Coronaverse

The Times diary TLS was asking for coronaverses, rejigging famous poems for the current circumstances. Mine was too long to use, but I got a lovely email back from someone at The Times. It is based on Ozymandias by Shelley:

I met a jogger on a lonely run,
Who said— while two metres from me – “people
stroll in the local parks… Near them, in the sun,
Half asleep a couple lies, whose love,
And lack of care, and sneer of selfishness,
Tell of their heedless concern for the rules.
They may yet survive, but might cause lifeless others,
They mock the hands that help them, these fools
And in the history books, these words could appear:
‘My name is not important, my words more so;
Look on society and despair!’
Only lessons remain. Stop the decay
Protect the NHS, care for its kin
Or the future will rue our today.”

Holiday inspiration

Wales will always have a special place in my heart, as do most of the places we went to on holiday when I was a child: Cornwall, Tenerife and Scotland. My holiday didn't get off to the best of starts as I was ill when we went and had to have the last day before we left off work. I was feverish, which is good for the imagination and the first few days, I wrote something whenever I had the time. I've written a poem that has always eluded me, finally managing to describe what a panic attack feels like in a poem. I'm going to save it for the book though. I just want to share a few holiday moments here that have inspired me, either for the book, for other pieces or in terms of mental clarity.

Aberglasney house and gardens

The previous times we went to Wales were either in the Summer or the Autumn half term, this is the first time we've been in daffodil season and they were everywhere! I finally understand what Wordsworth meant when he described them as a golden host. They never fail to brighten any mood.

Blue morpho butterfly

There is nothing better than achieving something you have long strived to get, for me this holiday it was a photo of a blue morpho butterfly with its wings open. There was a butterfly house at the National Botanic Garden of Wales and one was very obliging. They're my favourite butterfly and epitomise the ephemeral in my eyes: delicate, beautiful, powerful, ethereal and all too fleeting. They also represent my state of mind!

Laugharne estuary

As I said in my previous post, Laugharne has a hold on me unlike any other place I've been to. Going back after 20 years, seeing a view we used to see every day was pure nostalgia and gave me a boost I will never forget. Other things I barely remember, but not that view; it's ingrained in my memory.

My parents outside Laugharne Castle

We finally made it inside Laugharne Castle, after the fourth time of trying! I took inspiration from one of the greats, Dylan Thomas, who stayed at the castle and famously made Laugharne his home. His deep connection with his sense of place strikes a deep chord.

A blurry photo of an otter at Laugharne Castle

A day after I bought a cuddly otter at the National Botanic Garden of Wales; I picked it up and just couldn't put it down again; I saw a real live otter! I call it strange foresight. It's my first one in the wild and it was one of the highlights of my holiday.

Laugharne gravestone poem

Creative inspiration can be found in the weirdest of places, for instance a churchyard where I found this gravestone poetry. It sums up my feelings of revisiting Laugharne and how much of an impact it has had on me. I would love for my eternal resting place to have such a view.

The Mumbles causeway and lighthouse

Finally, spending time with my parents, having them all to myself, was a treasure. Even if we were silent, just sitting in each other's company, it was special. Going to a place my Mum had always wanted to go to, seeing another's pleasure, there is no greater inspiration, nor motivation.

Just write too

Trust

Tells you what you want to hear

Tells you what you don’t want to hear

Doesn’t tell you what you should hear

Need to hear

Anxiety tells you your worst fears

Anxiety makes it so you can’t see the way forward

Anxiety is afraid of the future

Fears uncertainty

Depression tells you your worst thoughts about yourself

Depression makes you feel as nothing is worthwhile

Depression dwells on the past so you can’t live

Only exist

The voice of conscience is a liar

It makes it so all you can see is you

It colours the world so you can’t see through

Can’t see the truth

Everything is all or nothing

Everything is always and never

Everything is black and white

No shades of grey

You can’t trust your mind

You can’t trust your body

You can’t trust yourself

You can’t trust it

Mental health

I Weigh

A wonderful, patient and supportive family

Against a head full of thoughts that weigh me down 

The powerful resilience of half a lifetime living with daily anxiety

With the burden of a chronic illness, dizziness and vertigo

The need to express myself creatively

Alongside the frustration of unrealised potential

An ability to lose myself in books, films and TV

Beside a crippling lack of confidence and doubt

An insatiable curiosity and need to learn

Yet the knowledge it can never be fulfilled

A compassionate and empathetic nature

That comes with the burden of womanhood

Wide and wonderful hips

Together with a skewed self-image

My job, my vocation: a profession and a passion

Unmatched by a wearying personal loneliness

I weigh up a life full of contradictions

Dreamcatcher

We all need someone to catch us when we fall, but for most of us, the only person we can rely on is ourselves. Physical falls can be embarrassing, painful and potentially devastating, but time heals or allows us to become accustomed. Mental falls are hard to see, harder to deal with and can become physical, but they can be managed. Emotional falls are incapacitating, all-consuming and all-encompassing, but usually momentary either in the moment or for a period of time.

There are people to go to for aid: medical professionals, family and friends. However, we let our dreams fall every day. We nurture them, build them up and work towards them. We look for people to help us realise them and some may succeed. Yet, the vast majority simply let them go. They drift unchecked from our lives. They are thrown to the ground in frustration and anger and disgust. They are lain tenderly to rest and then abandoned.

But what if there was someone there to catch them for you, keep them until you have need of them again, care for them while you make yourself ready for them? From the smallest that is barely visible to the human eye, to the biggest that sucks the oxygen out of the room. From the brightest that is full of hope, to the dimmest that is a fleeting thought. From the fullest that has physical presence, to the merest wisp of a thing. All are caught, captured and maintained, waiting for when all promise is lost and they fade away into the void of broken dreams, or they are taken up again, life is brought back into them and they are introduced to the world. What if there were a catcher of dreams?

Just write

In a view to actually writing this story and realising that to be a writer, I have to write, I've been doing some writing. It's mostly poems, free verse and rhyming verse inspired by snow, my first panic attack in months and other things. Let me know what you think!

Snow

Arriving delicately, gently, stealthily

It quietly covers the land, instilling hush

Feet powder through, leaving dark marks

marring the pure white and corrupting the purity

But the snow is relentless, pinpricking skin,

hiding the sins of dirt, rubbish and decay

It allows us a carte blanche we don’t deserve

Snow is the ultimate femme fatale,

all beauty and light yet bringing danger

It departs gradually or suddenly without warning

until not a trace can be found, like it was never there

Away without a backward glance

Caring not for the consequences

Leaving us with the chaos that is left in its wake 

Ice

Snow turns to ice if time is on its side

Where snow is a cool blanket, a white carpet,

Softening and veiling and concealing

Ice is transparent, a see-through wall

blocking you from what it is beneath

Where snow is a femme fatale

Ice is a plain, cold attempted killer

Grey and black and a clear and present danger

Shining with contempt and glittery in the light

It takes away solidity and complacence

Replacing it with pure uncertainty

Wheels slide, feet slip and paws skitter

Causing embarrassment and pain

Or potentially something more permanent

A Light Touch

A brush of the hand

One finger on the pulse

A toe in the water

A step instead of a foot

An inch instead of a mile

A hop instead of a leap

A rock instead of a shoulder

An anchor instead of a weight

A burden instead of a gift

A grip on the arm

A grip on reality

A grip on love

Holding something tangible

Holding on for dear life

Holding on to you

First grey hairs

The metallic sheen of copper tones is now laced with precious silver, in sharp relief against the dark brown. The first may have been cruelly untimely wrenched from their roots, but when they became more of a battalion than lone soldiers, entrenching in enemy territory until they could no longer be avoided, they were embraced like liberators. These grey strands are not a sign of a person on the wane, a gradual downfall, nor an ebbing of the tide, but a symbol of growing proof that anything can be survived with the right support, stubbornness and belief. They are strings of hard won battles and hard time done over many years, earned through pain, determination and resilience. They are a mark that you have lived and continue to live, reaching a time you thought you may not live to see.

Small Victories

When nothing you do seems to matter
When nothing you do seems to stick
When your thoughts scream and scatter
When your life goes by so quick
It is easy to see only the wrong
It is easy to see only the bad
Rather than seeing where you're strong
Rather than seeing what makes you glad

So a drift in focus, a forgotten task
A brief relapse and a bad night
Become something important in which to bask
An excuse to give in and give up the fight
Yes they are awful at the time
Yes they hurt those around you
They make the hill harder to climb
They make the day harder to get through

But each time they happen you learn
But each time they happen others see
You learn who can help, where to turn
Others see a glimpse of you, how to be
One step forward two steps back
Is still a positive, still means hope
So be kind to yourself, give yourself some slack
Because you know you and you know how to cope

You just may not see it right now
You will make it, get through somehow
Small victories are for the best, so take a bow

Writer's block

I wrote a poem on my cycle to work:

On Autumn days when my breath masks the crisp blue sky
On Autumn days when the leaves colour the cold hard ground
On Autumn days when the frost nips the edges of everything

On Autumn days when Summer loses its battle to survive
These are the days when I feel most alive

I don't get writer's block. Well, not the block where I can't think what to write, just sitting staring at the blank page. Once I have a pen and paper in front of me, you can't stop me. So much so I've missed meals, alarms and bedtime. But I do get writer's block in that I don't even have a blank page in front of me to be afraid of. I don't get that far. Incidentally, the fear of the blank page is Vacansopapurosophobia. Don't ask me how to pronounce it.

Anyway, I don't have a blank page as I've already written parts of my book: I have the title, the characters, the plot, the chapters and the first paragraph. So I'm not even scared of the blank page. I'm scared of something far bigger than that, something that goes far deeper, something so profoundly terrifying I can't even sit down to write. I've always identified as a writer and longed to be published, I've always found it easy to write and I've always had ideas on what I want to write about. But now I'm actually on my way to being a writer, I just can't bring myself to do it. I'm being pummelled by what if's. What if I'm not as good as I think I am? What if my idea is rubbish? What if my years of not writing have dried up my writing abilities?

Something that has helped is that writing project I've mentioned. My piece has been accepted and I'm now a paid writer! I just have to wait and see what they do with my work. I'm determined to get this book written and I will bring myself to get started... soon.

I am writing!

Honest! But it's going slowly. I don't know why that is. If I have to write for work, for academic purposes or for extracurricular activities, I'm fine. But for creative writing, I procrastinate. Again, I don't know whether it's a self-esteem thing; I have a tendency to just avoid things if they're scary or push people away if it becomes difficult and I'm not forced to do things or if they're not persistent. It's a defence mechanism. I'm finally doing something that I've always been told I'm good at and have been good at in the past. It is scary because, what if I find out I'm not as good as I think? Anyway, I'm all determined to get down to writing and then suddenly I get the urge to do something, anything else but write, even clean... It's not even fear of the blank page as I've got stuff to work from.

However I'm taking part in something that may change all that. I recently attended a creative writing workshop for a project at work, but it's not for work as such. I can't say too much as it's all under wraps and nothing's certain yet, but I was a bit of a teacher's pet, which I usually don't like as I tend to be quite rebellious. But it gave me confidence when they said my work was brilliant and I really understood what they were getting at. It reminds me of a similar workshop I took part in at the Fitzwilliam Museum when they had the excellent Treasured Possessions exhibition; we wrote a poem, story or something creative based on one of the exhibits. I got carried away as I always do and my poem is still up on the Fitzwilliam website: http://www.fitzmuseum.cam.ac.uk/gallery/treasuredpossessions/discover/writingworkshop.html

I never make things easy for myself as I've chosen to start writing during the first week of our early-morning before work sessions for students, the week of my nephew's fifth birthday and the week I have the writing workshop. Sometimes that helps though, busyness breeds busyness. I'm also a contrary kind of person and the more something becomes difficult, the more I want to do it. I've always thought I'm a walking contradiction.

My writing methods are very traditional. I find I can't write creatively on a computer. So, at least initially, I use a pen and paper and type it up afterwards; computers are brilliant editing tools. One of my colleagues recently told me about a great innovation in pens: the Pilot Frixion pen which you can rub out. It won't rub it out entirely, but it means you can write over what was there. Plus it comes in a range of colours, including my preferred colour purple. It's not just because purple is my favourite colour; black is too harsh, blue is not authoritative enough and purple is the colour of creativity, imagination and royalty.

Anyway, here's a sample of what I've already done, 'tis a silly poem I wrote years ago and have extended recently:

In Love

I am in love with my bed

I know this is a weird thing to have said

But I am in love with it

And not just a little bit

I don’t want to leave it for school in the morning

Reading on my warm pillow while I’m still yawning

And I can’t wait to go to bed at night

Reading late, though it isn’t right

I could play in it all day

Creating forts, keeping enemies at bay

Hiding under the covers

Escaping from tiresome angry mothers

When I’m sitting in lessons

Especially those early morning sessions

Double maths, ick!

I wish I were in it

I cannot quit loving it

It’s so warm and cosy

I’m safe and really dozy

In it come lovely dreams

Of animals, books, forests and streams

I wish I was there now

But I’m not allowed

Ah well, it’ll be there tonight

And when the sun makes it light

I am in love with my bed

I know, this is a weird thing to have said

But I am in love with it

And not just a little bit

It’s the first thing I think of in the morning

When the sun is yawning

And the last thing I think of at night

Although it isn’t right

I think about it all day

Wishing I hadn’t gone away

I have an inexplicable attraction to my bed

And I think that’s enough said

Although when I’m sitting in lessons

Especially those early morning sessions

I wish I were with it

I cannot quit

Loving it

I love to be in it, warm and cosy

And safe, incredibly dozy

In it come lovely dreams

Of people, animals, books and what God deems

I wish I were there now

That is a solemn vow

Ah well, it’ll be there tonight

And when the sun makes it light

I am in love with my bed

I know, this is a weird thing to have said

But I am in love with it

And not just a little bit

It’s the first thing I think of when I awake

Because every thing else in this world seems fake

And the last thing I think of at night

When I cry over my daily fight

I think about it all day

Wishing I hadn’t gone away

It’s the only place I can be me

And shut out all I don’t want to see

When I am sitting, alone in the crowd

Waiting to make the people I love proud

I wish I were just at home in bed

And I think that’s enough said

And yet, it’s no longer warm, safe and cosy

It’s scary, being impossibly dozy

After a long dark night of disturbing nightmares

Sleeping with the light on; I have many cares

Still, I wish I were there now

To sleep, though I don’t know how

Ah well, it’ll be there tonight

And when the sun makes it light

I am in love with my bed

I know this is a weird thing to have said

But I am in love with it

And not just a little bit

In the morning, when I’m awake

I love it for someone else’s sake

It’s where you are nearest

Lying next to me, my own dearest

At night, we can talk the dark away

Keeping bad thoughts and demons at bay

Then there is no place for words, just

Touch and taste and love and lust

When I’m sitting at my desk all day

I wish I hadn’t gone away

Thinking of it, brings a blush to my face

My heart thumping as if it’s in a race

I cannot quit, loving it

I love to be in it, safe and cosy in your arms

Skin to skin, incredibly dozy, warmed by your charms

With you I have lovely dreams

Of the future, whatever God deems

I wish I was there now

So I can be with you, even if it’s to row

Ah well, you’ll be there tonight

And when the sun brings morning delight

I am in love with my bed

I know that is a weird thing to have said

But I am in love with it

And not just a little bit

It’s the first thing I think of in the morning

Waiting for the sun to begin yawning

And the last thing of at night

Although it isn’t right

I struggle to leave at the start of the day

The second I do, I wish I hadn’t gone away

I have an inexplicable attraction to my bed

And I think that’s enough said

When I’m sitting at my desk at work

I find myself thinking of it with a jerk

I wish I were with it

I cannot quit, loving it

It’s where I go to escape, in a book

In dreams; it’s my safe, cosy and warm nook

I leave loneliness behind, even when I cannot sleep

Forgetting my cares, even when all I want to do is weep

I wish I were there now

That is a solemn vow

Ah well, it’ll be there tonight

And when I see the sun make it light

I am in love with my bed

I know this is a weird thing to have said

But I am in love with it

And not even a little bit

It’s the first thing I think of in the morning

Just as the sun is dawning

And the last thing I think of at night

Going to sleep, at nine, alright?

I think about it all day

Even when I’ve not gone away

Sitting reading, remembering in my bed

And I think that’s enough said

When I’m sitting, surrounded by nostalgia, thinking

How this is where I played as a child, sinking

Under the covers as a teen, hiding from the world

As a young adult, and then with lovers, toes curled

Lastly, I love to be in bed, warm and cosy

And safe, incredibly dozy

While my grandchildren sit beside me

Playing, chattering or reading on my knee

I wish I was there now

That is a quiet vow

Ah well, it’ll be there tonight

And if I see the sun make it light

I’m in love with my bed

I know this is a weird thing to have said

But I’m proud of it

And not just a little bit