Five Pandemic Poems
Five Pandemic Poems
1. Solitary
2. At the bird sanctuary
3. Writing practice
4. Closing the chapter
5. Icon eyes
1. Solitary
I
could be a fifty-three-year-old woman.
Living
post-cancer.
In a world where cancer is suddenly not the biggest, baddest virus on the Block.
All
the emotions I dealt with about a growing death within me.
Harbouring an enemy in my breast.
My
habits during illness of self-imposed quiet, solitary days.
The
lore of stay home, stay safe.
Now
everyone experiences this
in
the time of lockdown,
in
a pandemic.
2. At the bird sanctuary
Its so hard growing up, my beautiful brave girl.
The moment you were put into my arms after a long labour
I knew you were a fighter, an old soul, determined and
singular.
You withstand your greatest health burden with magnanimity,
dignity and stoicism.
You are not afraid to have unlikely friendships and have a
strikingly different image.
You choose a career where people and empathy and hard work
are at its core.
But today you picked unnecessary fights and stomped off at
the bird sanctuary.
I wondered if this year, the first away from home,
the first year of university, might have been a strain, an
anxiety, full of pandemic regulations.
A limited amount of contact with peers and lecturers. A lot
of time on your own worrying.
So I give you a day of grumpiness.
Later that evening after a soothing afternoon of quiet
we sit together watching an animated film hands interlaced, your
head on my shoulder.
I bless the day, bless my family, bless my children, bless
my husband.
We are the pieces of a wholeness which is all gift of the
Abba.
Anne Bronte , cross writing
3. Writing practice
My
writing is piecemeal.
Doled
out one evening at a time.
A
slow dripping that drives me mad.
Other
times it is tangential to procedural writing.
Poetry
is a bath at the end of a long work day, warm, invigorating, cleansing.
Even
my dreams have dried up during the pandemic.
My
visual stimuli is so limited that I cannot think of anything to say to myself
Emotions
and feelings are more adequately expressed in
a
black Malovich, a white Ryman or a grey Martin.
The
inscribed gold in Martin’s Friendship, 1963 is the eternal matrix.
This
minimalism is what the pandemic tests in me.
A
meditation so taciturnly adhered to.
A
silence unpicked by the pecking of my thoughts.
My
writing practice ought to be confident, strong pen-strokes.
Every
line gold and silver.
Every
word a crystallization of experience, knowledge, good, wisdom.
But
here I am trying to write about the Word.
The
Word says...
“Only
I can contain such beauty, such eternity, such power and poise, such escape”.
4. Closing the Chapter
That day I sat and dreamed all day.
That day I suddenly looked up and realised spring had
arrived in all its zesty green finery.
That day I realised my children’s schooling is coming to an
end.
Finally both my children are completing their compulsory
education.
I feel like I have been standing in the playground for 15
years.
Waiting. Looking for their return to me.
Seeing their faces, like rock pools reflecting the sun or
the rain above.
No more school bus at 7am.
The music classes drawing to a close, no more Arvo Part,
Scott Joplin, Mozart.
No more piano scales, singing exercises, clarinet warm up,
beating drum practice.
The swimming sessions in the dark, far behind us, no more
football practice, although short-lived.
No more ballet class soft baby hair in a bun.
No more celebration assemblies
where we bow our heads, and we bow our heads, and we bow our
heads in prayer.
And the spill back and flow forwards between church and
school,
school and church
lets me know that we belong, that we are community, that we
are strong together.
But this school season is over, finished, not to be repeated
in their life time.
They are onto new things, wider worlds, new horizons.
I knew it would come, I just did not know how.
We are eighteen months into a global pandemic,
and this is the marker by which we will say,
“That was the year of lockdown”, or
“Oh yes that happened during the time of covid”.
5. Icon eyes
A small icon of the
Theotokos – Mary.
The
eyes are long ovals which shine with and interior light.
This
image is my personal, portable-paradise, inscribed and written on board.
Each painted
layer affixed with prayer, a snapshot of time.
Icon eyes
are beyond time.
They
are a constraint, a shape, a system, a tradition.
They
reflect the one who looks, the one who prays, in this lived moment on earth.
During
the pandemic, time shifts.
It is stretched
and slowed down.
Seasons
roll by, through summer and deep winter Midwinter.
Through
heat and cold, cycling as never before.
As I
sit, and sit, and sit.
In this
chair, at this table, on this screen.
And
time is all we have together.
And
time is all I need to create.
And
time is all I am.
I want to
visit, see people, speak together, be in community.
These
icon eyes on this board wait for me to remember
who it
is that has infinite time, eternal presence, radiance of being.
These eyes
prepared with pigments, speak of earth, life, libation, joys and tears.
These eyes
question my motives, gentle my soul in distress, are a lake of peace and serenity.
They challenge
me to let go.
Just let
go.
These
eyes point to eternity, the answer to my questions, the only place to go.
These
eyes see me and radiate good, life, hope, pain and suffering.
These eyes
have lived their own extraordinary life.
They comprehend
transformation and forgiveness.
(First published on the Dwell Time Blog; https://dwelltimepress.wordpress.com/2023/04/13/5449/ April 2023)
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