"Calculation" Poem 5 from "A slur of tense"

 

“Calculation”   Poem 5 from “A slur of tense”

 

 

In Erewhon by Samuel Butler, a dystopian novel, criminality is regarded as an illness, while illness is regarded as a crime.  The novel came back to me as I swam my lengths and was very careful to cough underwater, so as not to give anyone cause to panic.  I had developed what would usually have been considered as a ‘nothing-cold  – but growing hysteria about the virus and the lack of anything like adequate vaccination for most people, means that any seasonal deviation by way of cough, sneeze, wheeze or runny nose is a cause for suspicion.

I did the sums and worked back to when I could have been infected and tried to work out just how worried I should actually be.

The poem relates the literary shrug that I gave, where I felt that what I had was absolutely no different to what I had had before, and I could write myself better.

The poem was drafted in Holy Week, and I still have not received my first jab.  I’ve not even been given a date for my first injection – and Spain is gearing up to welcome tourists to try and salvage something from the wreckage of holiday seasons lost and gone.

Writing can be powerful; but I would prefer to rely more on a vaccine.

 

Day 5 Maundy Thursday

 

Calculation

 

 

Resting beside a cooling tea,

I ache in elbow, foot, and knees.

And though I’ve done my daily swim

the stokes were sluggish, kick inept.

 

“Not firing on all cylinders?”

I ask myself, and realise

I do not understand.

To do with cars?  I think. 

But that is pistons?  No?

Perhaps they are ‘inside’ somehow?

And spark plugs link . . .

 

And this meandering

is just a drift of words

to silt digression’s oxbows,

to keep me from equations, like:

Today ‘Rundown’;

subtract 10 days;

add contact;

minus vaccine;

equals?

something best not thought about,

though Media conspires to scare

that isolation, gel and masks,

have really not been quite enough.

 

It’s present tense; it’s here and now.

 

It’s paranoia you might say.

Though, I’m not good at illness,

as a rule.

 

My fear is fed by others’ lack;

What part of ‘pan’ that starts

the word that rules our lives,

do you not understand!

 

I’ve still not had the jab,

though age and lungs

might signify an urgency

that is not being met

 

But,

as is usual for me,

my writing is a remedy

(placebo possibly)

I’ve come to trust.

 

And so,

I’ll write myself a spot

that’s free from morning shadows’ shade

and in full sun (that’s warming elbow, foot, and knees)

all will seem better in the world –

and I’ll  be better too.

 

And I will take my morning ride

and cycle-glide paseo crowds

and be serene, for I ‘believe’

the pen is mightier than syringe.

 

For now. 

But not for long!