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

The Drawing Room



Big Room, 1948, by Andrew Wyeth



It was the Sunday room

‘cept Sunday never really came;

 one loveless day blurred into the next...

It was the drawing room,

guests entertained by perfect hosts…

Bottom nanny tapped

“Go in!  Go in,

my little precious one,

they’re waiting!” 

(Mummy what I want most of all

is to be your friend...)

…and I’d go in

hating the feigned affection,

affected for the sake of others,

held close to your chest

I’d feel your bitter cold

as you muttered

empty loving words in longing ears,

mixed messages of frigid mother love.

(Mummy what I want most is to be your friend…)

Life ends, nothing left of you

but dust and bitter memories.  

The room draws me in

and I see you there

hiding in the gloom and shadows

gazing at my photo on the mantel

and I finally understand,

how can those

who have not known love give love,

you reach out for me

from beyond the living

and I feel the warmth within your hand.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for this weeks prompt.

The Vendor





Big Issue seller, Oxford, 2006

"Please buy Beeeeg Ishooo"
he pleads

in his dirty postcard rasp

that grates,

irritates so much

that I want to slap him down. 

He grasps at unoffered hand

“Thank you, thank you lay-deee,

you buy Beeeeg Ishooo?”

Can’t he see how he makes me cringe?

Can he not understand that

“No thanks!” means No Thanks

and I know that he is homeless

and I should take a good look at me

and wonder what I am all about

as he shouts, begs, pleads

“Pleeeeze buy Beeeeg Ishooo,

pleeeeze lay-deee!”

But I can’t, I can’t.  

If only he would not beg

in that sleazy voice,

grab hold of me with greasy hands,

stare at me with that pleading face,

can he not understand

he makes my blood boil

as he knowingly invades my space,

takes away my choice of Yes or No

as he pressures for a Yes and only a Yes?

Sorry fella,

know your fighting homelessness

but from me it will always be “No thanks”
and that's just how it will always be.

Anna :o]

Today’s Meeting the Bar at dVerse~ Poets Pub is hosted by Victoria C. Slotto and the theme is ‘Writing Characters.’  Thanks Victoria!

The above is an observation of a street vendor and unfortunately it is true and perhaps it is as telling of me as it is of said street vendor?  I am ashamed of myself for having such an antagonistic opinion of this man which must come across (to him).  I really can’t help it for there is something about his manner that infuriates and I really can’t escape him as his pitch is the entrance to the bus station where I catch my bus…

For those of you outside of the UK selling The Big Issue is a means by which those who are homeless or at risk of becoming homeless can ease themselves back into the workforce by selling the magazine on a fixed pitch and earn money on each sale.

Please click onto The Big Issue Foundation to learn more of this charity whose mission is: “The Big Issue Foundation is a national charity which connects vendors with the vital support and solutions that enable them to rebuild their lives and journey away from homelessness.”  

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and the author is Kamyar Adi.  Thanks Kamyar!

(Please note that the vendor in the photograph is not the man that gets on my nerves!)

PS Don't know what happened above (to first two lines) - tried to respace but the blog seems to have a mind of its own...

Strange Comfort

There is a sad strange comfort here

Drowning sorrows in sweet red wine.

We raise our glass and feign good cheer,

Sad little ladies of the vine.

Sad little stories intertwine

As secret longings we confess,

Our secret pain we do consign,

Drinking to drown our loneliness.

Anna :o]

Hah, an end to writers block, thanks to Gemma Wiseman at dVerse~Poets Pub!  Today is Form for All and the form is that of the Huitain.  Gemma writes:

There are those who claim that the huitain is French in origin, and others who are adamant it has Spanish origins. Either way, it was popular in the 15th and early 16th centuries and was often used for epigrams in the 18^th century.  The form evolves around the number eight.

In France, the huitain was closely associated with the ballade which comprised three eight line stanzas, with the last line being a refrain. The ballade was set to music during the 13^th-15^th centuries.  But the huitain dismissed the refrain element and the music.

The original huitain is a single verse, eight line poem with eight syllables per line. The rhyme scheme is:
a
b
a
b
b
c
b
c

Cheers Gemma and also to the wise man who unknowingly was the inspiration for the words of this poem.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Creative Commons Red Wine Glass by André Karwath aka Aka

Depression

Image by Zelko Nedic

You watch me
through those damn dewy eyes
that torment my soul
and steal
the very heart of me.

The warning growl
through snarling teeth;
the putrid breath
feeding despair
and souring hope.


You are my black dog,
forever vigilant.
there is no escape.

Damn your dewy eyes.

Anna :o]

Tess’s excellent prompt at The Mag brought to mind the above I had posted earlier last year and it really didn’t get much of an airing.

I was tentatively dipping my toes in the poetry world then only having entered Magpie Tales twice prior to posting Depression on its little lonesome, linked to nothing but my desire to write.

Depression appeared a natural response to the prompt and I have therefore posted again.

*********************************************************************
Hello again!  I have added this bit today (30.07.12) in case some folk are unaware that ‘The Black Dog’ is a metaphor for depression.   I think most of us attribute the term to Winston Churchill although it is possible it was conceived prior to this.

I should make you aware that I do not suffer from depression, in fact I am rather happy-go-lucky in my approach to life – but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about anything for I surely do.

I work in mental health and I listen to the people I care for - and learn, for to (pretend) to care without understanding is not caring at all.

Here is a link to a Black Dog article at PsychCentral – just here!

The Old Asylum




Corridor. Hellingly Asylum, Sussex by James C Farmer

 



Figure Eight, 1952, by Franz Kline



Seed, parachuted,

drifts aimlessly on passing breeze,

upon a lull descends

amidst the grass and tangled weeds

that strew the paths,

choke the very heart

of the Old Asylum grounds.

Time stands still,

the clock unwound upon its tower

hides amongst the chestnut trees,

and some way below,

the door, chained,

keeps its secrets locked inside,

defiant, repels (for now)

Ivy’s attempt to stranglehold, invade,

as she tries to squeeze her tendrils

through decaying slats and shatter glass.             

Elsewhere

corridors echo eerily the slightest sound,

paint peeling curls upon the walls,

leaves its angry scars

as it flutters wearily to the ground

to join dust and dirt and debris

dropped from gaping ceiling.

Life stirs,

bristles in the old abandoned ward,

spiders spin fine thread from spinneret,

a window chink lets in solar rays,

lights up swirling silver dust heaven bound

and bedsteads rust upon the ground

as fly struggles in spiders sticky web

and in the roof space

wasps nest nestled in the eaves emits a buzzing sound

as pigeons coo and play

perched high upon the rotting rafters.

Seed, parachuted,

drifts aimlessly on passing breeze,

bees dip thirsty tongues in flower hearts

sing gratitude with pleasant hum,

wood pigeon cooo-coo-cu in chestnut trees

as nature breathes its love of life,

takes refuge in
the Old Asylum.

Anna :o]

Tess’s prompt at The Mag was that of the Figure Eight and spiders eight legs immediately popped into my mind.  Prior to the prompt I had been taking a trip down memory lane, viewing abandoned asylums on Flickr and had come across the hospital where I did my training and the resulting poem was a combination of the two.

The poem is also entered at Open Link Night, hosted by Joseph Hesch at dVerse~Poets Pub.  Thanks Joe!

ATTENTION!  ATTENTION!

Totally remote from the above please view this YouTube video “Som Sabadell flashmob.”  Wonderful!  (As no-one has mentioned this I have highlighted it!   Please, please, please view it - it moves me to tears every time I do.)

Image; courtesy of James C Farmer at flickr photostream.  (I did not do my training here!)