Poetry and prose

Making the decision to be more candid; to write things out. Taking the good advice of fellow writers, I'm continuing a series of poems that addresses a very dark time in my life. This takes careful balancing: how to 'write it out' while not burdening your readers with your own misery. It's possible, I know. Lots of people do it.

Having made a start with 'Little Bird', and feeling that it hit the right notes, I'm continuing with 'We All Know How This Ends'. When you know you are to lose one parent, how do you cope with the one left behind? Extract...

Day after day, while they came with

News that bloomed worse and worse,

I stood and trembled on my square of carpet,

Like a puppy about to pee.

 

How will I paint him,

When this ends?

Like me; enamelled on with the finest

Of brushes, only several hairs thick that paint

On a facsimile of a person that sits and

Stands and walks? And even talks when it has to?

I'm also continuing with my long prose piece 'Salt and Bones'. Re-reading my inspiration, Helen Dunmore's 'Talking to the Dead', I'm trying to capture some of her sensuous way of writing. That is the book I wish I had written, and I am absorbed by it. Helen was a poet too, and I love the way poets write prose. I struggle to write at length. Forty lines is my usual. 'Salt and Bones' is the story of Rachel and Brendan, their long and unusual relationship as the parents of Kate and grandparents of Amy, while never having married and being married to other people. When they realise Kate is missing, they need to look at the people in their lives and how they might be involved. Extract...

‘She’s asleep. She’s a treasure, Rachel. You’ve done a fantastic job with her. Just like you did with Kate.’ I look at him. ‘Really. You did a great job with her too. Kate is responsible for her own actions. Nobody has ever blamed you for her. Least of all me.’ The damp has settled on the house. It’s always colder here at night than inland. He shivers a little, with tiredness more than the cold, and rubs his arms. He’s too big for the room. ‘I’ve never understood why you took this place on, Rachel. It’s nearly over the edge. I’m terrified each time there’s a storm in case you’re both chucked out onto the beach. If you couldn’t afford to buy somewhere, you only had to ask. Especially now. Angela has said the same thing. We can find some money from the sale of the Greenwich house.’

‘Not that it’s really any of your business, but I could afford to buy something. Especially out here. You know that Carey’s money would go a long way here. It’s not Greenwich. They practically give the houses away on this bit of the coast. There’s nothing here; as you like to point out.’ I move over to the window. ‘But who wouldn’t want this view? Until I talk the owner into selling it, I’m stuck renting.’

‘I don’t want you to use all of Carey’s money. He meant you to have that to live on. I told him that I’d help you out as much as possible. You know that I promised him.’

Brendan’s face clouds as he talks about Carey. He was very fond of my late husband, and the doctor in him has never got over the fact that Carey couldn’t be saved. Brendan hounded every expert he could find. They colluded, the two of them, making a united front to shield me from the tsunami of grief that was rolling irreversibly towards me. I turn to look at the vast dark that I fled to after I couldn’t stand to be in our home anymore. All that came with me were his paintings. Big, quiet slabs of pale colour that hover on the canvas. Calm; like him.

Brendan comes over to stand behind me. He slips his arms around my waist and pulls me towards him, so I’m leaning against him. It’s comfortable. Familiar. I wrap my arms around his, and we look at the black night, and our own reflections in the window. I think about how often over thirty years that we’ve stood like this. He smells of brandy, as he leans down to put his cheek against the side of my head. His eyes are closed, and he looks ready for sleep. I know him better than that, though. I reach up behind me to stroke his cheek.

‘It’s late. Come to bed.’