Day 30: The month of firsts

This is a friend of mine. You should go back and read all 30 of her poetry posts but I wanted to reblog this one because it’s also got some good links in it. Have fun. Read a poem.

Mexi Movie the Third

You never forget your first.
—May

Not yet, May 1st begins in less than a half of hour, but let’s have a look at the last poetry challenge for this month:

Challenge 30: “I’d like you to take your cue from Borges, and write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact.”

We shall leave Borges where he belongs, which is nowhere near my poetry, and instead end this April sausage with a little recap.

Thank you to organisers for all the prompts, and to my regular and irregular visitors for not running away this month and reading any or all of my poems, and especially for all the kind things you said in your comments and in one case in your poem, Charlotte.

A few strange and fascinating facts for the month of April

Tsssssp-tsssssp.

Not only
I continue my life
in the bottom right corner
of…

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Blackbird

There is a baby
blackbird
chirping
just
outside my
bedroom window

It is early
Sunday morning

thin grey light
illuminates
my white curtains

Only The Spaniel
and I are awake
and the baby bird
singing
for breakfast

A hush
settles
over everything
like dust

There is a
quiet
emptiness
about
every
Sunday morning

Sunday Morning Coming Down

which is a song
about hangovers
about living fast
and hard

These days
I’m hungover
on Life
on Death
on the Unknowable

while the quiet
seeps into my heart
filling my chest

and with it
a kind of peace

I wasn’t expecting that

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Taller

He was taller
than me

I don’t remember
how tall
six foot something

I was always
walking behind him
watching his
slim hips
sway
in faded jeans

When I first met him
he looked like Jesus

Later
he looked like
Freddie Mercury

I like
the interchangeability
of Jesus
and Freddie Mercury

I was not the Madonna
but still seemed
to always have
a baby
at my breast

and a scarf
wound
around
my neck
with dreams
of Isadora Duncan
and the freedom
of dance
in my head

I baked
sweet things
for him
and filled him
with pots
of herbal teas

He wrote songs
sang for me
in ways
he could not possibly know

I always walked
behind him
let him tower
over me

There are
moments
of beauty
so ineffable
that all you can do
is stand back
and let their light
touch you
knowing they will
never last

He was taller
than me

27 April 2018
Sussex Coast, England

 

William Shakespeare

Today is William Shakespeare’s birthday. Actually that’s not entirely true. We don’t know the date of his birth but this is the day we celebrate the birth of the Bard and also the day of his death.

One year I spent an entire day wandering the streets of Stratford-upon-Avon. It was Shakespeare’s birthday. In the  afternoon I sat in the garden of his place of birth and reflected on the magic of life and the adventures it affords us. And I took the photograph below.

Here’s a short song from Henry VIII that I like:

Song: “Orpheus with his lute made trees”

(from Henry VIII)
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Blessings
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Cancer Treatment Follow Up

As a follow up to THIS POST:

 

The Wonderspouse moved Heaven and Earth on Friday. I honestly don’t know what I would do without him.

 

He spoke to the Chemotherapy Sister (aka Head Nurse) for a long time.

 

He spoke to my GP who doesn’t know me because my GPs keep retiring (and who can blame them with Jeremy Hunt at the reins).

 

Unlike myself who had reached the end of her patience and would have pissed everyone off, he was able to be assertive without causing the medical staff to dig their heels in.

 

Clearly, I don’t have a virus (rolls eyes). I do have a sinus infection. I do, after all, have a history of them. I don’t think the fevers are related to an infection at all. They’re probably being caused by the bone marrow injections.

 

The GP has given me doxycycline. The Chemo Sister said my blood didn’t look too bad. So I have hope that with the antibiotics I will be well enough to continue chemotherapy. I have a appointment with the oncologist on Thursday.

 

I had ripped off my PICC line dressing because it was so tight it felt like knives piercing my skin. So Friday afternoon a very nice, gentle, nurse named Grace created a dressing that not only didn’t hurt, but has started healing the red, inflamed, places.

 

Friday afternoon the Wonderspouse took me to the beach on the way back from the hospital. We just took in the sea air for a bit. It was lovely.

 

Yesterday we had a burger in Worthing. It was a bright, sunshiny day. I tired quickly but still, it was a day out in the sun.

 

So, still a massive uphill climb but at least the demeaning treatment by the Emergency Floor doctors is resolved.

 

Here’s a pretty picture of my beach:

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Spin Me: a drabble

“Spin me,” she whispered.

Her words caught on the wind before floating away into nothingness, never making it to his questioning gaze.

She could lose herself in those eyes, had lost herself in that gaze.

Not on this day.

With a sad smile and a soft sigh she turned away and slowly began to spin and spin and spin until she was dizzy and giddy with freedom. Her laughter filled the rafters with song while doves beat their wings frantically looking for a way out.

She lifted her arms in devotion and let herself fall into the cacophony of sound.

21 April 2018
Sussex Coast, England

Stories Like Her

This is one of my favourite “internet poets.” I especially loved this one.

The Lithium Chronicles

They write stories about women
like her, the kind of women
who smell like smoke and secrets,
taste like whiskey neat and ache,
always ache, for last call;
the stories that are burned inside
of memories and outside of libraries,
the kind of stories that make
even the driest bones wet
and the holiest knees bleed.

© Nicole Lyons 2018

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