Still here...VI Poetry cache

Blog 6 is a tad different. Still a blog of sorts, but also where I've decided to dump some poems I wrote a while ago and want to share it here. It's a mixed bag of styles and content and if I put it here, then it's in one place and easily retrievable when I want it. 

All of these came from a moment of inspiration and then I'd write nothing for ages or I would churn something out and realise it's a bit cack. I envy proper writers, man. 

I've saved things in loads of different places (Old USBs, laptops, harddrives, emails) and forgotten most of it until accidentally stumbling upon them. Some of you may have seen them before. Quite a few I can't find. 

Here goes...

They are in no particular order at all. 

This first one was written about my mate, Ken Little. He was wheeled into my ward 5 and a half years ago after having almost the same surgery as me but a few days behind. They couldn't complete his 'Whipple' as they found his cancer had spread to his liver and stopped what they were doing and put him back together. I visited him a few times at his home, but it was our time chatting the hours away on the ward that stays with me. We helped each other get through a tough time and laughed far too much given the situation - may have been the morphine on tap. 

The man in the next bed.

There’s a man in the bed next to me, who’s been sliced and diced just like me.

They brought him in while I was high, covered in tubes that mirrored mine eye.

Morphine euphoria made us giggle, our only escape – unable to wiggle.

“Err, Dean? Is this reality?” he asked with a smile. “I can’t tell, Ken.” I said “Let’s wait a while.”

Nurses would flit and fly as they come and go; Grace Kelly, Madonna, Marilynn Monroe.

Models in medicine made us question our senses; these drugs were ace, but messed with perceptions.

He’d drift in and out and so would I; then wake and chat endlessly about times gone by.

The jobs we’ve had and the places we’d been, the plans we have and sights to be seen.

We had the same and had gone through the same; ravaged by a disease with a scary name.

Our visitors would come and bring us joys; tinged with sadness we returned to boys.

Tears were shared long after they left; how to fix their hurt, their sadness and future bereft.

No answers came and we shared some silence; replaced by more giggles in almost an instance.

See, at my lowest ebb and heart asunder, I met a man with life, zest and wonder.

He got me through a week of gloom; with laughs and stories beyond the room.

White walls fell and he painted a world; sublimely told, his life unfurled.

His eyes would glint and he was there; mixing with images when time was spare.

Dedicated to my mate, Ken Little – a kind and genuine man who helped me deal with something terrible and terrifying, while he was going through something terrible and terrifying.

Rest in peace, you beautiful man.

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I think this next one was written in 2011, or around then, on the back of receipts while I was still driving night-shift on the taxis. I'd seen a man sat on top of the Wearmouth bridge as I passed over with a passenger in the back. Police were below and a commotion was building. On my return journey, the commotion had gone and so had the man. This poem was the result - I tried to put myself in their shoes. I never did find out what happened to him and always hoped he came down and was okay. 

The title is in reference to a line from a Talking Heads song and not recognising how you got to a certain point in your life.

  This is not my beautiful house

I sit atop this curve of green, a grassy knoll from another scene.

Its not as windy as one may think, sat aloft this cold steel brink.

Soothing solitude calms my soul; the chaos inside is filed, made whole.

The fireflies of night sit perched across the land, spread with abandon by some demonic hand.

The sea is there, somewhere, hidden from sight, it blurs into the darkness and the blanket of night.

My efforts to get here seem a distant flash, a thought put into motion, not clear, perhaps rash.

The fear has not gripped me. No, not yet...maybe now is the time while the mood is set.

Lights that dance will soon draw near, and the wails of the siren to torture my ear.

I’m in no hurry. It’s the nicest place I’ve been in years - I feel giddy, as if I win, no sign of tears.

If I go now, no one will know. I’ll avoid the lights, the noise, all that show.

They, her, them...me, it’s all the same, I can’t point the finger or levy the blame.

The sadness that brought me here has passed, replaced by a stillness I know won’t last.

As if on cue, the neon blue come at speed, to fix it all, they know my creed.

My hand is forced and the serenity spoiled, stillness interrupted and all thoughts are soiled. (Again)

What’s the done thing? Should I count myself in? Leap off backwards with a twist and a spin?

To hell with the lot of you! 1....2....3...., Finally, I’m me! Finally I’m free

It’s a natural high this sudden rush and a strange pride I did it without a push.

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This one is a simpler poem but came spilling out of the pen, so to speak. It isn't a great or perfect piece of writing by any stretch but meant a lot while writing it and still does. It's a few years old but created after I flashed forward in my head to a time when I'm very physically weak - which will come I know and I'm not far off it now - bloody steroids. It's about Lily and, well, I hope you get the jist of it. 

She's strong

She beat me in an arm wrestle

She really tried

Her face twisted with effort and smiles

She beat me in an arm wrestle.

We smiled and grimaced

Her face grew more determined

She beat me in an arm wrestle

I’d often let her win before

I think she knew

She beat me in an arm wrestle

I didn’t let her win

She just did

She beat me in an arm wrestle

I hope she keeps that strength

I hope she smiles while she grimaces.

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The following was actually published by Durham University press in their quarterly poetry journal. After that, they contacted me to ask if they could publish it further in a book of poetry and I relinquished the rights to it and gave permission. They sent me a free copy of the book. 😊 For little while I felt canny chuffed about being a published poet. Pretty sure nobody bought the book. I dont know where it was sold - may have just been on Amazon. Still, for a brief moment, it felt nice. I wrote it during the couple of years where the scans were showing NED (no evidence of disease) and feeling reflective. I think I had 3 poems submitted to the The Gentian journal and they published all 3. It's free to download in a PDF if anyone is interested. 

Look Back

I left the world for a time.

Not dead, but dying for a while.

And then it ebbed away to something thinner

There on the edges.

A shadow within the shadows. 

A whisper in a crowd. 

And a trigger brought forth by a smile 

Or a song. 

Ignored and shelved at the back.

A glimpse from her would show

She too had returned with the burden 

I see her taking snapshots with pooled eyes

A long exposure look to recall

At some later date with pooled eyes.

What once hid and stalked like a ghoul, 

A spectre creeping like winter,

Is now with us.

An unwanted guest, whose pattern is dismissed

Both here and gone.

Not reborn, just different now. 

Still me, just better.

Still here, just deeper.

Still me. Just...

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This one has made me realise that I haven't created a happy poem or even a mildly chipper bit of prose ever. It's just easier to go dark. I suppose you write what you know. 🫠

I was feeling pretty low when I put this on paper and imagined myself at the big pearly gates chatting to the doorman, St Peter in the hope he'd send me back. Daft, I know. I'm not religious at all but I find the stories fascinating. It's about 4 years old and was possibly written in response to the regular doses of bad news we would get when having appointments with oncology. 

Words from the gates 

It’s too soon, send me back.

You seem nice and all, but now’s not the time.

Let me be and let me see.

Let me be more and let me see more.

See, she still lies on my chest;

She still thinks with a purity that I’m the best.

I have to see her grow and be strong,

And glide through life with joy and song.

I need to hear my titles said by others - 

Dad, son, mate and others from my brothers.

The best of which comes from my other

I’m her husband, best friend and lover.

I’m not one to beg, but I will for this.

There’s too much to do and too much I’ll miss.

Leave me be and wait awhile, 

Say you miscounted or lost my file

Send me back.

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True story this one. I once again wrote this while sat waiting for fares in my taxi. We'd not long found out the gender of our baby that Rebecca was carefully carrying around and I began to freak out a bit. Events and flashes of life would come and go, so I wrote a few down. They were vivid future memories. Weird. 🤔 Lily was on her way and I was terrified. 

Something changed

I thought I knew who I was before I knew you

Life nestled neatly in boxes of clear order

Logic ruled and emotions were rare or dulled

Everything moved when I saw your picture

Black and white sepia magic on a flimsy square

Something changed

Things broke and became better for being broken

I saw your life in flashes through time and smiles

I panicked at the sadness life might bring

I cried at the thought of you marrying

All of the your potentials and the possibilities

Something changed

You danced to my silly songs and kicked from within

You were held by us both before you arrived

Many times, over many wonderful nights

I saw you, and it was you

Beatiful, clever, strong and wilful.

Something changed

I growled at future suitors and chased them from sight

‘My daughter’, the proud and terrifying responsibility

Of protecting you, nurturing you, teaching you

Listening to your imagination in awe and wonder

Not knowing how to preserve your innocence

Everything changed

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"We fit" is something I said to Rebecca on our second night out and I thought I was being quite profound and intensely clever or suave. It did feel clever at the time. 😉☺️ 

I'm not sure how well it translates when others hear it. You had to be there kind of moment.  

We fit

‘We fit’ I said and froze

Felt profoundly important.

Good one, that.

Suprised myself with it

‘We fit’ I said

Not the game thing

Can’t say that to her

That’d be daft

‘We fit’ I said

and meant every word

Then came the panic

It might be daft

She got it.

She smiled and I knew

She agreed with a nod…

‘We fit’ I said

‘We still fit’ I thought

and wrote these words.

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I wrote the following about the extensive care I received from 

the nurses, both at the Freeman and Sunderland hospitals, who looked after me post surgery and for the years that came after - all the way up to present day. They are superb in every way. Heroes. 

I will be forever grateful to the NHS as a whole institution and to those

MY NURSES

“Keep breathing", a voice from faraway said.

“My name...my name? My name? Keep breathing.” she said.

I thought I was. I said “I am”, but my lips remained still.

“Keep breathing..., my name.” she said and gave me more will.

She dabbed my lips to keep them from drying,

And comforted my wife to slow her crying.

They talked to me when I couldn’t reply,

And would answer with fullness as if I’d asked “why?”

A maternal, distant voice of kindness and care.

I latched on to them while lost in the somewhere.

Slipping away appeared a choice or gentle avenue,

But that light was dimmed by strong voices in blue.

“Keep breathing" she said and held my hand.

Words returned from a mind in a lost land.

“Thank you.” was all I managed to implore,

I meant it, but wished to say much more.

A doctor said what it was and what to do,

And a surgeon took a knife and sliced on through.

But you took time and looked me in the eye,

You saw the boy, not the man, and together we’d cry.

You talked to my wife and nursed her too,

Knowing she’d need help to see her through.

Your words had power that rippled through walls,

And we used them to steady our many future falls

A clap is nice and badge...erm... cool n that,

But rewards like that are a bit cheap chat.

You deserve more than a political embrace,

From a crowd of men, conniving to save face.

Reward with words and the honest action,

Not the soundbites and smiles that soon lose traction.

Give them the funding and pay they need,

The will of the people should make you take heed.

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