A blogger's prayer

I was all set, greedily, to pray
that I'd encounter a good listener,
whose listening would bring me a full
awareness of what I'd said.
But then I had a thought:
my poetry is a good listener,
and even a teacher, skewing my
words sideways to create
a different pattern, a wake-up call.
As well, I can't influence
the outer world, only nudge a little
my inner self. So now my prayer
is that I become a good listener,
assisting friends find new meaning
in the stories that they tell.

"The rack of this tough world"

I've been taken to the edge,
shown the depths of degradation.
Listening to King Lear, I find
it hard to contain the suffering
and feel as if my heart will break.
In the last few lines, we are advised
to “Speak what we feel,
not what we ought to say”,
then the curtain comes down.
There is no catharsis;
no restoration of order and tranquility.
I cannot choose but weep.
“Its only a story”, you say.
“Is it relevant?” students ask.
But the myth still resonates; problems
related to the generation gap abound.
We still need lessons of patience,
generosity and tolerance.
So whenever I meet Lear
my heart opens and opens again.

Filled

I am being hollowed out by pain,
which leaves an emptiness to be filled.
That's not why I'm wracked with pain,
but maybe I can put the wracking
to a good end. I can choose,
choose freely. No, that's not right.
It's not my choice; it's been given to me,
a mixture of genetic strength,
social mores and education.

So, here I am, praying
that the emptiness will be filled,
that the mirror of my perception
will be polished and shine brightly
even in the blackest of hours.

Too much

i.
Here's the problem: I have too much time.
Sounds daft, we all have the same amount,
but I mean unstructured time. And even
the structured time is heavy:
It's a mammoth task getting me up,
and putting me down (sounds Dickensian)
I'm left with three between-minder gaps
with nothing at all going on.
“Easy!” you say, “befriend time.”
Would you welcome even the dearest friend
who took to visiting three times a day,
every single day of the year?
And befriending time means structuring time;
that takes initiative, a skill
stolen by the M.S. long, long ago.
So I have gobbets, undigested
chunks of never-changing time,
like bland food that needs spicing up.
My spices in the past were playing
the piano, reading Proust and stitching
my tapestry. Also long gone.
Three gobbets a day are unbearable,
even two consecutively are hard.

At the risk of being boring,
I will emphasise again
I have TOO MUCH TIME.

ii.
Phew! glad to get that off my chest,
but writing the words gave me insights.

Ages ago, I smugly wrote:
“the trick is to consent” and I'd have
believed I'd consented once and for all.
But now I know I have to renew
my consent gobbet after gobbet.

When other activities are filched,
there is always prayer; like a nun
I can spend time in contemplation.
Praying takes me on an alchemical journey,
where I'm endeavouring to transform
the gross matter of my damaged body
into the gold of spirit.
Prayers please.

For Margaret

As the clock ticks towards midnight,
I do not want to take on tomorrow;
for then, I have no choice but to say:
"Margaret died yesterday".
Already, I've lived one day without her.

Died, passed away, passed over, gave up the ghost;
I prefer the German verschwindet, disappeared.
Yesterday, Margaret disappeared,
and for my remaining tomorrows
I will play hide and seek with her,
till the tomorrow when I disappear,
and you'll be the ones searching.

Maybe

Today the wind harp was singing;
at times a chord, at others a ripple
and great long silences.
My inner self resonates
in very much the same way.
Yes: and I feel connected;
No: a black fog swirls around me;
Maybe: an endless waiting.
But the harp is governed
by the wind, which, as we are told,
“Like the Spirit, bloweth where is listeth.”

And I don't even like Wagner

The Flying Dutchman, at least,
had the hope of a reprieve;
every seven years
he could come ashore
and search for the one true love
who would redeem him.
It's hard to imagine
his desolation at the start of
each seven year stint.

My illness will have a reprieve;a death.
Only I do not know when or where.
Already, it's as if I've spent a lifetime
sailing the open seas,
rounding, again and again,
the Cape of Good Hope.