Thanks chook

So much tragedy and hurt in the world.

Since we last communed the ‘crossbow cannibal’ has crowed over his atrocities, the Gaza situation has been argued like the chilling but puerile playground spat that it is, a pissed-off taxi driver has stolen 13 lives in Cumbria (and marred dozens more) and a wacked out cage fighter has ripped out his sparring partner’s heart. To name but a few ‘newsworthy’ items. Any chance we can pile some love into the other pan of the scales to try and balance the negativity? It’s got to be worth a try.

I’m going to start by offering thanks to a dear friend of my little piranha fish and - by (very willing) proxy – myself. She is a Kay person and lives in New Zealand. Of the many hats she wears, one that fits her like a glove is that of poet. Now, those of the faithful who knew me as a tadpole will recall my attitude to poetry whilst tumbling through my formative years; to call me a poemophobe would be akin to referring to Pol Pot as a naughty man. I utterly believe that English literature lessons induced in me a form of synaesthesia in which the sound of spoken Byron or Bysshe-bosh Shelley actually translated through my muddled synapses as pen and wash images of a Lotus-Cortina or sometimes glossy photographs of unfeasibly large breasts.

But, just as detergent disperses oil into the water with which it will never truly mix, time has ameliorated the effects of poetry on my shredded neural network. And whilst Chronos is generally regarded at Watson Towers as a bit of an unwelcome bastard who can stick his hourglass up his ass sideways, in this instance he’s played a blinder. Whereas once upon a time I was an active learner, I am now more reflective (as, regrettably dear reader, is my balding pate) and this new trait in me has allowed a new paradigm for poetry.

Not all poetry of course. Some efforts appear to me as the spasms of inchoate thought manifested via keyboard to print. Some is so sugary that my teeth begin to drop out just with one verse. Some smacks of smug manipulation of verbiage and causes a red mist of hate, while yet more promotes a mental shrug of indifference akin to eating a potato. Kay’s poems though (check some out on her excellent blog http://andbottlewasher.blogspot.com/) can infiltrate the canyons of my mind, seeking out hidden memories and allowing them to escape from the darkness. Many social constructs are underpinned by music, and 10cc are not the only band to whisper that ‘big boys don’t cry’ and - unreconstructed as I am - I don’t do tears. That said, some leakage has been experienced when reading Kay’s words. There, I’ve said it.

Only now I am beginning to allow different channels of access to a heart that has previously served merely as a pump (yes, yes, I know that it is merely a pump, but it’s a handy short-hand for the emotional centre of being, you pedants). I don’t learn the words to these poems, I don’t revisit them in a wistful attempt to recreate spent emotions; for me some poems just flick a switch. This is a rather dystopian view of poetry, allowing it only to exist as a cipher, but it’s what works for me now. In my future, who knows? I may start to quote Yeats and wear a frilly collar, perhaps even reject the Subaru as a sublime lifeform. Heaven forfend, I might even recant vodka as the one true religion.

For now though, what I have is sufficient unto the day, and I am grateful for the chance meeting that allowed colour to bleed into a monochromatic view of poetry. That is my small addition to the scalepan of love needed to outweigh the bad stuff - love and gratitude for the help from a friend who is distant yet only a few keystrokes away, a ‘second hand’ friend, an true artist.

Thanks Kay

Yours aye, Anne