Serious, but not unhappy

I spent time with two grandchildren in two different homes on Friday. One is 7 months old and one is almost 19. What a joy they are. And yesterday it was (my son) Isaac's 50th birthday. I remember his birth so well. Thinking of these members of my family with such disparate ages has made me thoughtful.

And I realised something this morning when I was writing to a friend. In her last email she had said “well done for staying above the depressing effects of such a ghastly political environment.”

I found myself writing back about how I felt about it all and how I am trying to stay aloof from it because in the past I have been so depressed by this disgusting government. I told her about the things I do, which I hope are positive contributions. And then I found myself writing “I had hoped to have a Labour government in the future that would put things right, but Starmer is so duplicitous that I have given up hope of that. So having no hope at all, I am focussing more on my life and trying to do what I can in my own small part of the world.”

What I realised is that I am devoid of hope. But I am not unhappy.

I’ve been awake since 5.30 a.m. These early dawns have that effect on me. Now I’ve written this I’m going to go back to what I was doing before, reading Staying Alive. 

I decided it was time to go back to reading poetry before I got out of bed in the morning. In the front of my copy of Staying Alive I found I’d written this quote from Bukowski: “Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.” 

Also printed in the book before the Introduction are some quotes from poets.

This is the one I like:

“Poetry is that which arrives at the intellect by way of the heart.”

I’ll leave you with this, the first poem in the collection: