruelly despised, scorned, and suppressed bodies.

Is it any wonder I found myself on the 5 mile trudge to school at the tumultuous and torturous age of 15 or 16, crawling along the pavement, dragging grazed knees after each all consuming push forward of an elbow, first one, then the other and hope that the legs will follow along behind..

I recall reading with shock and fascination about Clara from the Heidi stories who cried so much her tears eventually dried up. Or was it Helen Keller? I’m not sure now. But I do remember the tears. The flooded years of almost constant crying. Wretched, unbidden flows. Sorrow's salty sting covering my face, falling into my lap, saturating sleeves, exercise books, pillows and endless nights. The acres and acres of heart-breaking grief. The pull and pull of gut-wrenching emotions – confused, liberally churned out, more liberally stuffed and packed deeply inside – layer upon layer of sadnesses forming an unpalatable sky-high dessert of melancholy or an impossibly tall pile of mattresses all trying unsuccessfully to protect me from the pain of that one solitary, bright-green pea. The lentil sprouting in the darkness, taking root and multiplying itself like bacterium, sending spores out through the sleeping strata. As quickly as I discovered or imagined a new layer of duplicitousness to protect me from my self, the pea spores would pick their way through each make-believe layer, each over-thought barrier designed to cushion the blow but failing badly every time, consequently trapping me with their wily wicked ways. I was stuck, like Sandra Bullock, in the web. A matrix of numbers, indecipherable digits and figures closing in on my wild nature, suppressing any semblance of free-will, tearing down any illusions of freedom and choice.

Was it always this way? Have I always been nothing more than a single digit in an endless equation? A piece of code that I will never be able to fathom? I cannot believe that, not wholeheartedly anyway. And yet, here I am. A single being, maybe only a half-being, flashing away in analogue mode, thinking that I must be making a difference, effecting some form of positive change, when all the while, the truth is that I mean nothing more than a single grain of desert sand, one miniscule drop in an ocean more vast than I could ever imagine…

Edge Of The World

I sit at the edge of the world

waiting for the end

will it come fast or slow?

if she's here, will she know

what to do if I drop

and won't wake up?

I sit at the edge

wait for the end (of the world)

this bed provides comfort

but it's not my friend.

outside grows greyer

I screen it away

blindness protects

from the harshness of day..

I sit at the edge of the world

wait for the end

will I choke on the blood

or the vomit or bile?

will it be instantaneous

or go on for a while?

will it hurt or feel dreamy?

will my last cries be heard?

I sit at the edge

wait for the end of the word

I had it here somewhere

the perfect reprise

a shimmering spirit

who giddies the skies..

I sit at the end

and wait for the courage (to take me..)

I suppose I ought to add a little something about this pieces's provenance just in case anyone is concerned: 

Dealing with chronic pain and more than one defined ongoing illness can often, for me at least, bring up a sense of something that could be insensitively described as a vivid dose of hypochondria or, more sympathetically, as an acute awareness of death's ever reaching fingers drawing close - making it's presence felt through an increased intensity of usual symptoms with additional new strains of discomfort - a seemingly random pulsing vein here, an occasional eye twitch there and/or some unusual stomach spasms for example. Perhaps at night there is also a feverish heat emanating from the neck rising to the lower skull..

All these happenings can easily conspire to make one think about the inevitability of leaving this life and act as a reminder that the departure board can change it's details of time, destination, even mode of transport, any time it pleases. There are no guarantees and (as was made abundantly clear in the small print) any deposits made are unlikely to be refunded.

Whilst it is seldom enjoyable to ponder these things for any extended period of time, I feel sure that acknowledging the existence and inevitability of death is a healthier way to live than denial and pretence.. Perhaps.. 

Maybe this is all subjective. Besides, my intention was to explain that Edge Of The World is a poem that comes from this kind of pondering rather than any desire to deliberately accelerate the process or indeed charter one's own private train to Elsewhere. I hear cancellations and delays are forecast anyway..

Until next time, may your days be filled with love & kindnesses :) xx

And To Make An End...

...For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning...
T.S. Eliot

For those of us who tend to over-think almost everything, have an inbuilt obsession with attaining an unattainable perfection, and seem hell-bent on criticising every aspect of our tortured selves on a regular basis, the end of a year can feel like an impossibly difficult time. 

The expectation that everything will and should change for the better, is difficult to avoid. The predilection for ruminating on the past year's 'failures' and less than successful projects and relationships is rife and often overwhelming. As Charlotte Carpenter so succinctly puts it in her beautiful song Another Year - "...this trip around the sun, it ain't easy..."



I watch myself going through all these fears, disappointments and anxieties year after year and only seem to add to the chaotic mix of chemical imbalances by attempting to stop feeling the feelings that cause such pain but ultimately cannot be undone by undoing.

Having, by no small miracle, begun to put into practice the probably life-long lesson of allowing feelings - whether they feel helpful or less so - to flow through unhindered throughout this past year, I imagined that this year end would be less painful than the previous. Yet despite putting mental, emotional and situational safety barriers in place, I've found the crossover from 2019 to 2020 just as exhausting and full of disappointment with myself, one or two unfortunate others and with life itself.

Putting the past behind us as Eliot suggests in the wonderful quote above (and elsewhere in his Four Quartets piece), is no easy task and takes huge amounts of courage and trust in the eternal process of change. 

The idea of calling an end to one way of being and thereby allowing a new way to come forth, however, is very appealing and resonates loudly in my soul. Thus, I have allowed myself the miserable luxury of spending the day (and much of the previous night) immersed in all the sadness that came skulking out of the new year woodwork, ruminating over unhelpful thoughts and disappointments whilst simultaneously attempting to employ the art of observing feelings without too much judgement. 

It's been a long day but I feel ready to make an end and let the beginning roll in. I hope you do too.. x


P.S. The following extract from Burnt Norton, Part 1 of Eliot's Four Quartets (perhaps not intentionally) sums up the feelings of fear and anxiety that, perhaps necessarily, hang over this time of year poignantly. I also like how it (definitely unintentionally) evokes the Twittersphere quite beautifully.

...Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world...

Entanglement Theory

Long, long, long ago,
Beyond the scope of time,
Your shiny, spinning rock star
Collided into mine.
Left a meteoric scar
Across my cosmic heart –
A crater lying aeons deep
A lifetime’s width apart.

Far, far, far away.
Bonds that can’t be severed,
Bound my lonely heart to yours
Our orbits changed forever.
In a cold, dark, empty space
Our bodies out of time,
Knew we’d be together, love
Further down the line.

If the numbers all add up
And the cosmic maths is right,
The physics that is drawing us
Won’t give up the fight.
A million miles of galaxy
Can’t keep us apart –
We bleed the same blue star dust;
Same plasma in our hearts.

A promise made so long ago
Sends us spinning through the skies
In opposite directions –
You turn left and I spin right.
Yet we are still together,
Connections running deep -
The stories and the songs we share
Will bring you back to me.

Nothing can tear our hearts apart
Without forcing a hole
In the holy matter of time and space,
In the fabric of our souls.
And so our planets circle
Around the same bright star
In spirals of galactic love
That keep us near and far.

Interstellar longing,
A message from above:
Find your inner compass -
A universal Love.

The Papered Cracks

What is this pounding in my chest?
This hollowed out container, emptied
scoop by scoop; no vanilla tones here

only bitter spices, aniseed rising,
cinnamon smothering the airways,
coating sugar with lime.

Plates and bowls crashing heavily,
cupboard doors slammed shut too tight -
tightness in my chest implodes as

kitchen noise reverberates through the skull,
landmines collapse the heart’s will to live -
undermined, undernourished, underfed.

A repetition of epic proportions -
no portion too large to share.
Colour drains from all our faces.

Time stood still whilst pain kept falling,
washing away all sense of truth
leaving nothing but fear, catastrophised

upon the table, wooden boards laid
plank to plate - a guest house where
no-one wants to stay. Alone

in corners facing inwards, the child,
unhappy seeks redemption from the walls.
The papered cracks scream for attention

and a kindness that seems so obscure,
so impossible to reach, but I can see
it disappearing around each bend

and I follow, hopeful, scared but hope
will always be my friend even when
I can no longer feel his bones, fragile

pieces of him and me and him and them
ground down by the pressure cooker
releasing steam in erratic rhythms,

puffing and screeching her requirements,
her disappointments and regrets. Still
heaping overcooked piles of veg, steaming

hot as fire to burn your tongue -
stop the words from forming, throwing
us off our game. Whose turn is it now?

Biting down on bloody lips, whispered
words of attempted comfort evaporating
in the frosty air. Knives cutting

every string of emotion, all connections
severed at the nub, just below the bud -
there will be no flowering this year again,

no seasoning on this scorched flesh, dry
almost tasteless on the tongue and
who’s got yours now? So quiet,

tiptoeing over broken milk and spilled shells,
crunching precariously between the highs
and the oh, so low lows of teatime.

Trigeminal

Note to my partner & carer:

'I am experiencing insufferable pain right now. The constant pulsing, infernal razorblades dancing up and down my face, cutting into my jaw and cheek and tongue and up in rabid darts to my poor, poor temples; the raging fire that engulfs the whole left side of my face and the evil persistence of it all, means that I cannot and do not want to move or speak as that will make it worse.

I do not want to be touched except with one STILL calming hand somewhere far away from my face, head and shoulders.

I cannot feed the baby on my left side and want her exploring hands and bullish head nowhere near my left side and face. If she NEEDS to feed, I can suffer her on my right side only, if she remains relatively still.

The pain is going on for ages, 30-60 minutes, so even though I may have stopped screaming, swearing or crying, please know that unless I move myself, it is ongoing and I do not want the covers or pillows or anything around me moved.

I know this is difficult for you and the baby but there is nothing I can do about that right now.

I am struggling to cope and too often think about how I might end it all. This is insufferable. unbearable and I am losing hope that I can be healed or heal myself. I feel as though the universe is against me, holding me here like some god-forsaken lab rat, injecting me with more and more pain. I cannot believe how harsh it is and that it keeps getting more so, instead of easing off.

I honestly don't know how I'm supposed to cope with it and still live a life worth living. I don't know how anyone is supposed to deal with this level of pain.

All I can do, all I feel I can do right now is try to breathe through it and make what I can of the precious little time in between. If this makes me less of a partner and parent, I am deeply sorry for that, but this is all I can do at the moment. There's the arthritic pain underneath as well but right now I can't focus on that much.

I have asked so much of you already, I know, but the following things might help to at least make life easier in the short term:
 - an armchair for the bedroom and another for the living area so I can spend less time in bed and feel a little more able to move around the flat
 - an insulated mug so I can drink my teas and stop wasting them or asking for so many refills
I may have to get myself a walking stick too as I need to be able to move around easier. It'll be sad but I have to face up to how things are now, not how I hope they'll be in the future.

Thanks for reading and for all your support. I know it's incredibly hard for you too and I truly appreciate all you do x'

We Are Our Own Children

Right now, I am reading an astoundingly accurate and insightful analysis of the dysfunctinal but perhaps necessary parent/adult-child relationship in this extract from an article in the wonderful quarterly magazine, Fathers.

The extract is written as one paragraph but I've split it into three to highlight and reflect on three distinct and integrated concepts that resonate emphatically with me.

From: Zbyszek Milunski, interview by Jacek Santorski; Fathers Quarterly, pilot issue 2015; www.fathersquarterly.com
"I once read a quote from an African healer who claimed that we ourselves are the place where our ancestors can realize what they have done, and thus become a positive force for the future. I think that kind of consciousness is an extremely important part of the intergenerational process, since most of us sever our ties with our parents because we're critical of them. 
Perhaps that stage is a necessary part of our culture if we want it to develop. but I think that there comes a time when you have to mature enough to accept your parent, be it your mother or your father. They are our co-constituents, which means that if we're too critical of one of them, then we're also too critical of ourselves, which hampers our development.
There comes a time in your adult live [sic] when you just have to cut your parents some slack and let them be themselves. That's an important change, because the way it usually works is that we unconsciously treat ourselves the way we were treated as children. It's often the case that an adult who hates his parent treats both himself and his parent the way he was treated as a child..."

1) The idea of inter-generational shared suffering and thus how healing oneself can simultaneously heal all sorts of past suffering and pain.

2) I have spent most of my life criticising my parents and it's only been in recent years that I realised it was myself I was judging more than them. After all, judging others makes no difference whatsoever to the offending behaviour. Realising and observing the magnitude and harshness of one's self criticism is enlightening and full of sadness, particularly when one has their own child and couldn't imagine treating their own offspring with anything but love and kindness. After all, we are our own children and would do well if we treated ourselves with the respect, admiration and care that we lavish (or at least intend to lavish) on our own dear children.

3) Going through the stages of realising my harsh critique of my parents was unjust and often unfounded in truth; making the space to forgive them and myself whilst realising there is no real need for forgiveness as we all simply do the best we can with what we are given; acknowledging that there is no need or call for blame, shame and guilt in a world where life happens the way it will happen often quite regardless of our desires, hopes and actions, I came to see that the way I treat and value my self is paramount if I am to grow and develop in the wise and loving way I long to. 

Rache x