Rib-cages Virus

 Dear Reader,

 

It has occurred to me in the last few months that my blog is not only dull, but boring too.  And this was verified by a close friend this week.  So I can't understand why so many people read it, especially in  far away places where English is not even spoken.   Or perhaps they don't, in fact read it, and have simply got used to ticking the like button every Sunday, as a habit perhaps.  Anyway what should I do about the question of how dull it is?  I haven't found a solution to the that question yet but probably will have in the near future.

About the poem this week.  My daughter Tiffany has got a bad dose of bronchitis and coughs and coughs. I told her of a poem I had written when I had the same problem and sent her a copy.  She thought it was 'brilliant" but I have been  reluctant to publish it because it is so gloomy (and dull!!) although it is exactly how I felt when coughing myself and staying up all night because lying flat is out of the question. Thomas Hardy has written a poem about being ill called 'A Wasted Illness' which is worth looking up if you are interested in this subject.

 

                                                                                    *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  September 14th 1800 in Westmorland

'A lovely day.  Read Boswell in the house in the morning, and after dinner under the bright yellow leaves of the orchard.  The pear trees a bright yellow.  The apple trees still green.  A sweet lovely afternoon. '

 

From Francis Kilvert   September 14th 1873 in North Devon

'I got up at 6 o'clock as the sun was rising behind the Tors at Lynton.  The house was silent and no one seemed to be about.  I unlocked the door and let myself out into the garden.  It was one of the loveliest mornings that ever dawned upon this world.  A heavy dew had fallen in the night and as I wandered down the beautiful winding terraced walks every touch sent a shower from the great blue globes of the hydrangeas, and on every crimson fuchsia pendant flashed a diamond dew drop.  The clear pure crisp air of the early morning blew fresh and exhilarating as the breeze came sweet from the sea. 

 

                                                                                     *

The Rib-Caged Virus

The obscene creature
crouches in its corner.
All at once it leaps
striking out
hurling itself against the rib-boned cage.
Spitting venom-virus
it grasps the throat
twisting, punching, pulling
with fierce, unrelenting strength.
Its slate-black tentacles encircle
its victim's airways,
and squeeze their breath,
as it rattles the bones.
It attacks, attacks again, then
all at once it stills,

slouches, crouches, grins and waits,
tongue lolling.

The woman gasps
at the onslaught,

coughs, croup's, sweats, retches,
spits the debris,
feels faint-weary
sleep deprived, dirty
exhausted, fearful.

The clock ticks.
The woman waits.

                                                                        * 

 

 

The Mind Cupboard

 

 

 My mind cupboard overflows

with unwanted debris.

It needs a spring clean.

 

I will brush away the cobwebs

of cheerless thoughts.

Scrub out the stains of childhood.

 

I will replace the brass hooks

corroded with salt tears,

empty all the screams

hoarded through the years.

 

I will replace the accumulated ashes

from the worn shelf-paper,

with virgin tissue.

 

I will chase and catch the wasps,

relieve them of their stings.

I will refill this cupboard

with love, and learnt, brighter things.

 

 

 

                                                                      *

Dear Reader,

 

I am sorry this all seems so gloomy and dull?  But you can't please everyone all the time, as they say. And 'The Mind Cupboard' is your favourite poem of mine.

 

With very best wishes,

Patricia