Squall



Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth

The fancy frocks and summer hats belie

the sorry tortured soul beneath the     surface cracks

as  on her hollow haunted face     mouth gapes 

as  she smiles that sorry twisted smile  she smiles 

revealing rotten teeth that stain

her muddled thoughts  with filthy words

and for a while she listens

as  the budgies  cheep inside her head

and peck away at fractured brain.

She whines  the wasps  within her chest

will stop her heart unless she gets

(‘just one tiny’)  cigarette and offers

passing males her drooping breasts

and  (filthy)  sex  (she hates)

just for ‘one tiny zzzig-err-raare-t’. 

(The men who live inside her head

deride say they’d rather die

than go to bed with her.) 

The men (outside) refer    (unkindly)

to her mangled pock-marked frame

and jeer at her, call her ugly names,

jeer  and joke as  she resorts

to the only way she can to cope.

She contorts that tortured face of hers

grimaces  to quell the pain

all for the want the need of nicotine

and black  clouds gather in her brain

and erupt into a sudden squall,

she yells and screams, head-butts the wall,

punches  hard her cheek and then returns

to (some sort of) (troubled) peace again.

She thinks for a while then smiles

that sorry twisted smile she smiles,

shows the males her drooping breasts

and offers  sex for cigarettes.

Anna :o]

In the good/bad old days’ institutionalism in psychiatric hospitals bred its own strange culture, some patients on long-stay and acute wards, to ‘self-medicate’ their symptoms, to stave off ennui, chain-smoked and within this culture existed tobacco barons and easy lays.

The tobacco barons need not necessarily be smokers rather those that saw (and grasped) opportunity, increasing their personal wealth and their status in the patient pecking order.  One cigarette ‘borrowed’ would yield a return of three-to-five, sometimes more and daily the baron was able to sell  (the equivalent of in returned 'borrowed' plus 'interest') full packs for money, the more vulnerable smokers sometimes ‘owed’ their next days ration of cigarettes and  in essence held a continuous debt.

The ‘easy lays’ – not necessarily women but mostly so – were of two kinds, one would allow men to have sex with her paying with cigarettes and the other pay for cigarettes with sex.

Acute and long stay (apart from the ‘elderly’) wards were ‘open-doored’ – these only being locked when trouble occurred and this freedom and the hospitals extensive grounds allowed this culture to thrive.

After the closure of psychiatric hospitals there existed the problem of where to place institutionalised patients who would never be able to rehabilitate and live independently in the community.

Added to this burden of unwanted institutionalised souls were the upcoming patients with enduring mental health problems who would have joined their ranks.  Initially some were placed in NHS ‘rehab’ community units – most (if not all?) have long since closed, the rest in private nursing homes and rehab hostels - or just hostels -and some, where attempts were made to rehabilitate to independent living, now are homeless or if lucky(?) bed down in doss houses, etc.

The lucky(?) few institutionalised ex-patients who found a (locked)nursing home prepared to take them, as well as losing the only (hospital) life they had known through much of their adulthood – some even earlier – are further restrained by new laws re coercive healthism (no smoking in the premises – unless in a tiny room devoid of ‘entertainment’ – have you ever tried to fit twenty men who want (and need) to smoke in a tiny room where friction will  occur as a result of this sardine-tin existence? – to the wonderful well-intentioned Safeguarding Vulnerable Adults (SVA)  (no grey areas recognised – the world is black and white.)

An odd tobacco baron exists here and so do the easy lays, but the easy lays (of either kind) are not allowed to engage in sex – well neither is anyone really – for under the SVA we have to protect one vulnerable adult from another vulnerable adult…and so their wants and needs are stifled…their new institution more a prison than the old asylums.

I hated psychiatric hospitals but their closure offered nothing in its place….

Rant over.

Thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration for this post.   Also linked to dVerse~Poets Pub Open Link Night hosted by the excellent Brian Miller.

Hell Cannot Be As Bad As This



Verdun, 1917 by Felix Vallotton



Hell cannot be as bad as this.

Entrenched,

I dwell amongst; exist amidst

a stinking mound of fallen men

who lie dead-eyed

in bubbling broth of shit and piss.

Earth moves as worms writhe

and feast on human flesh,

rats gnaw deep exposing bones

and in this mess

the wounded soldier groans

and screams in unremitting pain

and longs for sweet release of death,

long lost his dream of      returning home.

Half-mad, I suck (the breath) in deep,

let it cling to chest lest it be the last I draw. 

Sometimes when morning breaks like this,

illuminates lights up the carnage spread before

or in the black of night

when imagination plays its cruellest tricks,

I think death much more preferable to this.

What price this place in human life is made? 

How many soldiers’ hearts must spill their blood,

lay still upon its soil its stinking mud

until its final cost is paid?

Anna

The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand the catalyst for what was to become The First World War, the first mindless, global war brought about by the insanity of the treaty alliance system, the war to end all wars…

The Battle of Verdun was the longest and one of the major battles fought on the Western Front and according to modern estimations the casualty count is in the region of 976,000.

The poem is composed of eye-witness accounts of life in the trenches found here and at other sites dedicated to The Battle of Verdun.

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration, also linked to the good folk at dVerse~Poets Pub Open Link Night.

Remembrance Day: Anthem for Doomed Youth




Wilfred Owen's Grave:
 Ors Community
Cemetery, France

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

 ---Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

 Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

 Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,---

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

 And bugles calling them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

 Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

 The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen.

Wilfred Owen (please read his biography and beautiful poems here at The First World War Poetry Digital Archive) was born on the 18^th of March 1893 and aged twenty-five was killed in action on 4^th November 1918, leading an attack  by the Sambre Canal, near Ors, France.  His parents learnt of his death on Armistice Day.

Like many before him and many after him, he died for this ugly thing we call war – his, a young life wasted but bravely given.

The First World War, the first mindless global insanity brought about by the idiocy of the treaty alliance system, the war to end all wars…

and still we return to savagery and play our deadly tribal games.

We remember and honour all those brave young men (women and children) who died in WW1 - whether they be soldiers or civilians - and all those who have died in the countless wars that have followed, on this, this Remembrance Day.  We must never forget. 

One day hopefully we will learn from our bloody past (and present), and our future will be bright.  But I fear we will not…

Anna

Wilfred’s poem: 'This item is from The First World War Poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford (www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit); © [Copyright notice]'.

Image: (also courtesy of the above) Reference URL http://www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit/collections/item/5417

The Muse



Charis, Lake Ediza, California, 1937 by Edward Weston

Searching for the stars
she found la Luna.
His muse, moonstruck
amuses him.
His art is science,
he cerebrates,
dines on word salad
washed down
with the want of her.

Urine soaked
postictal
(storm weathered)
she sleeps a sleep
beneath her dreams
as he watches in the shadows.

He has seen her naked,
soul bared,
knows every contour
every crevice.
Intimate,
he has been inside her mind,
penetrated every nook and cranny.

Obsessed with her
he documents, details
ever word she utters
(deleting his that thrust
her deeper into madness).
As she sleeps,
shutter speed prioritised,
he clicks,
black-and-white to lust on.

Postictal
her vulnerability excites him.

Sometimes
(sitting in the shadows)
he thinks he needs to heal himself.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.

Miasma



Sick Woman, 1665, by Jan Steen

I gave true my faith to medicine,

did not wrap her up in sweet bouquet;

this mix to be the save of us

could not *miasma keep at bay.

Aquavitae, triacle, urine of virgin boy,

we drank of this across three morns,

drunk his receipt against this plague,

yet it stays with her upon this dawn.

She fevers so yet shivers yet,

cries with despair at paining head,

buboes puff pain at armpit, neck,

under skin bleed tokens,  black, purple, red

He feels at her pulse for well o’er an hour,

her plight fills me with awful dread;

he looks at me with sore forlorn

and I await the cry ‘Bring out your dead’

Anna :o]

The above is ‘work in progress’ and was inspired by Tess’ prompt at The Mag.

1665 was the year of The Great Plague, (also known as The Black Death or Bubonic Plague) which although affecting much of England affected London the most.  London was a filthy city (especially the slum districts) where household and human waste was flung into the street – an ideal breeding ground for black rat and its little jumping chums who infected their rat and human hosts with Yersinia Pestis.

The Bubonic plague presents with general symptoms of fever, vomiting and malaise, this followed by lymph gland enlargement (buboes) and the endotoxin of bacteria leading to bleeding manifestations which ultimately may lead to shock.

The above sounds pretty tame and for a better description read an eyewitness account by William Boghurst (an apothecarist and general practitioner) “Loimographia: an account of the great plague of London in the year 1665.  London" and for wonderful preventative and (supposedly) curative measures please read “A collection of seven and fifty approved receipts good against the plague : taken out of the five books of that renowned Dr. Don Alexes Secrets, for the benefit of the poorer sort of people of these nations. London”

Both excellent insights into life in 1665 (and I am so glad I wasn’t alive then!).

The Great Fire of London finally brought to an end the ravages of the plague and life returned to its odd sort of normality…

…and if I wasn’t so damned tired (finished five nightshifts this am) I would write more but now need shut-eye and much zzzzzzzz, but would invite you to google and read more for looking back in history is fascinating stuff.

*Miasma: a theory that disease was linked to a noxious form of ‘bad air’ – hadn’t made the rat connection then...

This post also linked to the good folk at dVerse~Poets Pub.

Reunion

                                                 Storm-Vivaldi Electric Violinist-Kate Chruscicka
Reunion
 
She sets up outside M&S,
feeds in backing tape,
cradles violin (it’s electric!)
and Vivaldi
fills the street with wondrous sounds,
I have to stop and lean against a welcome wall
as the beauty of her music drowns
whatever sorrow’s left in me,
choked (with the beauty of it)
silent tears evoked
slip softly down my cheeks…

It is our first day in the city,
skies hued in grey,
drizzle dampens random spirits,
we take shelter, wait for him,
shaded under green canopy
yearn promised sun.
I love street life, street cafés,
‘people watch’ as we sip coffee,
nibble rocky mountain cake
and talk of love, eyes questioning.

She plays Handel now…
(I become distracted with it.)

We are glad he arranged the meet here;
we can inhale and share our sin. 
‘Is it possible to love our children differently
yet of equal worth?’ we ponder…

We hear his welcome voice
boom over city sounds,
faces split into ecstatic grins
as we hug, slap backs, cheek kiss,
wonder at the change in him.
‘This is what life is all about,
good friends, good food and bonhomie,’
he says as he taps rollie on the tin
and we reminisce of uni days
and of his once fine physique
now showing girth of gastronomy,
grey wisps’ fly madly
from bushy beard and shock of hair. 
He lights up his cigarette
‘The students make this city’ he declares
and suddenly aware of street melodies
                   gasps
‘God that is bloody wonderful!’

(She is at The Proms now
’And did those feet’ (Jerusalem)
fills the street,
lights up passing hearts…)

We listen for a good long while
(we are all filled with her)
and then he with beaming smile
starts to converse again
and we chat of times gone by
and what we’re doing now
and how life sometimes flings
out cruel blows
and he now relents,
opens up his heart and soul,
tears flood his eyes
as he finally talks about his wife…

(‘Scarborough Fair’
now scents the mourning  air
as if to share our melancholy...)

Distraught for him
(and muddling in our own lives),
tears flow deep from all of us.

‘If we could somehow know’ he chokes
‘what fate has in store for us,
would we be afraid to fall in love?’

Anna :o]

A good friend and I recently met up with an old chum (we hadn’t seen for many moons) in the northern city of Newcastle, he recently bereaved, had requested the reunion as we had met (all those years ago) via his good lady wife in this wonderful city.

It was a wonderful, emotionally charged reunion and allowed him to release some of his pent-up emotions and for that, he realised and appreciated that the wonderful music of Kate Chruscicka had played a part as she opened up the very heart and souls of all of us.

Totally enamoured with Kate and her music I invested in a CD and googled her when I returned home.  Number two son listened when visiting and took her CD home with him.  The joy she brings is spreading…

A special thank-you to my two excellent friends for their kind permission to allow this post.

Shared and linked to the good folk at dVerse - hosted by the lovey Joy aka Hedgewitch

3 Across

I have paper

weighted down by coffee cup

as autumn winds

seem intent on catching it, lifting it,

giving it the gift of flight.

I am stuck on 3 across

(and will marvel at its genius

when it finally falls-into-place)

and then I see him (all screwed up)

peripheral

and wonder what demons he does battle with.

A wasp alights to feast on sugar

blown by breeze to strew the table,

I am not frightened of it, of its sting -

my fears lay elsewhere (lay with him).

Will he leave or not?

My fear is that he might stay…

(I am still stuck on 3 across.)

(I marvel at it (the wasp) - tiny perfect,

life compact in black and yellow skin.)

He unsettles me,

something I-cannot-quite-put-my-finger-on. 

Is angst communicable ‘cross café tables? 

He lights a cigarette

takes one puff of it

then snaps it throws it to the ground,

with anguished moan he lights another

and sucks at it
as if there is no
tomorrow.

He has that leg thing,

right leg jerks up and down

causing chair to rattle,

he groans as he wraps head in hands,

a backfiring car elicits
startle response,

wide-eyed he half-screams,

brings fist down heavy

shattering plate and peace.

He sees them (and me) voyeuring

shouts ‘What the f**k you looking at?’

stands, upturns chair and table

and with one loud ‘F**K YOU!’

storms off into his private hell.

(I am still stuck on 3 across.)

Anna :o]

The excellent Brian Miller is hosting Poetics at dVerse~Poets Pub today and the theme is PEOPLE WATCHING.  This proved an easy task for me as I love people watching, letting my imagination run wild as I watch the world (and its brother) pass by.  Thanks Brian!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons – author unknown.

Flying Down



Flying Down, 2006, by David Salle



On edge,

on the edge,

teetering tottering,

slowly slipping over…

I have flown,

Climbed

soared above the mountains,

shook the earth,

took from it,

bled it dry,

dried myself to shrivelled husk

Zenithal,

the only way out
is down…

I freefall, spiral,

rush headlong

down to dwell

amongst the dirt and ashes,

remains of life.

Dusk dims vision,

stifles, dampens resolve,

storm gathers,

bolts brain to introspection,

forever looking inward

I compartmentalise,

tie myself in fragile bundles

fit to fragment

at slightest touch.

Trapped, cornered,

hedged in within myself,

no way out.  

Teetering tottering
on  (the)  edge,

Sometimes despair

brings with it

nought but a desire to fly
                                                 

down....

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag and Brenda at The Sunday Whirl (Wordle) for their inspiration.

World Dementia Awareness Day

                                Dementia: From The Heart by Norman Macnamara

Today is World Dementia Awareness Day and I would ask you to view the very moving video above by Norman MacNamara in which he raises awareness that there is a PERSON attached to the diagnosis of dementia – a PERSON who lives and breathes and so very much understands, who is hurt and affected by the stigma that his diagnosis brings as much as by the daily torment of the disease itself.

Please also read this moving account of living with Frontotemporal Dementia by Dr Bob Fay  in which he details the difficult journey in obtaining a diagnosis and the effect of the disease on himself and his family.

Further information re dementia can be found atWorld Alzheimer Report 2012: Removing the Stigma of Dementia (pdf) and help is available at the Alzheimer's Society

Please remember there is a PERSON attached to the diagnosis.

With thanks to Dr Justin Marley at The Amazing World of Psychiatry: A Psychiatry Blog for making me aware of Norman’s video via his excellent blog.

Anna :o]

 

Is The End Of Life Patient Charter Dead Then?

I was first made aware of the launch of the End of Life Patient Charter last June via the excellent Pulse and it too was reported widely in the media – please read this article in The Guardian.

The EOL Patient Charter is a collaboration between the End of Life Care (EOLC) English Working Group of the RCGP with the RCN and the Patient Partnership Group and its aim is laudable in that it seeks to ensure that patients nearing the end of their life receive and expect an ideal of best practice  from their GP and Primary Health Care Team.

The EOL Care Charter reads as follows:

“We want to offer people who are nearing the end of their life the highest quality of care and support. We wish to help you live as well as you can, for as long as you can. Therefore, if and when you want us to, we will:

• Listen to your wishes about the remainder of your life, including your final days and hours, answer as best we can any questions that you have and provide you with the information that you feel you need.

• Help you think ahead so as to identify the choices that you may face, assist you to record your decisions and do our best to ensure that your wishes are fulfilled, wherever possible, by all those who offer you care and support.

• Talk with you and the people who are important to you about your future needs. We will do this as often as you feel the need, so that you can all understand and prepare for everything that is likely to happen.

• Endeavor to ensure clear written communication of your needs and wishes to those who offer you care and support both within and outside of our surgery hours.

• Do our utmost to ensure that your remaining days and nights are as comfortable as possible, and that you receive all the particular specialist care and emotional and spiritual support that you need.

• Do all we can to help you preserve your independence, dignity and sense of personal control throughout the course of your illness.

• Support the people who are important to you, both as you approach the end of your life and during their bereavement.

We also invite your ideas and suggestions as to how we can improve the care and support that we deliver to you, the people who are important to you and others in similar situations.”

A letter from the RCGP was forwarded to all GP practices with the intention that they and other primary health care teams would ‘sign up’, discuss with care homes (and provide supportive training), display a poster on the waiting room wall, discuss with patient groups and also patients receiving palliative care (and their relatives) and that patients and relatives should receive a copy of the Charter.

Erm, it hasn’t happened.   Search Pulse and it is impossible to find one article as none are archived.  I did watch two videos there – one in which Dr Clare Gerada stated that GPs were best placed to initiate conversation re the Charter in care homes as they ‘know the patient best.’    Mmmmh, maybe in London Dr Gerada – but certainly not in my neck of the woods!

It is possible to find stuff on GP (online) but not much and I have never seen said Charter displayed at a GP surgery – and I do visit quite a few with our residents.

On the launch of the charter Dr Gerada stated "Care seems to break down at the very end. So often a GP has looked after someone really well, and then they are not there."

The reason for this post, two of our residents have recently died with a terminal illness and I feel strongly they would have welcomed interest in their situation from their GPs – but it was not forthcoming.  Not sure they would have welcomed their own copy of the Charter though – I certainly wouldn’t as to me it (in the format offered) would be akin to receiving a ‘Well Done, You’re Dying!’ certificate…

Is the End of Life Patient Charter alive anywhere?

Anna :o]

Breakfast

Breakfast, 1921, Fernand Leger

Wind whistles,

rain taps its rhythm on window pane,

hearth fire crackles,

radiates its warming glow.

Early morning coffee-scented,

croissant smile

lipsticked strawberry jam,

me freshly squeezed in loving arms,

love being loved by you.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.

A Very Brief Encounter

Day breaks – sunrises!

Alarm sounds

Du-du-du du

Du-du-du du  

Du-du-du du

He wakes, unfurls, rubs eyes,

stretches body, toes curl.

Du-du-du du  

Du-du-du du (click).

Showered, shaved, ‘tache clipped. 

Toast buttered, egg cracked, toast dipped. 

Coffee drank, lips licked.

Door slammed, rushes to station,

he’s-catching-the-train,

he’s-catching-the train,

he’s-catching-the-train.

sixty-six minutes to his destination. 

Looks at his watch, train running late.

Will-he-be-late, will-he-be-late,

will-he-be-late

for-the-very-first-date?

She’ll-be-there waiting-for-him

Under-the-clock. 

Waiting-for-him, waiting-for-him. 

Tick-tock, tick-tock,

tick-tock, tick-tock.

He arrives at the station

ten minutes late at his destination.

Will she be there, waiting for him

under the clock, tick-tock-tick-tock.

He straightens his tie, lick combs his hair,

will she be there, will she be there?

 Pats posy of roses, supposes she likes roses,

 but will she be there, will she be there?

Ah there she is wearing carnation

waiting for him under the clock at the station,

tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

God she’s chewing gum with mouth wide open,

Smudged ruby lips and some teeth are broken!

‘Are you Hugh?’ she screeches, ‘You Hugh?

Ya late - ya late for our very first date!’

 as she reaches across for the posy of roses.

He’s starting to panic,

heart thump-thump-thump-thumps. 

My God this woman is manic

and she’s fondling my rump!

Dithering, dithering, what to do, what to do,

a man in a panic is dithering Hugh!

‘Madam’ he stutters ‘I fear you’re mistaken,

 I am not Hugh and my heart’s ‘ready taken. 

The posy of roses is for my good lady wife

who is arriving quite soon on the 6.40 from Fife!’

‘Ooooo, that’s sad that’ she utters

as she starts a-kissing

‘Stay with me for a while,

you don’t know what you’re missing!’

Heart is in overdrive,

thump, thump, thump, thump,

he prises her lips off his face,

takes her hand off his rump.

‘O Madam!’ stutters Hugh as he panics and blushes,

and tail between legs from the station he rushes,

reaches a pub orders pork-scratchings and ale

(heart’s revving down, heart’s  revv i n g   down,

thump-thump,   thump,     thump).

Silly old Hugh has been such a chump,

this lady's no lady of that he is clear

and there is a ‘Phew’ from dear Hugh as he sups at his beer.

and he makes a decision without reservation

‘No, not ever, no never ever again

will I meet a strange woman

under the clock at the station!’

Anna :o]

Entered at Open Link Night at dVerse~ Poets Pubs.  Cheers dVerse!

Image: courtesy of wikimedia commons with thanks to the author Ralf Roletschek (talk) - Fahrradtechnik auf fahrradmonteur.de