Poem produced in class from stimuli:



The scars of sorrow bear an extreme heat

The scars of sorrow bear an extreme heat
Tougher than normal skin
I’m proud of mine; they make me who I am,
And ashamed and keep them hidden.

Tell them my story? Who would want to hear it?
Has no wider meaning, unusual, too personal.
Nobody wants to think such things can happen,
And since it mostly won’t, remains my private grief.

Pump up my tires and get back on the bike of normality.
High on the pleasures of a day without pain.
The joy of turning off my own bedroom light,
Sitting in silence on the park bench, enjoying every moment.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

On the morning of 17th July 2007 I was particularly happy. Summer Term had just ended so I had 6 weeks of holiday from my Teaching Assistant job ahead, my husband was coming back from a 3 week research visit to Australia on Friday and my first grandchild was due in August. Life seemed very good – I was listening to Women's Hour, and my 16 year old son was asleep as usual upstairs. I felt a need to rush to the downstairs toilet and whilst sitting there fell forward with agonising and unexpected pain. I recall trying to shout my son's name but being able to do so only weakly. After what seemed like hours, he arrived sleepily at the toilet door and asked what was wrong. I replied 'this is the worst pain since childbirth' (already acknowledged in my family as the gold standard for pain after two 3 day labours!) and he said' better ring an ambulance then'……I recall a paramedic trying to open the toilet door to get to me, and then... I awoke 8 days later in Intensi...
Read more

another attempt.....at the pool

I wrote this out very quickly after over-hearing a conversation in the changing room at the pool. I wanted it to be less simple than arranged marriage is often presented. She'd always used the pool at the gym as a place of escape, to allow her mind to run freely for a change. Sometimes she'd find she'd done 10 lengths and not really thought of anything, like driving the car on autmonatic when you realise you're at your destination but don't remember the journey. Other times her mind would replay conversations, or worry events to death. But today she could hardly think at all and her crying tears mixed with the water in the pool so no-one would notice them. Her nother had caught her just as she left for the gym - " Divia, my darling. This cannot go on, You've got your university degree; you've had a good job but now you need to marry" "But Mum...." "All the good boys will be taken, You can be 'engaged' for a few more years ...
Read more

Starting to write

I want to write but I don't know yet how to self-start so I'm using the blog as an imaginary teacher telling me that I have to produce some writing each day. I don't need it to be read but it would be a bonus. My first attempt is from a writing class where the participants were given a tomato - I've ended it too quickly I think with a rather woman's magazine story last line but I'm not sure where to go with it now - expand it to a normal short story length or not? Tomatoes She crossed tomatoes off her shopping list with an aching heart. He’d always loved them. As a baby, she’d pushed him down to the shops, her bag was too full and she’s rested the tomatoes in their plastic container on his lap as he seemed to be asleep. It was a long weary walk back up the hill to the house, and she was thinking of other things, so it wasn’t until she looked down at him as she opened the gate, that she realised they’d all gone – he had steadily and quietly eaten his way thro...
Read more