Lockdown Pondering

Instead of writing my novel I am staring at a bunch of bananas, or more precisely at the juxtaposition of the fruit with a box of Gourmet cat food, a calendar, jars of pasta, a face flannel and a pack of hair grips. The randomness of this arrangement reflects the insanity of my life during these Covid months. If ever there was a plot I have truly lost it along with any desire to keep a tidy house. The absence of visitors due to the restrictions has eroded my inner hausfrau. Instead I have developed a taste for the creativity of chaos. I used to be one for everything in its place, now I think there is a place in everything.

I keep thinking about the paradox of Schrödinger’s cat. If no one speaks to me or sees me or hears me for several days there is the equal probability that I am both dead and alive at the same time. The reality of my existence is not validated by others. For ten months I’ve been living in a grainy gritty twilight zone like a scene from a movie shot on Super8. I need to keep looking in the mirror just to check I’m still here. There’s always a tingle of surprise when I see myself, relatively unscathed, looking back.

I am writing this with a yellow pen and therefore prone to optimism.

image created by the author

Sometimes it’s Hard to See

There are times when it’s hard to spot the signs of hope hidden amongst the negativity and gloom that surrounds us at present. As UK appears to sink beneath another wave of a more virulent strain of Covid 19 many of us are teetering on the edge of despair. Today when I opened my front door to another cold and frosty winter’s day I noticed the teeny tiny shoots of crocuses emerging in a plant pot. They were almost invisible amongst the moss, weeds and colourful pebbles but they were definitely there. So however grim our lives might appear at present we must pause and look for the good stuff and remember tomorrow is another day.

Lockdown Christmas

However you chose to spend Christmas I hope you had a peaceful time. I enjoyed an alternative solitary Christmas with my cat…no tree, decorations or turkey but Moroccan Chicken with couscous followed by pumpkin pie and later I watched a Korean zombie movie. This was the view from my kitchen window when I was washing up.

And here was my cat chilling out in her own way…

Wherever you are -stay safe and make the most of the little things in life.

Notes on a Pandemic #5

As Britain spins in a maelstrom of Covid mutations and Brexit insanity I realise that the mega-hours I spent watching post-apocalyptic/survival/science fiction/disaster/horror/zombie movies have not been wasted. I am fully psyched for the reality show in which I now play a minor (so far) role – numerous crowd scenes featuring clapping for the NHS or fighting for a food delivery…? This nail-biting series could be called Escape from UK, The Last Ferry, No Way Home or Gone Broccoli Gone.

Further suggestions on a postcard please addressed to our buoyant Prime Minister Boris at 10 Downing Street, London.

In the meantime I have shaved off my hair as hairdressers are a distant dream and changed my make-up to match.

Here’s my new look….hope you like.

The Firing

I am squeezing my Self into an empty crisp
box. Guards wearing smiley masks watch
from three rifles distance. Muted comrades
observe from a raised perspex Zoom

box. Guards wearing smiley masks watch
my hands tremble as I clear out my desk:-
driver’s license, a diary with twenty-twenty
visions, a framed photo of a kitten in a tree.

My hands tremble as I clear out my desk:-
a notebook full of redactions, a wee feisty
cactus, a broken compact mirror, tampons,
lipsticks, tissues and a stained pair of pants,

a notebook full of redactions, a wee feisty
box of Black Magic, a blunt pencil with teeth
marks, my first draft of an Utopian Manifesto,
A Dummy’s Guide to Democracies, a sealed

box of Black Magic, a blunt pencil with teeth,
an eraser shaped like a penis, a list of dreams,
an emergency jam jar and a wedding ring.
In the bottom drawer I find the forgotten;

an eraser shaped like a penis, a list of dreams,
the one who truly loved me, the candle burned
at both ends, the first rainbow ever seen, failed
deadlines, a rope bridge with a missing link,

the one who truly loved me, the candle burned
the dirty girl I hated at primary school, the key
to the crystal garden. Shushing faces observe
while I squeeze my Self to an empty crisp.

Image created by the author

Zooming

Dutifully muted we wait in our bubbles, looking
at ourselves looking at ourselves smiling, looking
for clues in book shelves, potted plants, interiors.

Sid’s iPad is a shadow. Patrick props a stepladder.
Magi’s tablet belongs to a Ragdoll with blue eyes.
The third row shows bearded minimalists in grey.

The cool ones are sipping tea from chunky mugs.
The patient ones are still holding hands raised
while their rictus grins slip off screen to scream.

Three minutes to write a poem about the sea.
Try to recall how the sea looks, sounds, smells.
Time rubs out. One by one our bubbles turn black.

Photo by the author

Flower Power

Like many others stuck at home since the start of the Covid Pandemic I have taken comfort from my garden. There’s a special healing energy in the natural world which we all need at the moment. Just a few minutes outdoors can reset my mood. Today was a particularly grim British October day with non-stop rain and dark overcast skies. So it was lovely to look through some of my flower photos to remind myself how beautiful life can be. Here’s my favourite one of a white hydrangea like a cascade of starlight.

Photo by the author

Translating the Unspeakable

The poet’s job is to translate unspeakable things on to the page…” 

“Poets don’t get into poetry for money, they do it for vocation – I feel like that anyway. Poets can touch hearts and minds; they can translate trauma into something people can face. Sometimes there’s a cost for the poet to do that as it takes looking at the trauma right in the face and then allowing others to bear the idea of trauma safely. That’s why I write poetry. Poems are empathy machines.

Racism is a system that keeps propagating itself. It wasn’t the bankers, millionaires or computer magnates we turned to in the crisis – it was the nurses, garbage cleaners, supermarket workers; I hope those people will be valued more.”

Words by Roger Robinson

Photo by the author

Mortality

We follow the signs, white on blue
autumn clouds shifting. Slings
and arrows show one way to exit.
We follow the twisted pitted road
down the line. We avoid potholes,
broken tarmac, pines felled by storms
littering the verge. We drive slowly
around those tight bends. The road
south unspools an old home movie.
In Golspie the doors burst open,
the sun breaks gilding the moss,
the dry stone walls, the sycamores.
The paramedic with kind eyes
wishes you breath. Magic
moss crumbles gold dust
between your fingers until
only the scent of earth remains.

photographic image created by the author