“Survivor”: a Poetic Blog

Photo with toast racks standing in for the lovely bloke who gave them to me (1)

Photo with toast racks standing in for the lovely bloke who gave them to me (1)

Women aren’t from Venus, and men aren’t from Mars. Unless of course the woman in question really is from the planet Venus, and the chap is from Mars. In which case, that’s got the potential for one hell of a mixed marriage.

Move over, a certain half-human…

My Mugs & Hard Times (2)

“My Mugs & Hard Time”s (2)

Young love is great. But older love, the kind that’s been that’s been put through the fire, then set on fire, again and again, by one of the participants, well, it’s what I believe the saga authors like to call “gritty”.

I am that fire starter, with the extra flammability of a temper, and bipolar disorder. It makes for what I shall call “lively times”.

The love & support of a good wo/man (3) is amazing, especially if your mental health is a frail and uncertain thing. However, in my experience, this is what it doesn’t do: get my arse  out of bed when I wake up feeling bloody awful; wash my hair; get me to work, or a friend’s party, or help me make an effort when I feel like a right fat ‘n frumpy, unfestive old cow.

"Further Mugs for Our Times" (3)

“Further Mugs for Our Times” (4)

We’ve not got kids, so there’s no one to post a photo online with a caption like: “My Mum and Dad on their xxth anniversary, never a cross word between them”. If we did have kids, they’d know that 1) their dad doesn’t like having his picture online, and 2) that would be a complete lie.

Because, hey, even my dad admits that “never a cross word in 30/40/whatever years” probably translates as “not said anything more than ‘pass the salt’ for at least the last 20”.

Here’s a poem from a few years ago. It was written smack dab (6) in the middle of my ongoing mental health hell, and after 20+ years of marriage. True then, true now.

Survivor

Foam swirls.
I scrub phal
from the plate
with the green trim,
one of a set you purchased
over two decades ago, and
one of the few
not to have met
the crockery equivalent
of an accident at sea.

Last night we ate curry
from the Palace, watched ‘Buffy’
on a fat-screen TV
in the shabby front room
with the carpet which bears witness
to two generations of cats,
and over two decades
of my indifferent housekeeping.

Behind you, on the wall,
we shine: young and new-made,
in a picture which was snapped
on our wedding day.

I touch your shoulder.

You turn,
extend your hand,
and smile,
so bright,
so unchanged.

A winter sky as blue as your eyes

A winter sky as blue as your eyes

(1) “And the winner of longest ever caption to appear on WordPress is …”
(2) Thurber fan, anyone?
(3) Mine happens to be a bloke: just being inclusive
(4) Yeah, yeah, mug, singular, not mugs, plural. Whatever. (5)
(5) I am sooooo down with da kids.
(6) See? ^

Advertisements

About Sheila North

I am an author and ex-journalist, who has written novels, short stories, and poems. I also help facilitate a writers' group. Check me out on Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sheila-North/
This entry was posted in Bipolar, Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to “Survivor”: a Poetic Blog

  1. blahpolar says:

    Fat screen TV made me lol.

    LLAP

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s