Hello my lovely readers
I haven't written one of these particular posts for quite a few years. However, I always mark what we call my 'zero birthday', whether I write about it or not. So, as I'm still trundling with my poem a day project, and the date happens to fall on a Wednesday this year, I thought today I'd share a sonnet with my thoughts on what prematurity means to me, and how it feels 'really being twenty-eight', exactly eleven weeks after my 'actual' November birthday.
A sonnet because it's my safest form, and because Shakespeare writes about Richard III being premature - he was 'sent before [his] time'.
The picture below is of me, as a baby, with my dad.
29/01/2020
This poem's penned with thoughts of 'little' me,
who really was the essence of that word,
a sugar bag's worth of humanity -
and yet had lungs which screamed out to be heard.
She made her entrance nigh on three months early
(a habit I've kept up throughout our life).
This left our brain and body a bit whirly;
but did it help us thrive or give us strife?
That query's one I still find hard to answer
in some ways more now I am twenty-eight
and today makes me wish that I could ask her
her thoughts on how we've travelled to that age.
Was this the yearly passage she had planned,
laying cocooned within our Papa's hands?
 |
| Me as a very small premature baby in hospital, nestled in my father's arms. He - a white person with dark hair and a dark beard - is wearing a navy blue jumper and lighter jeans, and sitting in a chair in front of some hospital equipment. I have a very small babygrow on, and medical tape across my nose to secure a feeding tube. |
No comments:
Post a Comment