My starting point note for this poem (as it turned out) was about the fact that my smartwatch decided not to talk to my smartphone when I was about to start my daily swim. I have an app on my watch which (magically) counts the number of lengths that I do, uploads them to my phone and then I can have a breakdown on time, speed and distance, etc. At least in theory. Recently there has been a marked disinclination to upload any of my swims to my phone, but, up until today, there was no problem about my watch recording my efforts. But today, the watched sulked and refused to play ball (so to speak) and resolutely refused to note anything.
As the watch was still telling the time, I swam as I used to by giving myself a time limit. But, and this was the real start of the notes for the poem, I felt sort of bereft that the exact number of lengths was not being counted.
Now you may say that as I swim a metric mile in a 25m pool, all I have to do is count to 60 and my swim will be done. If you think that is easy, then you are not a swimmer. Although I swim in a very straight line, my mind meanders like the oldest of ox-bow filled rivers and I never, ever manage to count more than five lengths with any degree of accuracy. So, to count 60 lengths is, for me, a physical impossibility.
I actually swim 64 lengths as my first length is an uncounted warm-up. So I start my 60 lengths at the far end of the pool and finish at the other end (the proper end) having swum 1,525m. I then swim two lengths breast stroke to cool down.
You may be wondering why I am explaining this in so much detail. Well, it is to show you how far I have come to rely on my watch to give me such wonderfully accurate information. And that information is stored on some computer somewhere and it is matched with other swimmers who are in a sort of community in the area. We have never met and are never likely to, but we know that we are there and we also know how far and how fast we swim. So, not having my information uploaded was a sort of loss, and for the 'community' too.
I began to think about that odd 'loss' and began, as I sipped my tea after my swim, to make a few notes in my trusty notebook and it was in there that I used the word 'validation' and linked it to some sort of mythic electronic community.
The darkness of the final poem was not something with which I started, but that is how it developed.
I do recognise the literary provenance of the title, but I felt that it fitted and I liked the pun.
This is a very compressed poem and I am aware that not everything will be immediately obvious, but this is something which took me a number of drafts and it says what I wanted it to say. I think.
The lack of question marks in the first two lines is intentional.
As I often say about the poem that I publish here: I will come back to this at a later date and try and read with a critical eye. It may change.
Only connect
What validation do you need
to fill the void of being.
As yourself.
Mere effort is not bright enough
to clear those shadows (breaking at the edge)
that slide, as
something bleaker
than fragmenting glaciers.
Dissolving definitions blur
togetherness and friendship’s
currency’s an easy counterfeit.
That rolls and clinks behind a glass
in light, drone-heavy hives.
And cells are etched in air.
And weightless words compel.
And bells demand respect.
As ever with my poems, I invite responses either here on this site or via my email. SMR
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