Poem of the Month - September 2010

Lately I have been looking back over my old poetry to work out what to put in a retrospective collection I am preparing for publication. It occurred to me that it is hard for others to tell which poems are autobiographical, which ones are about other 'real' people and which ones are total fantasy. I also realised that I don't write a lot of fictional poetry, just about everything comes from experience of some sort.

I have made the mistake before of sharing poems with others and having them think it is my life I have written about when it is absolutely not. I have also sent things out there into the world that are very much related to my personal life and the message has come back that 'that wouldn't really happen' or 'that is just so not about you'. I wonder about the image I present when I have to fight to exert what is really me and what isn't. Maybe I shouldn't bother about this at all, and just let the poems stand on their own.

But just in case you are wondering, this poem was written by me and about me during a particularly dark time in my life as an employee.

















A (Confused) Day in the Life of Clara V. Pentubis*

Interminable hours!
Each day an eternity.
Home! Where I can be me,
Where I can be free.

Clock-watching,
It’s a crime!
No-one should be forced
to labour in this mausoleum.

Occasionally,
Another grey-skinned
Dull-eyed member of the clan
Shuffles by and half-smiles
On the way to the storeroom
- Graveyards have more life.

The fax machine
Roars into activity,
Breaking the silence.
Then, its duty done,
Sinks once more to silence,
With a plaintive cry.

Sending its own summons,
The switchboard comes to life.
Time for someone to swing into action.

Those with some presence of mind turn in unison
Anticipatorily.
Clara silently pleads, “Is it for me?”
“Is it my turn?”

Alas, it’s for the man upstairs.
It’s always for him,
Never for Clara.
He doesn’t even know
How to make good use of it.

Clara sighs, ‘If it rang for me,
You’d really see me
Swing into action!’

Trouble is, Clara knows
That in this place,
Swinging is dangerous.

It also requires energy.
And that leads to cynicism.
Or worse still, questioning.
Who knows where that might lead?

Morning tea-time shuffle;
Nods of recognition at the urn, grumbles about sugar granules
That have migrated to the coffee jar
Are soon forgotten in the scramble
For ownership of the sports section.

Clara doesn’t want the sports, she is immersed in the jobs.
Plenty of them, but none require the services of
Worn-out brain-dead mind-numbed
Lazy-loafing, pen-pushing
Government Slaves.

They’re a dying race. A rare breed.
Interbred, made to order.
No way in. No way out.

Wait! Take a package.
And after that?
What have all the years
Taught you? Good for nothing!
Too young to retire,
Too old to start again.

Idea! Take a sickie
(Or a whole week of sickies)
And think about it.
Take your time,

Feel good about yourself.
At her lonely desk at the end of the hall,
(How long is it till lunchtime?)
Clara sinks into the encircling womb
(Or is that tomb) of worthless words on paper.

No one hears her curses, sighs,
Notices her muffled cry,
Or sees her hands raised towards the sky.

Questions go unheard, unanswered,
A heart is breaking, unrequited
Defeat is final.

Folded arms pressed to her chest,
She bends her head in quiet despair
And numbs her senses, avoiding care
Why make believe life can survive
When the spirit cannot thrive.

July 1994

*Clara V. Pentubis is an anagram