After thought...

On Saturday I wrote a post, then posted it a bit too soon- then realised it was full of typos and so posted it again. I am not really sure what I am doing on here- having stepped away from trying to write for a living for a while, I am putting out some writing for free every now and again on here whilst I mull what I might do next- ( whilst also mulling whether anybody needs another bloody Sub-stack post..) A good few of you sent me messages about the post- they were positive ones. But I have been reflecting on it and it wasn’t as thoughtful as I want to be. So I took it down.

It was angry and it was hurting and I am- at times- pretty angry, and I am, at times- hurting. It was about the way these days it is our well being- that is so constantly being targeted by our algorithms- how what we are being sold these days is not smoking but actually things like simply how to breathe. How- whilst so many of us are feeling increasingly lost and fragile there are so many people out there now subtly and not so subtly selling us answers, tarot card readings, retreats, courses on ways to rest and ways to eat and ways to grow old and ways to…. and on. And it was about how susceptible I am to thinking I need all the above, how many times I am hooked into newsletters and Substack posts that promise answers and advice. I can be a sucker for it all. But- on reflection on the post I wanted to say- I have also been helped- like- really helped, by women whose work is the work of helping other women through menopause, by a brilliantly bold and life affirming retreat for “swimming artists” ( although I can never fully claim the label “artist” without cringing, I am definitely a swimmer- so I muddled through the art bit and swam all over the place and drank gin with a group of lovely very funny older women and felt so much better for it…) I have benefited massively at times from a truly brilliant writing coach, a wise yoga teacher, I recently paid to learn to breathe more efficiently and this was money very well spent- I don’t want to dismiss any of this or to diminish the people working in these areas- although I can also think of way too many workshops and appointments, courses and events I have signed up for that I really could have done without.

It is daily palpable over on old Instabollocks ( and more and more in here actually-) how blurred the lines have become between what at first seems like a person just sharing something human and being sold something. As palpable as it is how very stressed and anxious and in need of help so many of us are feeling. Plus, now that most people have to sell both themselves and whatever it is they are offering on a site that was originally designed to post pretty pictures from our personal lives- the fact the best way to sell anything has now become to sort of pretend you aren’t selling anything at all and are just being friendly and sharing something human - is the wonky terrain we are all now swimming about in whilst we struggle to snatch at some lasting moments of peace and connection eh? Or at least I know I am…..

Anyway- although I took down my post it is for sure a fact that I am fed up with being bombarded with content that is nearly always selling me something and tapping into my anxiety and stress- and the fact that instead of “stuff” - it is usually the image of a healthier, more peaceful, more productive, more peaceful version of me that I am being sold…. But I do not want to diss or dismiss the people in amongst all this who are selling some really valuable ways for us to feel a bit better in this crackers world we all now inhabit and I am sorry if I did.

As I have mentioned in other posts-in my endless quest to find the better Kate- I recently attended a poetry course- it was a mixed bag- but mostly it was a good thing. I wrote allot of poems as a kid and a teenager - then I got shy and never did again. I have enjoyed returning to it -although I am also very daunted by the world of “poets”. Seems quite a complex one- which worlds are not complex these days eh?

So by way of replacement for my deleted post- here is another of my recently written poems- I wrote it in March- I was trying to capture something about the beauty of spring combined with the perpetual undercurrent of horror that is the world these days. The workshop style meant that the person who wrote the poem that was to receive the other students feedback was (supposedly) anonymous. ( Although we all always knew exactly who the poem had been written by as the writer was very conspicuously the only one looking shy and taking notes and not giving any feedback… Hey ho- it was the tutors “thing”….) The anonymous writer was not allowed to speak- and due to being “anonymous” was also not to be referred to by their name and instead was referred to as “the poet”- so when it came to the turn of my poem to be critiqued I sat silent- whilst one of the fellow students on having just read it -said, in what felt like a quite exasperated tone - “ I just wonder if this poet will EVER allow herself to feel hope!”

And if I had been allowed to reply I would have said- “Oh, she is really trying. That is in fact the whole point of the poem. In fact HOPE may be the very thing the title is referring to…”

Despite the course- I am still not sure whether the “poet” needs to spell out what her poems are about a bit more in order to avoid or appease the slightly grumpy reader- It’s all work in progress… again eh?

( trigger warning- sad bits…)

ON WONDERING IF IT’S STILL POSSIBLE

The birds have lost track of time

Sweet boy Robin blathering like a lad who won’t take a hint,

It’s a streetlamp little man.

Someone is hanging foxes.

Two incidents- the post says.

“It’s a thing now”.

Emoji with the open mouth.

I try to leave you a voice memo

but my mouth is filling with funerals.

My heart becoming a knuckle.

I don’t delete- I need you to hear me.

I remember that it’s March again.

I remember the twirling blue tit babies-

the fucking malevolent magpies.

The dying isn’t going to stop is it.

Arriving home,

3 police cars flash past blue

moving slowly like they own it.

3 of us-

3 women, 3 mothers, 3 neighbours

trying to make light.

But we stop talking. Just watch.

We can all imagine-

we know the knots and the flames of this place.

The police car turns smooth snake

onto the high-street.

Who has done what- and to who -and again.

We act kindly and say our goodbyes-

see you soon, enjoy the sun, take care.

In a pot by our door the tulips are determined.

It’s spring and I do so badly want to unfurl-

but is it right that we don’t seem to be screaming?