Cancer

 

It started after an evening meal.
The pain.

Five hours in I broke.
And phoned.
The helpline said an ambulance would soon arrive.
Not so.

All night dressed and waiting. Bent.
Stomach-holding. Sofa-bound.
Yet no-one came.

Ten hours later, I struggled off
to A&E,
alone.

 

Now doctors were taking an interest.
Usually a bad sign.
I got a little cubicle, to myself. Less stressful.
For an introvert.

“It’s not your appendix, but 
we’ve found a shadow on the scan.”

A shadow. I didn’t like the sound of that.
Vague, yet somehow ominous.

A colonoscopy was next.

Then CT with contrast dye.

 

 

The call occurred one Friday in October.
“Consultant wants to see you.”
“Can’t we talk by phone?” I asked.
“No. We need you to attend.
A nurse will be there, too.”

I knew, of course, my luck had gone.
Good news didn’t travel
quite this way.

“Stage 3 bowel cancer”
the diagnosis, came.
4 weeks til they cut me open.
Chopped half my colon out.

Yet blood leaks through such tumours.
They found me too anaemic, for the surgery.
During an iron transfusion I collapsed.
Caught a virus
in their waiting room.

Lungs congested, on the day.
Operation, thus,
delayed, another month.

More time to fret.

 

Finally
through December’s dark
at 6.45 (am)
I walked

across a rather quiet city
toward an opaque
destiny.
Amid those distant lights.

 

Taking in its sights.

 

Along

with the thought

of a slicing

blade.

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

---

 

 

Since being discharged from hospital, three days before Christmas 2021,
I’ve been writing a (first) novel.
Hadn’t quite realised how exhausting that would be.

Hence my absence from blogging.
Multitasking is hard for me. I feel a need for sticking obsessively at one thing.
Sadly, I haven’t written a poem since my last blog post.
I’m even anxious that moving back to poems might lose the flow of prose.
Its narrative arc, focus, and intensity.
Plus those inspirations for slogging away, trying to reach that distant summit,
of the word mountain.
(An actual end.)

As Cancer is my starsign, too, and birthday week has come around, again,
I thought to write a piece: explaining this extended absence, from WordPress.

I want to return to poetry, once the novel is finished.
Hopefully, before 2022 is over.

(I’m 27,000 words / 16 chapters in, so far. Past half way.
Slow progress. But my energy levels are low, due to chronic illness.)

 

Wishing a big

Thank You!

 

to all my followers. ❤️

I am very grateful for your patience.  🤗

 

I still log in (irregularly). Then, greatly enjoy other people’s writing, art, drawing, photography.
(And leaving likes.😄)

Sorry if this post seems tedious, yet I wished to update everyone on my situation,
rather than just let a long silence continue, unclarified.

I have not abandoned blogging, or poetry.
(Ab)Normal ramblings may even be resumed,
on here.
By winter time…

 

 

 

Comments are always very welcome!  🌞

 

Bye for now!

 

 

 

(PS: Any art, or photography, on this blog is mine. Hope you like it? 🙏)

 

---

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / drawing / illness / life / photography / poem / poems / poetry / prose / reading / writing )

Advertisement

Loneliness

A passing beauty
once observed

(Who’d walked upon
the cobbled street
below my window)

Revisited
in dream.

And there
(again)
she strode along

With arms around herself:

A kind of cradling pose
which stood out as
so feminine.

This sight endured
in mind.

Since women always
fascinated me.

How self contained they seemed.
How unapproachable.

Those favoured ones
I most adored
moved ever
beyond reach.

Above apparent
possiblity
for connection.
Or of love.

I recalled
(next)
my childhood
school.

Where bullies
brutes and boasters would
display their baseless confidence.
Acting as if unaware
of life’s
fragility.

But some still
grew quite popular.
While I was left
aside or
shunned.

Both then
and now.

Alone
each day.

All down those
cold decades.

Among
this long
ten thousand nights

at times the
pain could get so bad
that
(lying in the dark
awake)
I also tried to hold myself.

(Console myself.)

Two arms across the chest.

(Just as the passing girl had done.)

Yet

found

it

did not

help.

 

---

 

(As an affectionate person, 30 years alone with illness has felt a bit like
being endlessly stuck in a touch-deprivation experiment.

I tried to convey something of that experience in the poem.)

 

---

 

And now, rather late (but better than never?) :

Here’s a piece to mark fours years on WordPress…

 

---

 

 

4th Blogiversary post

 

 

 

Not writing

 

 

How I envy those who love writing!

It doesn’t work that way for me.

 

Nor did my “blogging break” enable “returning refreshed”.

I find “refreshed” an almost forgotten sensation.
Due to chronic illness.

Each morning feels more like dragging my body free from a pit
of exhaustion and pain.
After taking minor beatings, during the night.
(Had dream-demons caught me again?)

Then I attempt to fake being human, for a few hours.

 

The longer my blogging break, the harder restarting appeared.
Inertia, anxiety, self-doubts, set in.

Watching others pour out their blogposts
I floundered amid sickness and despair.
Tormented by my own time-wasting.

Depression coats awareness
with its layer of toxic mould.

Failure expands, to seem a default state.

 

Perhaps poem-hunger makes it worse?
The waiting for inspiration.
Minus structure, plan, or plot.

Because I associate writing with mental ferment.
Nailbiting.
Insomnia.

Where ideas disrupt rest.
Tapping against windowpanes of consciousness.
As if annoying moths sought entry.

Thoughts scribbled down: in order to escape them.
After which they fade, unseen.
Confined by decaying notepads.
An unedited chaos, I lack energy to synthesise.

If only this mess could be redeemed!

But illness ruins everything.

(How to ever to get published
when I struggle to get out of bed?)

So passed a blogiversary:
Enjoying other people’s work.
While neglecting my own.

Days spent scrolling.
soon  joined weeks.
Then months.

On it goes.
The emptiness.

 

The ticking clock.

Now draws me back.

To write.

 

About

not writing.

 

 

 

---

 

Does anyone else prefer reading to writing?

Have you ever felt motivationally-challenged (like me)?

Comments are always VERY welcome!🙏

 

Best wishes to you all!

 

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.🌛)

 

Thanks
for reading!

 

 

 

---

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / loneliness / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / writing )

Desire

 

When day returns

like something never reached

Aflame
on the air.

Then
(O muse)
let me speak
from my dream

of her eyes

I so wanted
to meet
with mine.

(Yet
which always
stayed
behind their clouds.)

 

Just once
(Yes!)

Let me sing

while still
I lie
and seek

Imagined dawns

New-breathed.

Inspiring
to the lungs.

 

Or wish
for years
less lost.

 

As these
thoughts

attempt light.

 

Through
mere networks

of signs.

 

 

 

---

 

 

(Above is a piece based on poetry written aged 23.
I’ve felt unable to create poems, lately, due to illness.
Hope you think it works?)

---

(Below is a prelude to this post…)

---

 

 

Digital nightmare!

 

After logging in, unfamiliar sights transfixed me.
Waves of anxiety coursed through my body.
What was happening?

The screen now resembled a strange, alien puzzle.
A digital nightmare began.

The WordPress Block Editor had taken over! 😱

ARGH!!

 

(I soon nicknamed it “Blockheaditor”.)

Perhaps designed by geek sadists?
(Who’d decided we tech-phobes were not suffering enough already,
just trying to be bloggers.)

Being a humble poet: an image with some words underneath was all I knew.

Struggling against disorientation: a panicky nausea arose.
As if betrayed by a trusted friend.

Amid confusing options, I sought pathways to coherence.
Painful hours passed.

Finally, my nervous hand crept toward the “Publish” button.

Would this reveal success?
Or disaster?

Click!

I squinted into an electronic glow.

Had the words appeared correctly?

There?

 

HERE?

 

 

 

---

 

 

Have any others found the Block Editor an unwanted change?

It may be great for those with more ability than me.
Or who need extra features.

But I prefer freedom of choice to compulsion.

 

Comments are always very welcome!🙏

 

Thank you 👏
for reading.

 

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?)

 

---

 

(PS:

Sorry for the lack of content, recently.
Depression’s been hitting me hard.
Motivation got crushed.

Intended to post at least once per month, but failed.

On the positive side, I’m still active:
following 277 people;
using the reader,
and discovering new blogs.)

 

Wishing you all well.🙂

 

---

(anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry  / thoughts / writing )

The message

An ancient code
long wove through
souls.

 

Its falling tremor
a veiled melody.

 

At times
barely heard.

 

As if
breaking

on distant shores.

 

Or sought
in old minds

beset
with
dismal thoughts.

(Like dark soil
chafed
by some goading
plough.

As heckling crows
caw down
from
the pointed wood.)

 

 

Though
still

a message
may come.

Scorning our rules.

 

(While men pretend

to have
understood.)

 

 

 

So
legends
are made

breathe.

 

In their
ageless

certainty.

 

 

 

Then carved.

 

 

Upon

wrinkled

stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

(The poem above is a revision of one written when aged 23.
I find myself too ill for creating new poetry, at present.)

 

---

 

 

Impostor syndrome?

 

This blog passed 1,000 followers last week.  🎉
That appeared an unattainable total just a few months ago.

I am very grateful for all your support. 🤗

 

Yet depression (which currently grips me) has triggered a sort of impostor syndrome.

My inner-critic’s voice sneers:
“Ha! Get a book published before calling yourself a “poet”!
And putting old stuff online, means you aren’t even a proper blogger, either!”

(With a psyche like mine, who needs enemies?)

 

Yes: I do dream about being published, someday.
But have no idea how.
Or where to approach.

And when my symptoms are bad, I often end up feeling overwhelmed.
The energy required for self-promotion seems completely absent.

 

 

Does anybody else struggle against impostor syndrome?

Perhaps viewing themselves as a chronic amateur, among experienced bloggers?

Or imagining that others are “natural” writers, in ways one can’t match?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!🙏

 

Thank you
for reading.🙂

 

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?)

 

---

(anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poem /poems / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Elusive

 

 

Phrases arrive.

Discrete.
Homespun.

Through various fathomless
apertures
of sense.

Like empty sprites
word-bubbles
flash.

 

Then these visitors
(vanishing)
shrink to a speck.

Cross reeling
complexities.

 

Weaving down
past deeper veils.

Where older shades
lay mingled
in their graves.

With an
enigmatic
trace.

 

And thus
(I found)
remained.

Only certain
broken

images.

 

 

Half-

purified.

 

 

By
dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

(Above is a revised poem, from when I was 23.)

I’m still unable to write fresh poetry, since a recent illness.
Post-viral depression eased, yet the creative spark’s gone missing.

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

I’ve spent more time than usual on WordPress in the last few months.
Enjoyed discovering loads of new writers, poets, artists, and photographers.

As a result the number of blogs I follow has reached about 240.
This is making it difficult to keep up!
(So far, I try to read every post from blogs I follow.)

Seeing my audience grow is exciting.
(I’m truly grateful to each one of you.)

Though I also feel quite guilty, for not following back all 
of those who are kind enough to follow me.
But the number (700+) seems rather large to make that practical?

 

I’d love to hear how many blogs other readers follow?

Do you think 240 is a lot?
Or am I being a WordPress wimp?🙂

Do you ever feel bad for not following people back?
Do you follow blogs you don’t actually read?

(I worry that over 300 may become hard to focus on?)

 

To be honest, I notice myself hesitate about following long-form, writers, lately.
Especially if they post more than once per day.

I’m much happier to follow those posting weekly, or infrequently.
Plus, art and photography blogs (which are often less text-heavy).

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!🙏

 

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?)

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

---

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / drawing / life / mental health / photography / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Internet magic!

 

 

What a magical place the internet seemed.

Once I signed up for e-mail, transformations began.

Charming ladies, were keen to date.
(Identifying as “hot local milfs.”)

These sounded a pleasant change
from those ice maidens
who blanked me
on lonely shopping trips.

 

Next, appeared financial offers
by the very rich.

People warned against responding.
Revealing cynical negativity.

“Your worldview must be sad, indeed,” I thought,
“Not trusting Nigerian royalty
with basic bank details.”

 

Sharp insight of strangers, also impressed.
Intuiting hidden desires.
For male enhancement products.
And female company.

How could they possibly know me, so well?
It felt a little spooky.

 

Though other messages made no sense.
As if tormented minds shared
deranged states.

Some spam undermined itself
using blatant brand names
in a web address.

 

But certain complimentary mail
one wished were genuine.

 

“You’ve done a formidable job on the blog!”
Said Google.com
“Our community’s grateful to you.”

Had tech giants noticed Me?
Then why did stats stay low?

 

A special comment lit new sparks
amid my loneliness:

“I’m extremely pleased, finding your great site!”
Wrote Ukraine high-class escort.

“I truly savoured every part of it.
And have you saved in favourite.”

 

Might this be my muse, at last?
Wistfully, I sighed.
Imagining melancholy beauty.
A passionate Slavic soul.

I yearned to hear her exotic accent.
Or speak my only Russian words.
(Perhaps provoke a smile?)

Alas!
Grown too old to meet her, now.

(Could I even afford to?)

 

Yet
a poor man still has dreams.

(Shameful
I confess.)

 

 

That internet magic
just
persists.

 

And keeps me

in

 

its spell.

 

 

 

 

---

 

(Should this piece have a British irony alert, at the top?
Can my sense of humour work without emojis?)

 

I took a blogging break, this month; for the first time in three years.
Had fun, discovering new sites, and interacting.

Meant to post last Sunday, but messed up.
A poem refused to go right.
Anxiety set in.
(“Maybe I can’t write poetry any more?”)

Then late night, brain-fog, and exhaustion, wore me down.
So another week was lost.

 

Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Do you ever enjoy spam?

Comments are always VERY welcome!🙏

Thank you
for reading.

 

---

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / drawing / humor / humour / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Monster!

 

 

“Hello, my dear,” the monster said.

“Who’s this?” she cried.

“Come to me, little one.”

“Hey, that’s creepy!”

“You can be a princess
in the underworld.”

“Ugh! Let go!”

“Love’s more pure beyond the grave.”

(Those hands touch
round her throat.)

 

 

Now
here I was
with a pocketknife.

Large plastic torch.

(And holy water
too.)

Sat
fearful.

Waiting
in the crypt.

 

Outside
thick fog

conceals
faint murmured
groans.

 

Some
thing moves
closer

all
the time.

 

 

 

 

 

Get ready!

 

 

It’s
nearly
midnight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

(Above is a piece from when I had just turned 21.
Partly inspired by old horror movies.)

 

---

 

Hope you are well?

My flu-type illness has improved a lot.
Though the post-viral depression lingers.

At present, I feel unable to write poetry.

 

Is anyone else spending more time online than usual?

I found the greatest benefit of that, was discovering many interesting new bloggers
(artists, poets, photographers, and writers) in recent weeks.

Some have even visited my site.

It’s so nice to connect with other creative people.

(And, perhaps I am slightly immature, but an unexpected like still gets me excited.)

 

Comments are always VERY welcome.

 

Thank you
for reading.   🙂

 

 

(Art on the blog is mine.)

 

---

(anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Under closed eyes

 

 

 

“The self is not enough.
But that’s all we’ve got.”

Said a voice
across
my dream.

 

Yet I sensed a
small bright
glow

emerge
within.

 

As if some light
had already
opened

the tick
of a tiny
flower.

 

Split from
its negative

through darkness.

 

 

Under

these

still-closed

eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

(Above is a poem from when I was aged 20.
Inspired by things glimpsed during semi-conscious states.)

 

Creating verse seems beyond me, at present.

The flu, with its fevers and headaches, has eased.
But post-viral depression lingers on.

Viewing the current lockdown, from the perspective of someone
isolated by chronic illness (mainly housebound and alone) for over 30 years:
it feels rather strange to see so many people now
struggling to cope with a slightly similar situation.

If symptoms improved, restless urges for social life would also trouble me.

As fate turned-out, the chances for love, friends, or normality, faded long ago.

Of course, current restrictions could, shortly, be lifted.
While my own health problems remain incurable.

 

I thought of writing a post about dealing with solitude.

Though I worry this blog’s reach is too small, and my circumstances too unusual,
for helping others.

 

Comments are always VERY welcome! 🙏

 

Hope everybody is well?

Have you spent more time online?

(I’ve found lots of interesting new blogs in the last few weeks.)

 

 

Thanks for reading! 🙂

 

 

(Art on this site is mine.)

---

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Kiss your chains

 

 

Commotion through my heart.

I moved into her room.

Taking a straight line
though sideways seemed best.

(Sometimes you have to make do.)

 

She was ready.

 

And, afterwards, said:

“Kiss your chains!
Before you go back home.

Kiss them, honey!

 

OK.

Stand up, now.”

 

 

By then
I really
wanted
a cuddle.

 

 

But sometimes

 

you have

to make do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

(The above piece dates from when I was 20 years old.)

 

I’m too ill for writing poetry, lately.
My brain affected by a virus.
Into the fourth weekend, and it’s still continuing.

Luckily the fever and headache abated.
Though depression increased.

I resisted a break from blogging, which might have been sensible.
These Sunday posts form a chance to connect with readers, that I don’t want to lose.
With a small following, I fear being forgotten altogether, during any absence.

My anxiety about running out of food eased.
Finding empty shelves now partially refilled, in local shops.
(I could not buy preferred choices, but there were, at least, alternatives.)

 

The best thing about the last fortnight was spending more time on WordPress.

I discovered many interesting blogs.
Plus enjoyed interacting with various writers, poets, photographers, and artists.

 

Hope everybody is well?

 

Have you been online for longer than usual?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

 

 

(Art on the blog is mine.)

 

---

 

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / relationships / writing )

Secrets are for spies

 

 

 

Explore a face.

 

 

Mine reveals little.

 

This tired old mug:

fit only
to be endured.

 

Though
sometimes
my mouth
bears fruit.

 

 

Yet secrets remain.

 

I can’t help you with them.

 

 

 

Secrets
are for spies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

The poem above was the last piece of writing from my teens.

Your comments are always welcome! 😊

Hope everybody is well? 🙏

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

(Any art or image on the blog is mine.)

---

 

 

Update:

Apologies if this post is less coherent than normal.
Disorientation prevents proper concentration and editing.

I’m really struggling, presently.
The virus, mentioned before, has flared up for a third weekend running.
(Assume it’s flu, but don’t understand why symptoms keep recurring, intead of easing?)

Feeling feverish, exhausted, and in great pain.
Very difficult sitting at my computer, or focussing on words.

Though I refuse to abandon blogging.

Starting to get anxious about the current situation.

Was too poorly for much shopping, during recent weeks.
Using limited reserves.

Venturing out midweek(after five days) I found supermarkets almost stripped of food.
Never seen anything like it.
Now I can’t restock.

I’ve largely been socially isolated for almost 30 years, due to chronic health problems. Going to the shops is the only place I regularly get near others.
Yet still catch colds and flu.
Buses are full of coughing people, all year round, in England.

 

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( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / photography / poem / poems / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )