Turning the Tables
Lobster meat is sweet, I believe
I tasted it once, a long time ago
but I really don’t know
if the clacking, snapping, pincer-sharp
bite of the lobster-look-alike girl’s mind
belies anything even remotely kind
As I sit watching her eat that lobster meat
sucking her fingers with self-satisfied glee
pouting and spouting out the debris
of her clacking, snapping pincer-sharp mind
and smile inwardly at the resemblance I see
a wonderful, horrible thought comes to me
Wouldn’t it be great if a giant lobster loomed
and ate her up after popping her into
a boiling pot, while she was still alive?
This is the sea-bed of salvation
upon which I feed and thrive
turning the tables through poetry
on the clacking, snapping
pincer-sharp lobster-look-alike girl’s mind
and her kind
(c) Maggie Baker 2014 & Glad the Poet 2020
Tag: writing
Being Glad
I’ve recently been fortunate to have taken part in a group poetry project.
Group experiences have been central to my mental health recovery for many years.
Some group experiences have an uplifting, energising and inspiring effect; others lead to alienation, isolation and degradation.
The poetry group experience that I’ve recently had was a good one, thanks largely to the enthusiasm and encouragement of the group leader https://mariafrankland.co.uk/.
Everybody’s contribution was important though, otherwise we wouldn’t have ended up being able to publish our anthology https://www.amazon.co.uk/More-Poetry-Newly-Single-Something/dp/1697621732/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=more+poetry+for+the+newly+single+40+something&qid=1584785987&s=books&sr=1-1.
In case you don’t want to buy the book, or perhaps as a taster (I’m one of 12 poets in the completed work), here are my poems from the collection:
Now
Now
at the Pinnacle
14-and-a-half per cent
proof point of my existence
I’ve reached the Nottage Hill
sub-station of my life
I haven’t got a Sauvignon Blanc’s clue
about what to do next
other than to ‘méthode-champenoise’
my way through and hope
that if the cork crumbles
the bottle won’t be blue
and the sieve will be fine
so that
just for now
I can at least
drink the wine
I can dance
I can dance without moving my feet at all
I don’t have to do the foxtrot
or quickstep my way to any ball
I can cry without moving my lips
I can laugh without making a sound
all I have to do is know
that the earth is flat, it isn’t round
The dance is mine to make up
from the music of the wind
a sense of something swirling
in and around my mind
I don’t need a choreographer
an audience or loud applause
I just need to dance in my own way
and then I’ll dance some more
I can dance without moving my feet at all
on and on and on and on
it is my dance
my life
my call
Here’s to Wealth!
Cheers my dear
to the love that you bring
into my life
and though I never want
to be your wife
I want to share with you
all the good things
that life brings
I love it when you sing
as I know it comes
from within your soul
and as we learn together
to love each other
something magical
unfolds
The trees without leaves
that you hung
around my neck
and from my ears
help to take away
all my fears
of things undone
of words unsaid
the sadness
of never nurturing
a child upon
my breast
Where once was hope
and then despair
becomes a sense of
stillness
in the air
and from that place
of breathing
and of wings
comes freedom to wonder
and wander
into the rich realms
of being together
feeding the birds
with the wealth
of our love
Instant Coffee
Heading for instant gratification
no time to waste or spare
I take my mug into the kitchen
only to find a queue of people there
Halted, suddenly, empty cup in hand
my thoughts spill over into the needs of others
heads bowed or lifted
as we together stand
I only needed coffee
and soon the queue was gone
my waiting time was over
but for someone else it had only just begun
***
I’m also proud of the back cover copy that I wrote for the book:
A relationship break-up can be a difficult experience at any age. It isn’t always easy to see the opportunity beyond the heartache, and even less easy to find ways of putting the experience into words.
The triumphs of Maria Stephenson’s emergence into a new life as a writer and teacher are embodied in her collection of ‘Poetry for the Newly Single Forty Something’ (2017). Maria didn’t just stop at publishing her own collection though. She inspired others to explore their creative approaches to the theme, leading to this exciting anthology, which is more than the sum of its poems.
The words of each poet paint a picture of part of their own unique life story. Demonstrating diverse responses to life and writing challenges, threads of commonality emerge and unite.
What are you waiting for? Dive in, explore, share in the joy of words and wonders of life that these writers have explored and shared. These poems aren’t just about being newly single, or about being forty something, they are about being – essentially – human.
The reason for my pride is partly because I think it stands well as a piece of writing in its own right (and even being able to credit myself with that is a remarkable* achievement in its own right), and partly because of what it represents for me in terms of having come through what I’ve come through, still fighting, still writing, still reaching out.
* https://iamremarkable.withgoogle.com/ (#IamRemarkable is a Google initiative empowering women and underrepresented groups to celebrate their achievements in the workplace and beyond.)
I’m Glad
It’s not my real name, but ‘Glad’ is better than sad, and I’ve worked hard in my life to be Glad, not sad.
I’ve recently started decorating my house – our house. This may not seem like an amazing revelation or achievement, but it is for me. I’m 64 years old and have had a long struggle to be able to enjoy doing the everyday things that I can focus on now.
It’s taken about fifty years of unlearning and then re-learning how to be me. Poetry hasn’t been the only vehicle I’ve used for recovery and discovery, but it has been a regular companion along the way.
As a teenager – like many teenagers since and still – I developed a very negative self-image of myself, inside and out.
Out
Out, out into the world
That’s where I wanted to go
What I wanted to do
When I was young
But when I looked in the mirror
All I could see
Was an ugly, unattractive body
Looking back at me
I went on a diet from the age of about 15 that lasted for the next 30 years or so, and affected every aspect of my life (or more accurately non-life that it had become). I didn’t think I had anything to offer as a person, didn’t know how to form relationships, and put all my energy into losing weight. At least if I was thin, that would be something. Except it led to nothing, because it wasn’t solid ground on which to build a life. It was the best I could do at the time, but I did eventually realise, after I’d had a major breakdown in my late thirties, and was trying to get myself going again in my forties, that I needed to eat, to give me energy, to be able to live. I had to finally, eventually, push through that awful sense of self-loathing that I associated with putting on weight in order to emerge as a (literally as well as generally) well-rounded person with an appetite for life.
I still have to work at it, still take anti-depressants, can’t use shop changing rooms or look at myself naked in a mirror, but on the whole this does not affect my ability to enjoy my life – with my partner – and try to make the most of every day.
I can still very easily cut myself off, go into ‘zombie’ mode, more readily associate with entropy than energy, so decorating my house – however long it takes – and writing this blog – wherever it takes me – are positive signs of engagement; action rather than inaction.
I hope my poems and other musings may resonate with anyone who has struggled to find their own identity and path through life. I know now that there are endless possibilities and I hope that the following poem (in six parts) helps to show how important it is for each of us to find our fighting spirit:
Jacket 1
It’s there, on the chair
The red fleece jacket
With hood and drawstring waist
That I don’t want to wear
Don’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on
But far too big for me
Drowned in a red sea
Shapeless, I feel
A baggy, saggy, faceless entity
I look at the jacket
On the chair
In limp, loose folds of red, and seams
This isn’t the jacket of my dreams
It’s theirs to wear
Not mine to keep
Their tears to cry
Not mine to weep
It’s there, on the chair
The red fleece jacket
With hood and drawstring waist
That I don’t want to wear
Don’t want to keep
So I’ve put a price on its head
To let it go free
To someone who wants it
But when will that be?
Jacket 2
It’s there, on the chair
The red fleece jacket
With hood and drawstring waist
That I don’t want to wear
Don’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on
But far too big for me
Drowned in a red sea
Shapeless, I feel
A baggy, saggy, faceless entity
I look at the jacket
On the chair
In limp, loose folds of red, and seams
This isn’t the jacket of my dreams
It’s not my layer
These aren’t my lies
With drawstring waist
And nylon ties
It’s not my jacket
They’re not my dreams
These aren’t my ties
They’re not my seams
So I leave the jacket
On the chair
To go my way
While they go theirs
Jacket 3
Now it hangs upon the door
That red fleece jacket
That I didn’t want to wear
Didn’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on
And not too big for me
Warmed in a red sea
Shapeless no more
No baggy, saggy faceless entity
I look at the jacket
On the door
In limp, loose folds of red, and seams
It’s not the jacket of my dreams
But just a layer to keep me warm
From frozen looks
And glares of scorn
It is my jacket
With hood and waist
To wear a while
From place to place
Jacket 4
What next?
Jacket 5
Jacket in?
Jacket 6
No!
Glad About 