Kathy Gee – Two Poems

The price of empathy

My country ought to be ashamed
to need so many rooms like these.
Darts of blue and red bleed sunlight
through the stained glass windows –
trestle tables, shelves of given food.
I am reminded of another shop
in crimson, dark, and cupboard-wide,
adorned with mirrors, brass and copper.
Slender fingers rose in ochre light –
ishroon’a – twenty. I protested.

Are you not American?
A smile embraces. British?
You are third world too. I understand.

Where are the women?
(Found poem)

Wolverley and Cookley,
Caunsall and Blakeshall..
Edited by Marcus Hart,
Conservative Matters.
Stephen Williams,
here with Ian Hardiman
MP Mark Garnier,
Councillor Gordon Yarranton
and Councillor John Hart.

Contact your local team.
Vote for choice.

Kathy lives in Worcestershire and has a parallel life working for museums and heritage. She’s had some thirty poems accepted in magazines and is now thinking about risking an entry to a pamphlet competition.

Kathy Gee – Cause and Effect

Cause and Effect

Somewhere in Ukraine,
a finger rests on metal.
Here, a peacock butterfly
basks on a gravestone,
tasting the scent of buddleia
with antennae designed
for the purpose. Ten white dots
on feathered wingtips quiver.
Then the butterfly stamps.

Kathy lives in Worcestershire and has a parallel life working for museums and heritage. She organised the Avoncroft Museum of Buildings poetry trail in 2012, enjoys performance and has an occasional blog at www.wordstring.co.uk – an experimental vehicle for occasional video poems.

Kathy Gee – One day in the life

One day in the life

(An Ode to the NHS, after Dylan Thomas)

 

In the half-lit corporate magnolia of the nurses home,
Queenie sleeps, turning like an eel in her narrow bunk,
dreaming of the leafy green of her Caribbean garden
and the vile green of theatre gowns.
She smiles in her sleep as frangipani fills the steriliser.

Dark in a room off ward fifteen, Dr Houseman Dave
grabs twenty minutes, twitching feet in the cellular blanket,
shaking like a terrier anticipating action far too long.
Beneath his blue-black eyelids, dry eyes search for softness,
longing to bury his so tired, brain-fried, face in her breasts.

At sun rise, the practice manager mutters by his skinny wife,
counting hours and contracts, fights and budgets,
firing random shots at the dawn before he must wake.
And in his comfortable, modernist home on the river,
the Minister sleeps.

At the top of the hill, where the trees meet the cloud-pink,
lock-clink sky, Freddy sneaks back to his mother’s house,
reeking of drink from his all night bender. He practices,
silent as a hairbrush ‘Just been out for some milk, Ma’
fumbles a vase to the ground with a crash. Ma? Ma?

GP Gilly wakes in her ochre bedroom, drowsy with sunlight,
blowsy with fantasy. Her ears don’t hear the siren,
the swinging of systems into action, while Freddy’s Ma
is oblivious, deep in the sleep of a stretcher and oxygen.
She’s listening with her nerve ends to the soothing blur

of the paramedic, who behaves the same to his drunks
and their mothers, to kids and their baby brothers,
hold on there, he croons, be there soon, be there soon.
From the depths of his sleep, a bleep rolls Dr Dave upright,
down the corridor before his brain is in charge of his legs.

And in his home on the river, the Minister wakes.
GP Gilly smiles at her waiting room, rations appointments
without being sour – hernia, headache, I fell over a door.
She’s best friends with cancer, urine infections and coughs,
can multiply tablets in weeks, months and years.

Freddy’s determined to beat it, to give up the booze,
How long had she been laid there, all wet on the floor?
So Freddy and Ma, and Sue from social services
talk about furniture, making the downstairs / upstairs,
what help she will need.

At the top of the hill, where trees meet the sky,
Freddy scents their bathroom like a jasmine garden,
puts a few flowers in a marmalade jar.
From the care of their telling, the slow-show, we’ll help you,
don’t worry, he might become somebody Ma can rely on.

Late in the evening, a tired practice manager
prepares for inspections, for cover, and cleaners,
afraid that the service might fail, as some say it will.
And in his comfortable, modernist home on the river,
the Minister drinks to a trouble free day.

 

Kathy lives in Worcestershire and has a parallel life working for museums and heritage. Although she started writing poetry (secretly) in 2007, didn’t submit works for publication until 2011. She organised the Avoncroft Museum of Buildings poetry trail in 2012, enjoys performance and has an occasional blog at http://www.wordstring.co.uk – an experimental vehicle for occasional video poems.