Being Right-handed

I have been thinking about being right-handed and how limited I am compared to so many left-handed people, many of whom are  close to  being ambidextrous. My husband used to write with his left hand, but played Squash with his right. As a cricketer, he bowled left-handed, but batted right-handed. (as an aside, our family is a perfect example of Mendel's Laws of inherited characteristics, of 4 children, two are left-handed and two right-handed)

Left hand/ right brain, is there a connection?

A writer friend has broken a bone in her writing hand. What should she do? This would not be much of a problem for me. I never write by hand, everything goes straight onto the computer screen. My left hand can take over what my right hand usually does. Of course the piece of writing would take longer, but wait a minute. Would that be the only difference? 

Thinking about being right or left handed, I remember an essay by James Barry. He was afflicted at one time with a bad case of what he called “Writer’s Cramp”.( I think that it was actually a form of arthritis.) He was forced to learn to write with the other hand. ( I am not sure whether it was his left hand, but it probably was.) Something very strange happened. He found that what he wrote with his left hand was very different to the kind of thing he wrote with his right. A play or story written with one hand had a kinder, more gentle aspect than a play or story written by the other hand.

I have decided to put this to the test with my own writing. Up to now I have typed all my stories or poems with both hands,

NEW PHONE (left hand)

The girl behind the counter was so kind,

There was a long queue behind me, but

she took the time to tell me all about

the features of  the

model I had chosen.

Pity she didn’t tell me how to use it.

So

Don’t ring me. I can’t answer

Don’t text; I can’t reply

I am excluded from the Net,

I’m techno-gagged and

I’ve been

cyber-silenced.

TOUGH SCREEN( right hand)

My fingers are so clumsy, I can’t type

he simplest message. I do try

but why do o’s turn into p’s and why

does the whole message vanish

before I can press SEND.

Bring me someone young, I cry

Someone like the girl at our poet’s group

Who can read from her Smart phone

so many lines she has written with such ease.

I wish that  she were here,  but I reside

In an old-age complex. where technology left fogies  

far behind, a long, long time ago.

It’s no good asking them.

and all my grand-children have gone away.

The staff are much too busy

for such a trivial problem, and so

I am left lamenting, all alone, 

my new and shiny, useless, touch-screen phone

(I would say left hand does better than right.)

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In Praise of the Men of Cape Town

Last Saturday I was at a poetry workshop where we share the poems we have  written during the past month. Many of these poems had the theme of violence against women, This was not surprising when you consider the shocking cases that have been recently reported in the media. I was feeling most depressed thinking about this as I was taking my dogs for a walk. But then I looked about me and what I saw lifted my spirits and made me happier.

The suburb where I live contains a mixture of large old houses, dilapidated tenements, gated
complexes and cheaply-built modern flats and the inhabitants are similarly mixed. It was late afternoon and there were  all sorts of people walking about. These were the happy sights I saw:
I saw a young man cheerfully helping his pregnant wife with her shopping, and an old man gently leading his disabled spouse over the road. I saw a new father proudly cradling his tiny month-old daughter. I saw a grandfather happily chatting to his daughter as he pushed a grandchild's pram. I saw a father smiling at his two daughters, who were jumping up and down with excitement because he was taking them on an outing to the beach. All around I saw these men, good men, strong men, real men.

You mothers and fathers of boys. Teach your sons to recognise  real men like these, to celebrate them, admire them and aspire  to be like them.

CONSTANTIABERG

Just over a week ago I had a very unexpected experience. I had to be carted off to hospital in an ambulance. This is something that has never happened to me before. I have seldom been in hospital and never found myself regarded as an "emergency" But I must say that if one has to be hospitalised, Constantiabergis a good choice. I was most impressed with the kindness and care I received. there.
This episode has made me realise how unpredictable life can be. I am now much more hesitant when making long-term plans. Two trips are scheduled for later this year. The first, a weekend at the McGregor poetry festival in August, the second,a trip to Hogsback with Cynthia in October. I now almost regret arranging them. My health, once so reliable, now can't be trusted to hold out that long.
But, perhaps I feel this way because I am still recovering, Convalescence is slow when you are over eighty. I may feel differently in a week or so.

I hope my little chapbook will be in print by August. Then I can take it to McGregor. "The last to leave" sold quite well in 2014, but that was after I had read my poems.. Steph and I both have small books to sell. We should be able to move some of them after doing our readings. I am looking forward to doing a presentation with Stephanie. Her work is so clever and so funny. Her poems are different from mine, but I think complement them.





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Hospital

I seem to have lost the last post. (That sounds ominous "Last Post"is the call over graves.) I wanted to add some poems, so I minimised it and that seems to have made it disappear, What it was about was just the unpredictability of life, especially life when you're over eighty. On Easter Sunday, ievening, i had just enjoyed a lovely day; the morning with my Grandson Luke and the afternoon with Danielle and Tyler. then, suddenly,in the night, a gastro attack. I had to call the nurses. they helpedme and in the morning, had Christo call an ambulance. He told me later, that he was the one who notified, Luke and said how relieved he was, to find that Luke was in Cape Town and not back in George.

Being carted off in an ambulance was a new experience for me. It was also a new experience to be in a hospital ward, immobilised, attached to a drip.  I must say that if one has to be in hospital, Constantiaberg is a good place to be. I was impressed by the kindness and care I received there.

This experience has made me think twice about making long-term plans. I used to take my rude health for granted. Now I know it can no longer be relied upon. Two trips are scheduled for later this year. : Steph and I are going to McGregor in August and in October I am going to Hogsback with Cynthia. I almost regret having made these arrangements. Perhaps when I am more fully recovered I will feel differently.

I am going to try again to post a poem relating to the experiences referred to above.

NIGHT IN THE HOSPITAL WARD

  

Bright lights shine in the corridor

outside my door. I hear footsteps.

People walk up and down.

In the next ward someone coughs

another moans incessantly.

A tap drips in a basin. I can’t get up

to turn it off

I lie

caught like an insect in a web of tubes

that dangle from the ceiling,

imprisoned by liquid dripping

into fragile veins.

The cougher stops, the moans cease too.

Perhaps they both have died.

I think of dying, joining loved ones,

husband, parents, dearest friends

Do they wait for me?

Dreaming of them, slide into sleep

and then a big, black, male nurse comes,

wakes me, adjusts the drip.

The coughs and moans start up again,

I hear

soft conversations in the passages.

Somebody rings a bell.

Time crawls, the night goes on.

Giving the Peace

Sitting next to me in the pew there was somebody new in church today. She wasn't new to me.We had met before, a long time ago and since lost touch with each other. It was great to make contact again. It's a lovely congregation isn't it" she said and this made me see my parish church afresh. How it is a place where there is so much love, where every one is made welcome, where when we are invited to say"Peace be with you," to one another, everyone around me gives me hugs and kisses. It made me think about why I attend every Sunday, why in this mixed "rainbow" congregation  I have a feeling of belonging that I do not have anywhere else.

It also made me realise why, in spite of the doubts that often plague me, I am a Christian and have been for most of my life. I see how this wonderful faith, a faith base on love, has inspired ordinary people . My devout parents dedicated their lives to helping others. Seated around me during this service are numbers of people doing unselfish loving things. One regularly visits prisons, another provides sandwiches for the poor, another has fought tirelessly for justice in this country. I could go on and on.

If I am deluded, as my atheist friends tell me,I decide, that deluded is what I wish to continue to be.

In praise of MOOCs

Having just finished an Online Astronomy course called Orion in the night Sky. I started another one, this time simply called Moons.  "Orion" was stimulating and exciting: Moons is  astonishing, amazing, fabulous and any other superlatives you can think of. It is, I am afraid,a little too much for me. I  really need to do it all over again.  There is just so much information to process. Astronomy is all very new to me. All I knew about Moons is what I learnt more than sixty years ago in School Geography class. I became interested in stars when I joined a U3A tour to Sutherland to see the SALT telescope. I meant to read up more about the subject, but only when I had become a bit bored after finishing a poetry course and having time to spare,did I look up other possible courses on the Internet and found these two on Futurelearn.  These courses are run by the Open University and they are excellent. The material is well presented and easy to read and as for the illustrations... I can only say WOW. They comprise wonderful pictures from NASA taken on different space probes. These are quite spectacular!

Some more poems

JUST A LITTLE TIME

When you are old, time gets out of hand.

Like water in a muddy dam, its sluice gates open

to spew out effluent cascades.  Your feeble fingers

can’t stem the flow. Brown clouds of days

rush past. You clutch at them,

but as you try to keep them back

they twist and swirl away,

turn into weeks and then to years.

Until all that is left is

a shrunken puddle

on a sandy floor.

THE SCENT OF ROSEMARY

The bitter scent of rosemary 

calls to me from the bush

that once grew by the door.

of a house full of girl-children, set

in a garden with a daisy-bordered lawn

and a cypress tree. .

Round-faced Dalena  kept floors polished

and windows clean. Old Soppy tended

flowerbeds and sold my green beans on the sly.

Now −

both in their graves, the lawn paved over

and the cypress tree chopped down.

CAROL SINGING IN AN OLD AGE COMPLEX

As the moon, one day from full, stares pale

through clumps of cirrus cloud,

we bring our candles and our hymn sheets,

and gather at the gate to start

our pilgrimage around the cottages.

A singer in a motor-wheelchair leads the way

and bringing up the rear, another singer

leans on a walker.

Our choirmaster gives the note

and off we go. We stumble into “Bethlehem.”

Our voices tremble on the damp night air

then swell. Sound spreads, doors open,

hands wave out of windows.

Soft drizzle sparkles in our hair.

We visit all the units

one by one.

Legs weary, breath a little short,

song starts to peter out, and then a woman,

surprised at hearing music by her door

comes out and looks confusedly about.

Through fog that fills her aging brain, recalls

something she first learnt at her mother’s knee and

joyfully, joins in with sweet soprano  Stille nacht,

Silent Night, Holy night

LEARNING ABOUT ORION

(After studying an online astronomy course)

In the constellation of Orion

somewhere halfway between

Red giant Betelgeuse

and White giant Rigel, lies

Orion Nebula, a fuzzy place,

where stars are born.

As Orion sweeps across the sky,

his hunting dogs beside him,

chasing the Pleiades, bow at the ready,

he carries below his belt the seeds

of suns. They swirl in multi-coloured clouds

of purple, yellow, green and blue.

In the wide disc which gathers round

a sphere that will become a new young sun,

are bits of debris, which, with dust

and ashes from celestial conflagrations

might form, after a million years

another Earth like ours

 

THE FUNERAL

I get there early to secure a seat.

The coffin is already there and the churchwarden

The coffin wears an outsized wreath

The warden, wears a white shirt and a tie

I kneel and say a prayer

A lay minister in a robe walks down the aisle

Women from the old age home take up their seats.

some people come in at the vestry door

I read the Service Order leaflet.

The lay minster blows in the mic

He shakes it to and fro and blows again.

Some people come to sit in the front pews

I read the book of Job in the Pew Bible

A child toddles up and down the aisle

The wind blows the altar candles out

The verger lights them all again.

I finish Job and start on Proverbs

The priest comes in and puts notes on the lectern

 He looks around and then walks out again.

The warden makes announcements I can’t hear

I finish Proverbs and begin The Psalms

The last of the pallbearers has arrived

They hoist the coffin skew; its wreath falls off

The verger picks it up and puts it back

The organ breaks into the March from Saul.

And now the service can begin.

WORDS FAIL ME.

Numbers were always unreliable.

ID, cell phone, credit card, the only ones

that ever stayed embedded in my brain

and as for names − many have long refused

to be attached to faces,

but now words, once dependable,

my very tools-of-trade,

are turning traitor.

It was the long ones started the rebellion,

the crossword puzzle ones – palaeontology,

Manichaeism, spectroscopy, all

went AWOL when I needed them.

Soon everyday ones joined the fun,

hiding under beds and behind cupboards,

having to be winkled out with

rakes and broom-handles.

Some, I believe, have gone for good.

They went and hid in luggage trunks

or old ice-chests and to make sure

I wouldn’t find them there,

they closed the lids down very tight.

And then they couldn’t open them and so

they suffocated –

serve them right!