In View

Your gentleness still shines through.

I know there can be no more,

And I won’t ask it of you.

Just tenderly accompany me on my journey,

In compete ease,

Side by side as before.

Follow my steps from afar

As I shall yours.

Manchester 2009

The Merry Round-and-Round

Here comes the Merry Round-and-Round,

Up and down,

All through town,

Distracting us from wake time.

He smelled her need,

She took no heed,

Her senses open to his seed.

Sat her on a pretty horse,

Led her on a happy course,

Upon the Merry Round-and-Round.

Until she fell upon the ground,

Arms outstretched

In a heap, feeling cheap.

Then came the sound

Once more abound

Upon the Merry Round-and-Round.

Paris 1997

The Mirror

Don't cut there!

Why not? 

Just here, just a nick.

Slow and intentioned. 

You're only thinking of yourself, 

And the pain you'll have to endure.

That face in the mirror unshaven 

With shackled eyes asking, "Why?"

Well it's either you or me in that stance.

Who is it to be? 

Broken Words

Apparently we utter 15,000 words on average per day. I wonder what my mean is? During a typical day I have one five minute conversation with my mum, and that's it for oral communication. How many words is that? A couple of hundred? Does that 15,000  include all the conversations I have in my head? Or is it the spoken part of the act that is important? I also wonder if this is why I’ve taken to writing since becoming ill. Is it an innate urge from my brain to get something out in some form or another? Of course writing is very different to conversing as it’s very one-sided, there isn’t the bouncing around of ideas, new thoughts and ideas sparked unless it’s IM or bantering on Facebook. In a way, I suppose writing is very similar to those conversations we have in our minds, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, we must all do it, those imaginary colloquies with other people and of course always getting our desired outcome, the practice run before saying something close to our heart to make sure we get out exactly what we want to say, reliving almost forgotten memories or playing out our hopes and desires. Surely I’m not the only one? Or maybe I am and I've just divulged something really embarrassing. Well it wouldn't be the first time and it certainly isn't the most humiliating. 

Therefore is my writing the product of all the conversations I’m no longer having? I think it might well be as I am a bit of a language bunny, always have been, my greatest pleasure as a child was reading, entering wonderful imagined worlds for days and days on end.  Of course there is the little matter of my illness and chatting can be very draining for me, I need a lot of quiet to be able to get through the day and the conversations in my head are calm ones and expend very little energy.  So, what will this do to me in the long run, the fact that I’m not running linguistically as I should? Do we ever forget how to converse, how to interact? Will I only be able to effectively communicate through the written word? Only time will tell and well, if that is the case, hopefully when I finally get well or at least get some proper medical help I might, just might, be able to make it as a writer. 

Composing the Past Once More

Here is the 2nd edition of the poem all thanks to Palou. I feel it flows much better now and the grammatical mistakes have been ironed out. 

Cours, mon petit, cours!

Le vent t'emmènera, en volant tout deviendra clair,

La hauteur te séparera de toi-même.

Ainsi, plus rien ne pourra te nuire.

N'aies pas peur d'être en morceau, 

La légèreté saura te reconstruire.

Reste entortillé dans les nuages, 

La terre nourricière attendra infiniment

Le jour où tu lui rendras sa bonté,

En t'effondrant doucement dans ses bras.