Pivot
This week I'm learning about the New York School of poets, who became prominent in the 1950s and 60s. The first exercise we are given is to write a poem of 15-25 lines in the style of Frank O’Hara’s poem 'The Day Lady Died' - an elegy to Billie Holiday.
O'Hara's poem reminds me a bit of ABBA's song 'The Day before You Came' in that it details all the mindless things he did before he learnt the news of Holiday's death. Mine may be more ABBA than New York School.
Pivot
Waking at eight in a cooling bed, covers casually thrown back on your side,
the sounds and smell of coffee being made downstairs making me smile.
Pale denim jeans, red sweatshirt, creased from their casting off
and heedless hours on bamboo floorboards overnight are pulled on:
no-one but us will see the creases, no-one but me will care.
Slice after slice of seeded wholemeal toast disappear, thickly covered
with butter from our white china dish with the two silhouetted black cats,
the seeds of homemade strawberry jam sticking in our teeth.
The pile of greasy plates, mugs ringed with yesterday’s coffee,
yesterday's tea, pots and pans left soaking, are washed and rinsed,
left on the drainer to dry themselves while we find something better to do.
This lazy day, no places to be, no people to see, no agenda,
drifts by one steaming mug after another, the pages of my book turning
slowly but surely as I try to savour it, not rush towards its inevitable end.
Six o'clock and the timer pings, and I call to you still sitting in the conservatory,
watching YouTube videos on fishing techniques: dinner's ready! I bend to the heat.
A crash, you are on the floor face down. Bloody nosed. Moaning. Out cold.
And we are dashing to the hospital, terrified of the thought of a stroke,
that it might happen again as I eat up the motorway, heart racing, risk taking.
Hours later, a positive test reveals Covid
and I'm sent home alone to find
an abandoned casserole congealing on the kitchen worktop
and a bed far too empty for sleep.
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