#SeasonalSonnets 2019: 10th December

Hello my lovely readers

Today's post is a plea to people in the UK who are eligible to vote in the General Election this Thursday, 12th December. I've already voted, because we were going to be away, but I want to ask everyone else to vote carefully. Particularly for the sake of the NHS, and the crucial support it provides. As a wheelchair user, I'm acutely aware of its importance, and my experiences in that regard are the inspiration for tonight's sonnet. The featured photo is me, having been raised off the ground at a recent emergency trip to the wheelchair service. But I was also a premature baby, and life with Cerebral Palsy since then has required a lot of engagement with many different teams. My friends in other countries (SA included) aren't granted that resource, and the difference in provision is stark. So please, for the sake of the NHS, choose your vote wisely, and if you want to protect it - vote Labour.

With love and thanks from your friendly neighbourhood political Parrott.

10th December 2019

This poem celebrates the NHS

in hopes that the UK will vote on Thursday

to ensure that we save it from duress

and stop before we give it any worse days.

For me, my friends, and all the other people

who live our lives with need of its assistance,

I ask as we approach th'election's steep hill

to use your vote to signal your resistance.

My pals in SA get little support

with managing their chronic health conditions.

One British thing I am proud to report:

t'National Health Service's essential mission.

It's held on now since 1948 -

please help secure it before it's too late.  

#SeasonalSonnets 2019: 9th December

Hello my lovely readers

Today's sonnet topic has always been clear - it's in honour of Gemma's eighteenth anniversary - but, thanks to loadshedding, I was unsure if I'd manage to post it. Lack of electricity inspired us to find other things to do, however, so we went to the beach and drew a heart at the water's edge to hold Gemma's name and dates. That is the featured photo for this post.

It also struck me how apt the environment was for the significance of the day. As I wrote two years ago, Gemma had a fondness for the idea of Christmas in summer, and painted a tree scene on our local bridge during a holiday scheme. That's exactly what we'll have here. So, although I'm sad, hurting, and still struggling with the concept of festivity, I'm going to try and reclaim it, even a tiny bit, for her. There will be tears along the way (there have been even as I'm typing this) but hopefully healing too.

9th December 2019

Tonight I'm writing for my dearest Gem,

whose laughter left us eighteen years ago,

when she was just eleven, and I ten;

girls having fun in sunshine and in snow.

Since then I've found it hard when it is Christmas

because the season makes me feel sad.

I've always thought it might best be called 'Miss-mass' -

but Gem herself did not think it was bad.

In fact, of festivals, it was her favourite

(she even drew a tree upon a bridge).

Perhaps, then, it's my duty now to savour it

and so to honour her, though I'm a grinch.

I think I'll try and start again this summer

so Christmas gradually becomes less glum(mer).

Gemma, 26/09/1990 - 09/12/2001

 

 

 

#SeasonalSonnets 2019: 8th December

Hello my lovely readers

Another short post tonight, due to a combination of loadshedding and family visits. This one is about a different kind of power - wind.

8th December 2019

I write, tonight, a brief homage to wind

(penned quickly before I am blown away)

for whilst, in England, it is not my friend,

it feels much nicer in the Cape Town bays.

I grant sometimes it's still a nasty shock

and makes my muscles become rather tense;

but, when the sunshine streaming down is hot,

I have a more secure line of defence.

The Cape Doctor's what I'd call 'affirming'

(and not because we now have the same title).

It fills me with a hope instead of yearning.

Its warm companion weather makes it subtle.

I might not hold this sentiment in winter

but right now I refuse to let it splinter.

#SeasonalSonnets 2019: 7th December

Hello my lovely readers

A shorter post tonight - and not the one I thought. We're having loadshedding here (scheduled powercuts due to shortage of supply) so it's got me thinking about how much I rely on electricity on a personal level. Essentially, I've realised, if I lived here we'd need a generator to be sure I could charge my chair. Which is quite something, really, and sits me in solidarity with others who need similar medical support. Without further ado, here's the resulting poem.

7th December 2019

Tonight I muse on electricity,

now I've spent blocks of time with it turned off,

because I've learnt it's my security,

and how, without a source, I would be lost.

Whilst I can cope not using my computer,

or some related things like internet,

my wheelchair is not a wifi router

and without it, I feel trapped, upset.

I write this and am conscious of my priv'lege:

I'm grateful that I have one which is powered.

Yet I still think it's valid to acknowledge

the fear I feel when that freedom is lowered.

I'm sure, too, I'm just one of many others

for whom equipment gets into a bother.

 

#SeasonalSonnets 2019: 6th December

Hello my lovely readers

Where the majority of posts so far have referenced the fact that I'm in the sunshine, today's is about the opposite kind of weather - mostly snow. It's for my wonderful friend Kate, who not only puts up with but encourages my desire to do accessible adventurous things. I know I've joked for years about how I do wheelchair parkour (because seriously, life as a wheelchair user in society requires a lot of thinking about, and using, alternative routes to navigate our surroundings). But Kate does actual parkour - and has taught me I can do it too, as is shown in the picture below the poem of us doing our own version of wheelbarrows as a warm up.

Having cycled home to the UK from Bulgaria (with her then newly-adopted street dog Scout) in a heatwave two years ago, Kate is now hoping to trek across the Arctic by dogsled as part of Fjällräven Polar 2020. She needs votes to get there, and there are six days left, so this is my contribution to her campaign as thanks for all the confidence she's given me. Not least because I know how simultaneously thrilling and terrifying the snow can be, and have often used (admittedly hand-pulled) sleds/toboggans as a mode of transport in Canada with cousins when we wanted to have fun but knew my chair wouldn't cope with the conditions. Have a read and then watch her application video and vote for her on her page here.

6th December 2019

This poem is a plea for lovely Kate,

who's desperate to adventure to the Arctic.

Please help her get there before it's too late;

there's time for lots of votes if you are quick.

So much of her life revolves around dogs

(especially the adorable Scout,

who's thrived since their pan-European slog,

'tho this new trip of Kate's may make her pout.)

She's always ready with stalwart support

whatever obstacles there might be looming

and has a real kindness and rapport

whether with animals or fellow humans.

As she has helped along the dreams of others

it's time she got to live out one of hers.

#SeasonalSonnets 2019: 5th December

Hello my lovely readers

A shorter, and slightly sweeter, post than last night for today's entry. Partly because we've been very busy, but mostly because the subject matter was just there, and needs much less explanation. Today is the sixth anniversary of Tata Madiba (Nelson Mandela's) death. I think of it every year, and in fact wrote a Seasonal Sonnets entry about it in 2017. But being back in SA, after so long, makes this year feel extra poignant. Not least because we were living here when he was inaugurated in 1994, and this trip now is involving revisiting so much of that early part of my childhood. So I've written a short musing on personal history and legacy. Hopefully Tata would approve.

5th December 2019

Tonight I'm thinking lots about my history

within the place which forms part of my heritage

and how so much of mem'ry is a mystery

that makes it seem so crucial that we cherish it.

Such cherishing is helped along by figures

to whom we might ascribe significance

due to the impact of the hope they give us

beyond their globally bestowed magnificence.

This kind of human was 'Tata Madiba'

whose story, as a child, filled me with strength.

I try to emulate his kind demeanour

and make sure all my actions are well-meant.

With full awareness of my own white priv'lege,

I hope he'd not consider it sacrilege.

#SeasonalSonnets 2019: 4th December

Hello my lovely readers

Today's post returns from the political to the more personal - although it is also sort of activist. This week is the first ever National Grief Awareness Week in the UK, from 2nd-8th December. I am participating, despite being away in South Africa until January, because one of the reasons I needed to take a break right now is the intensity of emotion around Christmas.

Those of you who read my longer poem for Children's Grief Awareness Day (and those of you who went to primary school with me) will likely be unsurprised that my ten-year-old self is particularly present at this time of year. It's my dear friend Gemma's eighteenth anniversary next Monday (on the 9th). I'll write about that on the day. However, it isn't just her I miss around now, but everyone, because grief has a funny way of melding and mixing. And frankly not making any sense, at the same time as making perfect sense. So, as it's National Grief Awareness Week back home, they all feel important to acknowledge. The Good Grief Trust are asking for posts on Instagram with the names of people being remembered, and I'm going to do that too, but I wanted to mark it as part of this series. 

So here is today's sonnet. It references a speech by Leonato in Much Ado about Nothing, where he gets frustrated by platitudes. It's beautiful. There are a couple of caveats here of course. Firstly, I would never presume to know a parent's pain after the death of a child. Secondly, Hero doesn't actually die, and the mixed emotions I feel about death and grief being part of an elaborate disguise are too complex to put into words. Nevertheless, I find the play helpful because it depicts young people mourning another young person, and Leonato's aforementioned speech is really one of the most accurate assessments of the experience of bereavement I have so far discovered. There's no picture below the poem this time, in hopes it will be self-sufficient.

4th December 2019

This verse is penned to honour seventeen

(the number marking those I have now 'lost').

It explores several things that that may mean;

how much it might be gain as well as cost.

I do not do what's scorned by Leonato

and try to patch grief with poetic proverbs.
That does ring true for me, at least in part, though -
I do indeed seek solace in rhymed words.
How else, pray, might I hope t'articulate
the fact that all their mem'ries spur me on?
Yet (if I were to open the floodgates)
I'd fear all moderation would be gone.
If I'm always to be the one surviving
I feel I've a duty to keep thriving.