Is it legitimate to exorcise nightmares by writing about them, in particular by writing poetry about them? My childish nightmares were often true, like this one about my grandmother.
IN 1947
In 1947
Granny came
To stay with us
To die.
My little old granny
Parchment grey skin,
All skin and bones
Who’d nursed me
Through measles, mumps and whooping cough
And the chicken pox and ringworm.
But I missed scarlet fever
And the impetigo.
Dad was recently back
From the war.
Having gran in his ‘gettingused to civvy life’ house
Nightmares
Is it legitimate to exorcise nightmares by writing about them, in particular by writing poetry about them? My childish nightmares were often true, like this one about my grandmother.
IN 1947
In 1947
Granny came
To stay with us
To die.
My little old granny
Parchment grey skin,
All skin and bones
Who’d nursed me
Through measles, mumps and whooping cough
And the chicken pox and ringworm.
But I missed scarlet fever
And the impetigo.
Dad was recently back
From the war.
Having gran in his ‘getting used to civvy life’ house
Must have been hard for him.
It was hard for me,
Getting used to having a dad
And getting used to a poorly gran.
She’d always
Fed me lunch
When mam was away at work.
And now
She was downstairs
In our house,
In our front room
In bed, all skin and bones
Come to die.
No, she didn’t want hospital,
Nor any operations,
And not that radium thingy,
Just the pills
That helped to make her
Feel better.
She knew what was wrong
And what was going to happen.
She was sick.
Always being sick.
Couldn’t keep anything down
And blamed mam’s cooking.
But a boiled egg would be nice.
It was sad and I was scared,
So I stole her an egg
That mam boiled.
I’d watched the captive hen
In its cage
Lay this egg
So I stole it for gran.
Felt it still warm from the hen
In my hand.
It was boiled.
Gran ate it
And was sick.
It was cancer,
But in those days
No one dared say the word
In case of bad luck.