Untitled…

Royal CourtsThey walked slowly out of the building; through its long shadows, down the stark white steps and into the sunshine. It was only then he realised how chilled the stone had been, and how muffled the sound as it’d bounced around the cavernous architecture.

He glanced up at the arch as they came out under it. The building seemed to glow in the sunshine. The sky a blue back-drop. In any other circumstance, he may have paused to appreciate it more.

He was suddenly aware of a group of people clustering around the family who had come out just ahead of them. Men with cameras, a woman holding a microphone. Press.

He guided Geena in the opposite direction, and closer to him, thankful that the family had come out before him..and that they were not interested in them. In the grand scheme of things – they were small fry.

He glanced at Genna as they crossed over the Strand and made their way down Arundel Street, towards Temple Tube Station. Her shoulders shook under his hand every so often as she took another gulp of breath. They hadn’t said a word to each other for hours.

But, what do you say?

His attention was caught by a young black man standing outside a coffee shop. He wore a long black robe that fell to just above his ankles. He was holding a white wig under one arm; his other hand held a thin cigar, which he drew on every so often before it collaborated in making another point to his companion. 

He realised that it was the smell of the cigar that had caught his attention. It took him back to the last time he’d smoked one, thirty odd years ago, when his son had just been born.

With two girls already, he’d really wanted a son. He’d have been happy with either, of course. But, he’d secretly wanted a son. So when he’d arrived at the delivery room, and the nurse presented him with a wriggling bundle in a pink blanket, he was slightly dismayed.

Geena laughed at him. She’d looked blotchy and knakered. Her gown was in disarray, and the top of her breasts were streaked with blood. She was beautiful. 

And then he realised, as the nurse, half smiling too, opened up the blanket.

“We ran out of blue ones today,” She’d said, apologetically. 

£2 is not a lot

I have £2 in my bank account, this should last me to the end of the month. No, that’s not a typo. And yes, it’s only the 19th…

I’d have never envisaged just how many things you actually have to deal with when you separate from someone. We had a home, shared bills and bank accounts. A shared life, so it is of course inevitable that it will be messy.

I can write reams on the emotional consequences; ripe inspiration for poetry. If I were more motivated, more eloquent, I would write more.

It’s the depression, the realisation and remembrance of the loss, the sadness that engulfs me like a wave that sometimes takes me by surprise. Like today, I feel lonely.

Physically, I think I may have psoriasis on my scalp. Sometimes I feel like clawing my hair out. And now that I don’t drink so much (this, only because I can’t afford to buy it, and not because I don’t want to.) I think my liver feels better…

The funny thing about this is – the sudden ‘coincidences’. That, although I feel down – I still have many reasons to be ‘ok’ in this situation.

For example, the free bottle of wine on Friday that was given to my friend and I because the bar didn’t have a table for us?!

The free ticket to the gig yesterday, and a lift there from a friend meant that I didn’t have to cancel because I couldn’t afford to get there…

The London Poetry Festival: 7th – 10th August 2009

Poets are brave souls. Not only do they pour out their heart into their PCs, choosing the most eloquent words to describe the sometimes stained, sometimes rank, always kaleidoscopic world we live in; they also read them out!

So, knees knocking, i also performed..and it does felt good!

This year my favourites were: ‘Poets in Residence’ Aiko Harman (Link here) and Rowena Knight (Link here).

I was in awe of quietly spoken poetry legend, Michael Horovitz (Link here), both he and his son, Adam read – leaving me feeling as though i’d met the First Family or something!

Prolific writer, and The London Poetry Festival organiser Munayem Mayenin (Link here) gave me a copy of his life’s work – Laranska, The Anatomy of fear…i’m thinking i should get reading!

The Winning Ticket
Dom Perignon and a bumptious new friend,
Danced on my head Sunday morning.
Sock and braless note a rambunctious end
A man on the floor still snoring.