PIHW 1 Palm Sunday - Process

Of course there is nothing to stop my writing a poem about anything I fancy.  I could completely ignore what is going on in the wider world and in my own little world of Castelldefels and write about something a million miles away from the threat of Covid-19.  But, even if I did choose subject matter ostensibly unrelated to the virus, it would still be understood as poetry being produced at the time of Covid-19 and be seen as a reaction to it – if only as rejection of it!

     In previous Poems in Holy Week (PIHW) I have said that the poems could be seen as a sort of poetic diary, and I think that this year is going to be no different, with Covid-19 forcing itself into all areas of life!

     In previous years I have at least been able to, in Tony Hancock’s words to describe his mother’s gravy, ‘move about a bit’, but this year is different.  For three weeks I have not been outside except to take the rubbish to the communal bins.  Once.  Tomorrow I might have to get money and go to the shops.  We’ll see.  This year is anything but normal and the normal narrative of a week has been put on hold.  But the poems will be written!

The first poem, whose draft follows, takes as a starting point the exercise that I do each day.  We are fortunate that we live in a three storey house; we have gardens back and front; a good sized terrace, and a communal pool.  As I cannot go to the local indoor pool for my customary early morning swim, I have had to make do with circling the pool each morning on foot.  It is far too cold to venture in and does the virus thrive in outdoor pools?  Our pool is next to a tennis court and two other communal pools set in gardens.  We are separated from the other dwellings by high fences and walls.

     Considering how many people live around us, I see very few of them on my circular walks and, as we all seem to have earphones firmly plugged in when I do se them, there is very little interaction in terms of conversation.

     When you are confined, it is almost impossible not to let the mind drift, no, not drift, more like forge outwards from confinement into the wider world.  My mind did that while playing a sort of game by trying to think of all the places that I had been to in different countries beginning with the sound of the first letter of my home city of Cardiff and my adopted city of Castelldefels.   I was lulled into thinking this easy because of the linking of the first two cities; the rest took some thought and, obviously, thinking and walking was not my strong suit as I managed to catch the edge of a sandal on a slightly prominent tile edge and I came to the abrupt stop that happens when you try to go down a step that isn’t there!

     Apart from the people working in the house next door, doing construction work that they shouldn’t, this area is unnaturally quiet.  For Catalonia.  A barking dog or children playing now stand out!

     The poem ends with a ‘gesture’ that, unlike the UK where I think it is only on a Thursday evening, people come out every night and applaud the health workers and the front line essential workers who keep us going during the crisis.

The title of the poem should be taken as a verb and as a noun, and as a nod to the day and also to the position that we are all in.

     I suppose that the poem is about confinement and freedom and about what it means during this time where norms do not seem to exist.

It is difficult to imagine that the final sequence of poems will be anything other than a comment on the crisis, but I am interested to see the direction that it takes!

If you have any comments to make after reading the poem please feel free to leave them and I will respond to any and all!

Please also bear in mind that this is very much a draft of what I will finally be satisfied with.  It is work in progress!

Daily Poem 1 – Palm Sunday

Process

Around the pool,

my daily walk,

square, pebbled tiles are

different, and yet the same,

are set in nearly perfect lines

where, as I walk

around, around, around,

excitement’s found in an

occasional slight tilt,

an inclined plane

along my regimented route,

where sandal’s catch on thin-lipped traps

bring footstep juddering to halt

a line of playful cartographic thought,

free drawn on coasts of memory:

Cardiff, Cannes, Castelldefels,

Cancun, Kiev and Kettering,

Çınarcık, Corfu, Kos, Cape Cod,

Carlisle and Copenhagen

        

but by that step

I’m back.  Contained within the

exercise of freedom caged by

insubstantial bars and flimsy fences,

open gates and keys to hand.

I’m solitary, but not alone.

I see and hear adjacent lives:

the gardened rat-dog’s goaded yips

at preening cat, fence-safe-secure;

bound siblings play around parked cars,

and joggers, tennis court confined

run widdershins to my progress

together, separate, safe distances apart

until, at eight pm, and on the dot,

the first staccato crack of palm on palm

brings us all out alone, a part of something

blended in applause!