Three connected sonnets on the
Egocsue answer to sciatica
(See the pic)
With pain like this who needs an enemy?
Pain that rejects all thought, all sleep, all time,
A mindless spite of masculinity.
To hang this tyrant male would be no crime
I knew his cracking rack ten years ago
And now he’s back with more unwonted powers
His brand burns deep and leaves a poignant glow,
The futile ashes of my sterile hours.
If I’m to function in this half-lit life,
To make a fist of doing what I ought
I need to force him into open strife
Then feed him on his testes ripped apart
‘Twil be a slangy, coarse, ignoble war,
With many an f and c to salt the gore.
-------
I lie flat-floored, my hips the angled shield
Above an arch defined by upright thighs
And horizontal calves. A battlefield
Where pain will duke it out with mass surprise.
Where I’m observer, referee, and prize,
The rules, the judge and keeper of the scores,
The fan who shouts that pain’s a bunch of lies,
Doubting echoes of all that that implores.
I pause and find my torments equalised
About my torso and my lower limbs
He feints towards to my calf, a scorching scythe
But borrows pain from all his former sins.
I wait, time passes and the calf retires,
A chance to bank up my offensive fires
------
Balloons of lesser pain attempt to scour
My nerves. Yet from another viewing point
I feel him flinch, retrench, advance once more,
His spite less sharp, his assets almost spent.
Time slows, my senses numb, an ebbing tide
Of erstwhile misery slides back in space,
And groans become the sweeter sound of life,
Has optimism left its hiding place?
Is pain a useful raw material?
A tool? A clamp to hold the narrative?
The stuff of verse to make a villanelle?
The simple heart of an indicative?
Is pain love’s other, darker kith and kin,
Part proof that we’re alive, and feel, and sin?
Twinges???
ReplyDeleteTorrents!
When I was a naive young woman in labour (33 hrs), which is basically like swimming in an ocean of pain, I would concentrate on what the midwife had written on a piece of paper and stuck (bluetacked) on the wall: "Rain after all is only rain and not bad weather. So, pain is only pain, unless you resist it. Then it becomes torment."
I believe it's from the I Ching - the midwife, however, was an elderly lady from County Cork and I am sure she had no idea where this came from.
It worked during labour but never since. I have had my share of pain and no doubt shall experience more before I bow out and let me admit, I falter, I shrink, I become a whimpering mess. No grace, no learning curve, no acceptance for me, no silly Chinese wisdom and certainly no wise poetry like yours.
Sabine: It's meant to be heavily ironic, the title that is.
ReplyDeleteIn one sense these sonnets were addressed to you. Your blog tells me you're suffering; also that you're well informed, a stylish writer and aware of the benefits of controlled introspection. I can offer no help for your illness. Or rather I could parrot banalities wrapped in ingenious tinsel which would do nothing for either of us.
Six or seven years ago blogging was a far livelier and stimulating place to be. So much so that despite having more or less ignored poetry throughout my life, I inexplicably started aping others' examples and writing sonnets, mainly because I needed a fixed structure to work with. Here's one of my better offerings:
Pittsburgh, Christmas 1971
I waited, knowing the festivities
Would choke the flow of transatlantic calls,
Delays which brought their own blank auguries,
A prelude to the saddest of farewells.
“Ah… yes…,” my brother said, quite languidly,
Languor that looked for comfort in delay.
But what he added lacked necessity,
The link was cut and youth had gone astray.
She died within a distant older place
I’d left behind with callow eagerness,
Yet unrestrained by any false embrace,
Encouraged, taught, with chances of success.
She wrote, I write, but here’s the difference
No letters, now, to foil my ignorance.
I'm not trying to show off (Heck, it isn't that good.) I'm reacting to "I falter, I shrink, I become a whimpering mess. No grace, no learning curve, no acceptance for me, no silly Chinese wisdom." I dare say you do, and why wouldn't you? But there'll be periods when you enjoy some form of equilibrium. Writing verse (the word I prefer regarding my own stuff) is literary obviously, but it's also like Rubik's Cube, a physical occupation, sorting out this and that almost with your fingers. It could be one of those things (I know there are others) which provides a balance against those darker times. Listen: anyone can write bad verse, so that's a start. Decide to write bad verse. A week or two later re-read it (better still aloud), expose it to your intellect. Ask yourself: "How could I make just one line better." Then answer it.
Myself I could never do Rubik's Cube.
First I must hasten to add that the chronic illness that I have been cursed with does not cause me physical pain. ANCA vasculitis or Wegener's disease, take your pick, works behind a thick curtain of mainly physical fatigue.
ReplyDeleteOn and off I have problems with side effects from the drugs but nothing to write home about.
So your comment makes me feel like a cheat, as do other comments on my blog where generous minds express their pity for me suffering so much pain. Which I don't. And what is worse: I don't even look ill.
Which brings me to the real culprit, namely the word chronic as in forever and ever, add to that worsening and remission risks and reduced life expectancy and hey presto, watch my self esteem tumble.
A close friend of mine received a successful stem cell transplant 13 years ago. She had a rough time with it and when she could step out of the 4 months in isolation, all she felt she could ask for was watch her daughters grow into young adults. This she has achieved now and a few other things related to her chosen career as a scientist along the way. But you can watch her shrinking, becoming less vital, less eager, smaller, weaker, all the signs she has been told to watch out for when the alien transplant reaches the end of its lifespan. When? we don't know.
Why do I write this? Because my life span depends on how long the drugs that suppress my sick immune system work and while I never had multiple myeloma like my friend I am hanging on a similar thread and the 'when' is always in my mind. And this is the closest I am to experiencing pain.
You may add that we all, healthy or not, are facing the same 'when'. And also, that maybe I should be amazingly happy that my lifespan has been so miraculously extended by novel drugs. I am. I am. Often. But on other days, it's a curse.
So, whatever I do, it's always about "some form of equilibrium". Poetry may do the trick for you, I just ramble and remember stuff, incl. bad childhood days, and distract myself.
Rubik's Cube - never.
Sabine: Suffering isn't exclusively limited to those exposed to physical pain. Arguably the worst form is mental suffering.
ReplyDeleteThe suggestion that you might take up verse wasn't made casually. You have a feeling for words; most people haven't. I wasn't sure whether you were aware of this complex gift; recognising this ability in others was something I used to be paid for. It isn't necessarily a benison by the way; it tends to encourage self-absorption and a whole host of other writerly defects. On the other hand it can keep certain types of wolf from the door.