On the plus side, America demonstrated an upswelling of common sense and decency as Trump and his musky pals got their come-uppance in the mid-term elections, the Republicans losing control of both houses - though I fear the world will still be subjected to more fuckery from the orange man-child over the next two years.
Then on the minus side, Adele lost her very dear older sister to an unexpected and catastrophic stroke. We were only lunching with her last week and she seemed so happy and full of life, heading off to over-winter in Spain. That sudden sad event has really overshadowed everything else in recent days.
cumulus
I've written a brief poetic 'requiem' as an immediate response, which you can read here:Cumulation
At five on the fifth, her death.She is one with the clouds rising,rose gold and intangible as breath.
And I'm working on a longer poem, 'Lesley's Last Day On Earth', that will appear at some future date.
However, I didn't want to short-change you, so I'm also sharing another poem about death. Here is Ruth Padel, one of my favorite contemporary poets, reflecting movingly on the passing of loved ones. It's from her latest collection, 'Girl ' (Chatto & Windus, 2024).
Last BreathAnother angel now foretelling deathlike maybe all angels do. Last time it was justher and the angel in a cornerbut this dying is O so publicher son's friends in brace positioncovering their heads knuckles in their eyeseach one more private than she isher body flung back on the bed in a coarse red dressher halo a demi-lune thread you hardly seeeverything ungainly lolling headswollen stomach dangling feet. No tightsno cover up of old lady legs.Looking at her picture onlineI remember my mother's hands still wearing the ringhe gave her a little translucent beige topazI always wished it had more color but she loved itand the wedding ring behind thinned and resizedthrough the decades. Hands so age-spottedthere seemed more freckle than skinflesh sunk to nothing between the bonesraised veins where the warfarin-blended cellshave finally given up hands that cooked for us allso many years wiped up cleared up gave us the worldnow folded over her stomach in that purple fleecy top of hers.We were all round her like the sorrowing apostles.It was the mountainous breathing. It was the heart.I went out into the February eveningunder a moon capsized like a canoepicked a spike of myrtle a few snowdropsnodding their fresh white and greenand put them into her handswith a blackbird fluting away into the dark.
Ruth Padel
Thanks for reading, S ;-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to XShare to Facebook
