In this 'new normal', one of the many buzzwords I loathe, how and why do we keep creating? When we are being steered towards an existence that is purely work, school and home, with few other human interactions, pleasure, or creative outlets.
When everything you know suddenly stops, some parts you don't like are gone from your life, along with other parts you love.
I've felt moments of elation. I've cried myself to sleep often. I've felt happiness and soul-crushing boredom.
Overall, I've tried to channel it. Into poems, and plays, and making, and slow learning of lovely contemplative piano pieces and making and raising plants from the stone and glass-riddled patch of dull back garden. It helps.
I've created several long pieces meant to be spoken aloud, and from the perspective of isolated women. A new way of working, that gives my often-used fairy tale women a new voice.
from Bluebeard’s Wife
It would cost him nothing
To give me up; to cast me
Aside like an odd shoe.
The old wound he carries
Masks his view of me.
Deep as it is, and scarring.
He will make no wound
Of me: I feel it too,
And share it. He
Has married an equal.
He has taught me well.
Each day he turns
The key and leaves
Me here, in his first
Bride’s dress that we
All must wear, patched
Over, altered for the
Shape of our bodies, the
Length of our hair.
But it fits me well,
Though the mice and
The moths have
Made their meals
Of it. I mean mine
To be the best fit.
from Briar Rose
Consider this: the tantalising sound of the sea;
Heard, but never seen.
And the blackbirds’ violent shouts from the turret walls
Taunting the cat and me.
The gorse is yellowly fat and sweating,
With the honeysuckle ready to burst.
Those fairies gave me many blessings:
Beauty; wisdom; kindness.
So what?
Could one of them not
Have given me the blessing of breathing
In this sweet-scented air without sneezing?
Oh, they turn up at the birth: guaranteed.
Take the gold plate, give out a platitude and vamoose.
No quality control. Of course, a princess will be
Fair and wise and kind. It’s in the job description.
No need for them to bust a gut.
All neatly tied-up and clean cut
And away, after a supper of
Goose and swan. A dainty pigeon
On the side. But there’s always one.
The Johnny-come-lately, the
Ghost at the feast. Turning up
When the bar’s drunk dry and
The party’s at the fag end.
