Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts

Not to quote Jurassic Park, but -

My dear fellow jugglers 
in the Cirque du Suburbia,
you may think your home impervious
to encroaching adult themes.
But “Nature always finds a way”
and they’re going to learn it all some day
but it’s probably better in some ways than by some other means.
You’ll all be aware of the endless oughts
that contort and constrict
instinctive care.
Single modern motherhood is
a carousel
tersely tethered with knots.
Will nots and spill nots
and hope nots and choke nots
and try nots and cry nots
and eat nots and teach nots.
The most strangulatory
of these tangles is
expose not
meaning: Protect your child from the darkness of this world
and teach them the strength of enlightenment.
The entitlement of access to the hive mind
-by necessity a skill they must learn,
‘cause coding is the future –
shoots my determined obsolescence right in the maternals.
So to detract from external influence
I knew what to do.
We’d get
a pet.
Landlord clause: no fur or paws
no electricity eating heated enclosures,
no live food, no rodents,
no hooves, smooth or cloven.
From amidst this messy mesh
a loophole
I sagely extracted.
No one had said anything
about marine arachnids.
Fishtank purchased, live plants in
filter on and the process begins.
Background danios Spotty and Stripey
soar and chase and are occasionally fighty
but mostly work as extras in the theatre of the tank.
We even had a red-shirt! For his sacrifice we thank him.
In true tradition we set the stage; when he died the first act was over.
Two long months we’d had to wait for the alga bloom to cover
enough of the surfaces to act as a rider
for our new stars: The undersea spiders!
Or shrimp. As they’re also called
or as some people say, “You mean PET PRAWNS?!”
Yes.
is the answer.
Now. After about a month a strange thing appeared,
at first no bigger than a poppy seed
then as it grew I came to realize
there was more than one stowaway snail inside.
Gio was delighted, I was concerned
about intercrustacean diplomatic relations
but they co-existed peacefully and the purpose was perfectly served.
Until the day these mucilaginous interlopers, now numbering four or five
decided to stage a three-day-three-way-sex-show. Live.
Right at the front of the tank they were!
“Mummy, what are they doing?” “Errrrrrr..
I think they’re making babies, Gio.”
“But there’s three of them!” “Yes, I know…
oh I can’t explain it, they’re snails, I’m not sure-
hey, who’s that in the castle with his face out the door?
Is it Blackfish? Has he made friends with the shrimp?
He’s the first fish to spend time in there I think.”
This happy distracting friendship warmed both of our hearts
and we smiled as Blackfish spent more time in the dark
and the shrimp brought him food and he slowly grew fatter
but everything was lovely and nothing else mattered.
The snails population in the background grew and grew.
We lost count when they got past 22.
One morning I was woken by Gio screaming “Mummy!
The shrimp have got Blackfish and they’re opeing his tummy!”
I raced in and slack-jaw gawped. The violence was alarming.
But more than this; the realization that shrimp understand farming.
Two Medium Shrimp held Corpsefish still, while Big Shrimp did the slashing
and then they gathered round and gorged themselves. Gio, big-eyed watched the action.
More generations of snails came. Then more and more and more
until the monopod population was a problem we couldn’t ignore.
We had to get rid of all of them. We couldn’t leave even an egg.
They eaten us out of live plants. We’d had to get fake ones instead!
It took the final solution. We gave the tank a deep clean.
And boiled the snails in the gravel. And murdered their babies with steam.
Then rebuilt the tank from the ground up and so far, it seems to go well.
It’s more like an eight-year-old’s fish tank and less like the circles of hell.
I think it’s fair to say, in this case
my attempts at parenting were a little displaced
by “Nature, red in tooth and claw”
or, transparent in the case of the shrimp’s grinding maw.
I tried to protect my son from his curiosity and an internet search engine,
but accidently introduced him to orgies, murder, evisceration
and ethnic cleansing.

Dear World


Look, we need to have a chat.
I’m getting a bit fed up
with dealing with the fall out
of your drama.
And it’s not only that,
my son keeps waking up
crying, calling my name out.

I’m trying to teach him about karma.

You see, he’s noticed (as have I)
that the bad guys keep winning.
Every time I leave the house
without him he cries.
I don’t want to raise a fearful child.
and his awareness is just beginning
but with news of more killings day in, day out
he’s convinced I’m going to die.

Not helped when I say
“Well, one day, I will”
through desire to tell him the truth.
So he says “But not today?”
And I’m swept over ill
tempting fate to give me liar’s proof.

So look, World I’m asking
you to buck your ideas up.
I love to share in positives
and I’m sick of masking
cracked ideals in cover ups.
Show them you get back what you give.

Sincerely,


Georgia. Xxxx

Hog Blop

So, this is not a poem.

I am breaking with my usual style to take part in a Blog Hop, nominated as I was by my delightful sister. You can find her musings on all things literary, triathlon and movie based at:

http://bookwormsandcofeemonsters.wordpress.com

This hop is all about writers and specifically, female writers. That's a broad genre. Who knows what you may follow by following the threads? Certainly not I, but I urge you to do just that. You may discover a new favourite.

And so to the exposition:

What Am I Working On/Writing?

I am (now, as ever) working on about five different poems of different types, for different purposes. I am trying to assemble something for the ManxLitFest Poetry Slam. I entered last year (and won! Yay!) with my poems No Apologies and Mystery of the Moon. One is most whimsical and the other is almost conversational in tone. I need to be able to show diversity and the performance has to be polished. I should add, the competition isn't until September. I don't want to give away too much about that just yet.
I am also working on a present for someone, which is taking longer than I thought it would and frustrating me. I keep having to remind myself that I can't force the muse. If someone figures out a way to do that, though, please let me know.
I am working on a dystopian series of poems set in Itsnotareal Town. The first few of these are already up on the blog, but more are required. The characters come to me in fits and starts, though. Oftentimes they are inspired by people I meet and are the result of traits amplified or amalgamated as required.
There are always a myriad of other rhymes and patterns going on in my head at any one time. This means that I must carry a book and pen at all times. Writing for me is compulsive. If inspiration hits and I cannot find anywhere to write I tremble, stutter and flush.
Yes. I am addicted to writing poetry.

How Does My Work/Writing Differ From Others Of Its Genre?

I'm not sure what genre I actually belong to.
Poetry is such a wide field and the variations on themes are massive. I tend to write for performance, which can mean that as printed word, the rhythm or pace are lost. I like to read other poets and found the communities on Google+ were really helpful, inspiring and supportive. When I finally found the courage to perform in public, I have found the same with the Isle of Man Poetry Society. Perhaps my difference is that I am somewhat confessional, honest, sometimes brutally. It is often preferable to write about false situations, things outside our own lives. Reflective poetry can so often become indulgent. I try to allow myself these indulgences, but balance them with poems about the world.
I think good poetry is honest poetry.
It's all about the feels.

Why Do I Write What I Do?
Did I just answer this above by accident? Maybe.
I write to clear my head. When I have strong feelings about something I find it rattles about in my head until I scrawl it over the page. If this comes out as lucid thought, so much the better. If not, I'll keep hold of it and try to channel it into something later. Some of the poems I write have been inspired by couplets I wrote 10+ years ago.
I'm a mother to a five year old child as well as a full time pharmaceutical dispenser. I adore my son and thoroughly believe that he keeps me on the straight and narrow. Without him I may well have run away and joined the circus, or ended up dead in a ditch somewhere. He is a great inspiration and a hell of a drain on my available writing time. Swings and roundabouts (are also things we enjoy).
Other times I write to escape. Some of the worlds my poems are based in are mirrors of this one. Sometimes they're allegorical.
I enjoy lucid dreaming on a fairly regular basis, as well as Alice in Wonderland Syndrome which affords me certain sensations and experiences impossible on the physical plane. The challenge is to translate these into a format that other people can share.
I'm still working on that.

How Does My Writing Process Work?

The time I have for writing is, as you can imagine, minimal.
I find myself staying up until silly-o-clock to complete things. It's usually a case of gestating ideas for a long time until they burst forth, fully-formed in phrasing and meter from my subconscious. When I work on something specifically, I am rarely as happy with the result and cannot help myself but pick and poke at the final result, as if it is a wound that I won't let heal.
Maybe the chaos is as important as the inspiration. Maybe the chaos is the inspiration.

Performance, however is something I have to prepare for thoroughly. It is as important as the words written, for this is how I convey my poems. For this, I lock myself in the toilet in the garage, where there is a mirror and perform to myself. It probably looks and sounds crazy. I am judging my performance and practicing. I try alternative stresses, look myself in the eye and try to separate from the image in the mirror. I found it a very good way to overcome stage fright. (yes, I suffer with it. Badly. My legs shake and will not stop. One day they will probably give way).
I would urge anyone performing poetry to do this, rather than recording yourself and watching it back. It's not as scary or off-putting as the sound of your own recorded voice.

Who's Next?

Well, the first person in my chain is Susan. She writes and suchlike over at :
http://inthevortexofthewhirl.blogspot.com/
as well as curating the 25 Awesome Poets and Me on Google+. She's supportive, wise and a wonderful person to have in your creative life. Just knowing that she's out there in the world makes me a more creative person. I keep promising her I'll be back and creating more often soon, and I WILL.

The last person I am sending you to is Fatma. Find her at:
http://www.fatmalatif.blogspot.com/
I love that she writes what she feels, her experiences, her angers, her desires. I love that she is eloquent in a way I can never be, spinning phrases and paragraphs that sweep me into her world completely. I don't follow her as closely as I should, which means I am regularly able to binge on her writing. A treat I allow myself gleefully.

It's supposed to be three women, but I am limiting myself to my favourites (outside of my sister who directed you here, obviously). I hope you've not found my ramblings too repetitive or dull. I can't wait to see who this hops to next.
Thanks for reading. Xxxx





Per Luciana Zapparoli - L'Anniversario D'Oro.

I drew this for my mother-in-law on the occasion of my in-laws' 50th wedding anniversary.

It is an image of her on her wedding day.

The "50 anni" on the top right is a dream, not even imagined to her on her wedding day.

All the things listed on the top left are the things that came to pass in their life together - the things she could have forseen: Children, love, problems, work, happiness, hard times, tears, grandchildren, friends, dreams.

The road she is walking is moving her from the past to the future.

The roots under her feet are the roots of their strong relationship, the things that have made their relationship work: Love; Family; Strength; Experience; Luck; Hope; Patience; Determination; Sacrifice; Humour; Morality; the Church; Propriety; Life Education; Faith (and faithfulness - the word is the same in Italian)

I know my sketching skills leave a lot to be desired, but hey. The idea was there, just not the technical ability. Perhaps with practice this is something I can work on.

Christmas 2002

Once there were three:
The magic number-
3 witches; 3 wishes; 3 wise men.
Maiden runs away; goes to see a crone.
The witch of the East
My, my - how she's grown.
They smile and compare notes
but will scars tell the whole story?

Then there were four.
Ugly; clunky; boxed.
4 sides. 4 corners. 4 angles.
Parallels everywhere.

There are no witches in mathematics.
Only mother's apples pi.

Baby Weight


If love is love as love should be,
then why does it enslave, not free?
Love is a power - nay, a force
that rivals all but gravity
and as said best by Spiderman:
"Power is responsibility".

You, the product of our love;
that spiralling arcing meteor.
Those fireworks, rockets, sleepless nights
that bred into a lifetime more.
And slavery was none more false
for waged I am by your sweet smile;
to relive that first one again
I'd crawl on cliche a million miles.
The perfume of your morning hair
outweighs the months of colicked hell.
To watch you grow and learn and love
I'd give again my childless self.

The birth of you one snowy day
shackled me with steely bonds.
But witnessing your joyful play
is all the freedom I could want.