The Past Called, Wanted Me To Let You Know To Get The Fuck Over It…

There’s a flagged email languishing at the top of my some time defunct inbox.

It’s from my mother and the subject reads ‘Poetry: Do NOT Delete’.

Contained within is everything of artistic merit I’ve ever written in varying states of completion – if memory serves, none are the original documents but instead snippets rescued from here and there after my computer crashed the night before I went into labour.

This morning I opened it for the first time in nearly 24 months.

It’s by no means an anthology worthy lot, comprising of only eighteen or so pieces. Two have been published, I would reckon the majority of the rest have seen time on the open mic circuit and one sent me hurtling from ‘social darling’ to ‘pariah of the poetry scene’ in three minutes or less.

That’s a whole butt-load of feels for a different day.

Reading through them now, very much from the detached perspective of a woman who can’t remember exactly why she was ever that full of bile (but assumes it probably has parallels with ‘levels of shit-facedness’ acheived before midday) I’m not completely horrified.

The content might be derisively tut-worthy and juvenile but the form isn’t wholly awful.

As such I’ve decided to post one.

It’s the inaugural poem featuring Frank (in spirit at least) and written within 48 hours of discovering I was up the duff.

I took it to the reading day of my old creative writing class as a *cough* hilarious means by which to break the news to the tutor and my peers.

So, without further ado – ladies and gentlemen, some stuff wot I wrote a terribly long time ago:

Learning to Play Well With Others
To I, our one bedroom,
One bathroom home,
You first made yourself known.
Didn’t hesitate to stipulate
Ground rule designation
For our cohabitation;
When, one week late, I awoke
To discover the smell of smoke
Which I could locate from
Across the road, knocked me sick.
I couldn’t look twice at a drink.
In four weeks you’d kicked
Every bad habit I’d picked up
In twenty years without an us.
Now I’m eating my five a day,
Snacking on delectable
Health-food store selections
Whose names I can’t even say.
Popping vitamins tablets as though
Radio 4 had just announced a
Terrorist warning had been taken out
On every Holland & Barrett
Avoiding dried meats,
Soft cheese
And caffeine.
And all the glib remedies of
“Keep calm and drink tea”
No longer apply, you see,
Because I am perpetually fucking stressed.
Each twinge has me running to the Internet
Where other mums-to-be amidst
‘Three miscarriages and one ectopic pregnancy’
From Tennessee, do their best
To both reassure and put the fear of God up me.
Currently, you’re the size of a sesame seed,
But in two more weeks

You’ll have an audible heartbeat.




Post Comment Love

6 thoughts on “The Past Called, Wanted Me To Let You Know To Get The Fuck Over It…

  1. Ruth, I’m sure he thanks his stars every day never to have slept with me…the dressing down could have been so, so much worse.

    Jaime – thank you very much! 😀

  2. This is absolutely and utterly brilliant! Poetry shouldn’t be stifled and hidden away – it should be shared by a mutual appreciation audience – come and link to Prose for Thought every Thursday over where I blog and you’ll see what I mean! Thanks for linking to PoCoLo x

    • Thank you so much! I do intend to link up to Prose for Thought when I have some new material, I’ve changed so much as a person that posting up my old work feels a little like hanging out my dirty knickers in public. 😉

  3. Pingback: Things We Love: August | dorkymum

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