Everyday Poetry

We've had a very scary week but had some excellent news this morning from the doctor, who thinks the problem is an infection rather than anything more serious.  Scared After days of staring into space, telling me 'I'm fine', you catch me unawares - I'd thought I'd done something, or not done something - never dreaming you'd confess to worrying about a pain, a soreness that won't go away.  I'm so cross you didn't share this most vital news with me I brush off your plea  you didn't want to worry me, scold you for catastrophising, reassure you it could be anything, make you phone the doctor, make an appointment.  Yet, in the intervening days I catch myself doing the exact same thing.  Friends ask how things are going family phone calls go by  all with no word from me about how sick I feel inside  how close to my eyelids tears lurk threatening to spill over with a roar. It's so unfair: I've only had you for twenty years it's not enoug...

It's really cold today,  and I've been thinking back to those pre-central heating days in the 60s, when it was too cold to get up in the night,  even if I could have escaped from the bedclothes tucked in tight by my dad.  My lips rub against the soft, pale pink bedspread, Stretched tightly over the padded quilt,  The blankets, the sheets, all holding me in place: My dad, tired of my complaints about the cold Has lifted first one side of the mattress Then the other,  tucking me in so tight I'm flattened under its tautness. There's ice on the inside of the window,  A long dark landing should I need the toilet,  But my bed and night terrors hold me in place. I try to make sense of the darkness,  To turn monsters back into my dressing gown Hanging on the back of the door, Their angry hissing and popping, back into the gas fire  Burning with a blue flame on the wall.  Its hiss makes me drowsy,  lulls me to sleep, In the safety of my coco...

We're looking at ekphrastic poems in our poetry group and I've already shared my poem The Kiss, so I thought I'd write another one. This one's a bit dark,  but then so is the painting by Edvard Munch. The Scream He runs across the wooden bridge Until his feet can carry him no further. Stops, head in hands,  Tries to block out the sounds, The sight of the flaming sky Reflected in the harbour's swirling waters,  Along the handrail by his side. Tries to ignore the top-hatted gentlemen Edging slowly closer.  A scream pours from his mouth, Grows longer, louder,  Assumes a beautiful life of its own,  Until the whole landscape Melts with his face, in agony.  © Copyright 2022. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I hate driving in fog, but it did prompt this poem so it's not all bad.  Driving in fog  becomes a terrifying exercise  in mindfulness; all distractions banished while slipping down a funnel  four cat's eyes long. Everything ahead and to each side erased to blank sheets of paper where anything can be drawn at a moments notice; blurry nothingness interrupted by the halo of oncoming lights, swishing sounds as each car passes  too close too fast. © Copyright 2022. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.