Francis has been writing poems which I must get him to type into a file because they really are good.

Dominic has had a poem published in an anthology at South Downs College.

The poetry group disbanded due to disinterest so I am confining myself to online composition in future.

Almost time for Italy where there will be nothing to do except be creative and review 5 romantic fiction books for foster grant.

Oh yeh forgot to add the blob news. Put on so much weight through enforced idleness and all the chocolates people brought me during painful sleepy convalescence that tomorrow I am going with Avril back to weight watchers. Oh the shame. Pome in that? Mmmmm maybe. Very likely.

Christian turned 17 and seems a lot happier. Francis has been chosen as a mascot when Pompey play Middlesborough, Feb 1st. Steve is cockahoop as he gets a free ticket to the match. I don't do football. He goes to Micheal Morpurgo's farm in May. Dominic wants to go on the school French trip.
Jenny has booked a hotel in Prague for me her and Maxine in August. Should be fun. Three on a rampage giggle giggle.
Sam has asked me if i want to spend time in her apartment in Spain gratis which is nice. Hope steve wants to go. Could be cool.

six months go by and you wonder where and how. all that time and not feeling able to write. And laptop playing up having to hold on to the wire and type onefingered.

Burns night coming up and need to pen a pome for it. No idea of subject matter maybe about Burns nights! Maybe about trying to advertise business. Spent hours today designing business cards and poster and adverts as need to get more work.
Marvin has hooked up with kenneth branagh and wants me to find him a school in London. So I put out all feelers and Sarah and Denny came through with Chace school. Hope it pans out as Marvin says I can attend workshop and meet the man. Nice.

Had no Christmas to speak of...maybe pome in that. No new year either. Had to fit in the e bay dress wearing celebrations in November and early December. I had my delayed operation on the 23rd; old dishy Dirk did the deed. Said he took a 50p piece sized area away. Doesn'y bear thinking about does it? Saw him yesterday and he told me the good news that it was all clear and so was the smear and the d and c. Not quite come to terms with that yet.

pome in that? Who knows.

Blue for feeling sad.
Been a long time since last blog-in.  Because...
too sad to tell but may be able to write it one day. 
 
Give it a go sadblogger....ok
 
Was pregnant, mixed emotions as was due for surgery, so did not really feel positive about it. Took a week of suspecting before Avril forced me to get a kit and do the blue line test.   Then changed mind and became very excited to think next February 4 or 5 there would be a new tiny squirming creature to take care of.  Morning sickness hit all day long with a vengeance  and DH was very attentive and also excited.  Saw the doctor who thought I was taking risk what with age and high blood pressure...but booked me in for clinic and reckoned my surgery would still go ahead.  Told lots of people...ah the magic and curse of e mail.  Collected my pregnancy kit from Tesco, read the Bounty book cover to cover, joined a mums over 40 web group and one for expecting in Feb 2005. 
 
I didn't tell anyone at work because I have no contract and was afraid they would employ someone else and kick me out especially as I have been feeling inadequate in my work. 
 
Researched taekwondo in pregnancy and told Master ...  he reckoned safe but not to jump or to spar.  I enjoy jumping but care little for sparring so that suited me.  However, certain parents were disapproving, and told me i was foolish to carry on when it could harm the baby.  I asked on a few martial arts boards where there are plenty of women who continue until they get too large to be comfortable.
 
So I went in for my surgery one  Friday in June but was told Dirk doesn't operate on pregnant women.  I was concerned because I do not really know how vital the surgery is.  I asked to have a pregnancy test there since i wanted to be sure...I had some spotting the day before and you never know.  It was still positive but as I bled some more I was sent for an internal scan which showed implanted egg but they couldn't find a baby.  By my calculation I  was 7 weeks but they said size was consistent with baby of 5 weeks.  By then I was worrying I was going to lose the baby.  I had gone from not really wanting it to desperately wanting this baby.  Over the weekend the spotting continued and then on through Monday and Tuesday.  I went to the hospital again with pains and was told it could be a miscarriage but that some women could have these symptoms all pregnancy.  I did another test and it was still positive and I still felt sick.  How the body can deceive...  In my mind i knew and in my heart too, that this little dream was over.
 
 GP thought I could have a blighted ovum and that I could take 2 weeks to miscarry it all.  Weds and Thursday the pains were increasing and so i rang NHS direct who gave very good advice.  Thurs I came home from work in agony and that's when the baby came out. Early Friday morning the placenta came out very painfully, almost like labour.  Friday at 9 I was back at the hospital for a scan and friend J was so kind she came with me.  Scan showed a complete miscarriage which I had realised on Thursday anyway. J cried more than I did, she'd been through it herself, I had done all my crying throughout the week and was left feeling empty. 
 
So now what?  I would like another but my GP has advised against it...too risky she says.  The boys were looking forward to it too.  Should have had another right after Francis.
 
Then there was the pain of contacting everyone and letting them know I wasn't having a baby after all.  I expect many of them think I am foolish.  Woman at her age...what was she thinking?  Nothing...
  
 

That David Beckham poem? Still brewing at the back of my consciousness. Promise I will work on it and call it Regrets.

I saw a harpist; now let's get this straight...she was not a harpy by any stretch of the imagination, but a harpist. 

 

 

I was not pissed but I wrote a poem about her

 

. First draft..needs refining. Now if i was really clever I would make the form of the poem the shape of the harp.

 Mmmmm there's a thought. 

 

 Here it is: 

 Harpist in Spring 

 

 

 

 When Delath seated herself 

 she planted her feet not in rich loam

 but either side of the three-legged instrument 

Like a spinner at the wheel. 

Pulling the resisting frame back into her embrace 

 She spun magic 

From long strings of winter. 

Caressing silver strands and coaxing melody from Springs long past. 

 The harp sang 

as she wove her spell of warmth, sunlight and dew covered valleys, 

shining green hills, with bright streams. 

Dust motes danced around, fairies in the haze. 

 Spring skipped into our room with calm and quiet 

 and the certainty of new starts. 

 We listened in silence, robing ourselves anew in ancient tongues, 

 melody whispered from aeolian harps long gone. 

 Two delicate hands sounding like many instruments.

 Pegged and veneered.

 One speedy as the returning swift

 The other slow and sensuously paced. 

Let the ancient song flow 

Engorged streams 

Fast and bright 

Filling the hall with spring.

another sad poem 

 Closure 

He said yes its over i met someone else 

 you did

 you did the things you said 

were they real? 

Were they lies no

 i meant them 

you know I did

 I know you did 

you did

 times change 

they did 

they did

 you broke my heart

 Did you make me up? 

 you do get some weird things in your head

 I did

 I did 

I got you in my head

 good grief woman get a grip

 I did 

I did I got you in the grip of my heart

That other poem...I would like to enter this for some competitions, but is it good enough? Will it reveal too much of my inner workings? Or not, as the case may be. Can it be improved or do I leave it?

Making Sense

In ashes of a doomed encounter
No spark
Vision blurred
Fire quenched by
Tears?
Or foresight?
Memory's betrayal, smoke
Pervades all I touch, everyone
I love.
Always in the embers
Guilt.
Is passion ever wrong?
Doubt rains shards of regret.
What changed your mind?
Your face a crumpled sepia
After image
In my mind's eye.
But the cadence of your voice
Lingers.
An echo in my grey heart.
Why can't we talk any more?
Raise my heart from the dead earth.
Make me complete.

Had a few ideas for poems

 

. Some provoked by hearing the harpist, another inspired by an event at Murcia airport last Friday. 

 

So what happened at Murcia? This is a tiny airport with only 3 gates, flights to Madrid and a couple of places in the UK. I had a surfboard, it only cost 8 euros but Francis so much wanted to take it home.

 

 Tried to check it into the hold and was told that as it was sports equipment it would cost 25 euros to carry. 

How ludicrous that was, so I tried to cram it into the suitcase without luck, whilst it was on the conveyor belt as well whilst the girl pretended to look the other way. So I told her I would trash it and took it off to find a bin.

 Of course in these days of high security there was no bin in the place. I gave it to Steve and he said he would look outside for one and so off he went. I took the kids over by the doors to wait for him and in doing so noticed at least 10 Guardia Civil with green uniforms and pistolas. Oh dear, would they apprehend my suspicious looking husband?

 Steve returned to the concourse, still carrying the surfboard and looking fraught. 

There were no bins outside either. Then he started to panic as he saw all the guards. Surely they would notice the surfboard whereever we dumped it and a full scale security alert was sure to follow. I ridiculed him to no use.

 In the end and totally exasperated I grabbed it from him and asked the girl in the Ryan Air kiosk to take it off my hands, which she did willingly. 

 Meanwhile a line of boys clutching footballs and soccer magazines had formed from doors to immigration control. I encouraged Dominic to join the line and I stood behind him. Some famous fotballer was obviously using the airport.

 We got the digital camera out so as to be able to identify this famous person at a later date. A short while of waiting when a coach pulled up and the whole of the Real Madrid football team came out and walked through the concourse very close to us including David Beckham. 

Now up until this point I had never really taken notice of him. I knew he was a talented footballer but despised him for his choice of wife, his courting of the press and his profligacy with money. Also the papers and TV had been full of tales of his affairs for the past fortnight to the point of saturation. However, I was strucjk by the delicacy of his features and the finenessof his physique, his silky hair pulled back in a ponytail, he looked like a porcelain doll in his blue suit. I wrote down my impressions and will mould them into a poem. I could see why people think he is classically beautiful for he was, quite thrillingly stunning. So when I have worked on it I will post the poem here.

Found a poem I was looking for which I wrote a few months ago 

 

 

Breaking 

 Can you break your own heart?

 Did you try? 

Was it worth the pain? 

Did you sigh? 

Can you do it over and over 

 Because each time you

 Give in?

 Can you break your own heart?

 Is it a sin? 

Can you leave on a high?

 Do you lie?

 Is the pain too much to bear? 

Made you cry 

Is it because you have to win? 

Can't lose or let him in 

Will you break your own heart? 

Is it a sin?

When I say phinetically I mean phonetically of course. Being exposed to so many Welsh accents is infectious.

Formed a poetry group with 2 other women...maybe muse will strike doubly or trebly. We are anxious to create...we know we can do better than some who are published.

Monday 19th April


Muse muse, wherefore art thou?

In search of inspiration this frustrated blogger went to Swansea and listened to a harpist play. Unfortunately did not find out how to spell her name so wrote it phinetically and lo and behold...a poem emerged.

Listening to music, Mad World in particular in the hope that it will stimulate some poetry. In the olden days when I was a wee lass, poetry came easily. Pen would flow without hesitation through English workbook in response to teacher's titles. Then as an adult creativity started to die. Only in response to trauma did the muse return. Talent can't die surely? Can it? Can you lose that craft with words that you were once praised for?