FT was not sure whether to post this piece, as it was composed in menstrua. I, Coo, have encouraged her to publish it nevertheless.

Thank-coos for comments; we shall catch up soon (-:>)



Living with Arthur

Yesterday was my
Arthritis Anniversary

occurring during my
Time of the Month

so it was a bit of a
Difficult Day –
I hadn't slept well
and mostly I felt
tired and sad.

But Coo suggested,
why not channel the
tired and sad
into something
weird and mad –
a poem!

I think,
weird and mad
is much more fun
than tired and sad,
so I was happy to
take up Coo’s suggestion.

'FT usually takes up
my suggestion,'
Coo confides ;>)


I have a lodger in my body; Arthur is his given name
by many folks in whom he shelters, uninvited, just the same –
for some, he turns up late in life; for others, in their infancy;
he came to me when I was 12 and set up home in my left knee.

For many months, it was assumed the swelling was some sort of tear –
a ligament, perhaps; and no one guessed that it was Arthur there,
until a springtime exploration showed no damage caused by sport;
just Arthur chose to move on in while I was on the netball court.

As lodgers go, he proved quite tricky, shifting walls and shaking frames;
I had to quit the netball team; he made it hard to play most games;
I gained a limp and I was laughed at; then there came the horrid day
he claimed an elbow, bent it, locked it; how I wished he'd go away.

He didn't leave, but spread himself through my right knee, both hips, my neck,
my ankles too – and by the mid-teen years I felt a total wreck;
with all attempts to cast out Arthur failing, failing, one by one,
he sat tight in his bloated homestead, lighting fires and having fun.

And no one liked the sight of him, the pain he caused and all the tears;
I learned to hide him, cry at night, write privately about my fears,
so come the daytime I could smile and go to school, be bold and brave,
do huge hillwalking holidays and never think to rant or rave.

But he was always there, despite my efforts, always apt to show;
I tried to lead my life, met many men, but once they came to know
about my Arthur, they'd retreat with, 'Sorry, it's not you, it's him',
their 'love' withdrawn, to be bestowed on someone healthy, lithe of limb.

Those times, I'd weep and curse my plight, the dwelling place of one so mean;
I wished for life without this hindrance, tortured by what might have been;
his fires kept blazing, then one year, in hospital, we got a shock –
machinery was rammed into my foot, a really nasty knock.

That winter evening, hope was shattered – I would never walk again;
my right knee twisted, then the left, and hobbling brings a lot of pain;
sometimes to live is only to endure, and I feel tired and sad,
but then I sit and write with Coo, and life is good, if weird and mad.




Poetry by Coo & Co The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 52 times
Written on 2016-11-27 at 23:09

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shells
Bravo! A brilliant read, well executed and rhymed throughout. Thanks for sharing your personal journey. Keep on with the weird and mad, your amongst friends 😉
2016-11-29


Lawrence Beck
Arthur is a monster. I hate him for what he'd done to you. He messes with me a little, but I've been able to ignore him. Three cheers for "weird and mad." As always, a beautifully composed poem.
2016-11-29


Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
I applaud the candour, and the eight-beat iambic, sustained successfully and fluently throughout the "formal" section of this poem.
2016-11-28