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Memory: A picture and some words

The two greatest loves of my mother's life were the colour green and dancing.

She dressed in green as often as possible and drooled at green items in shop windows.

Dancing was an escape from drudge, the hope and potential for wealth and glamour. But it was among the many things my mother took too seriously to enjoy, so it was never fun.

She took me to a dancing lesson, possibly just the one because I was in hospital for most of my childhood.

We lived in Romford Essex at the time. We traipsed (my mother never walked for pleasure) along traffic-filled streets to a half-derelict building with huge warehouse doors.

On bare boards, little feet that had never had it so good hopped and skipped, out of time with the pre-war piano.

I was scared.


An exercise for the Writing Lives online course I'm doing:

Posted by Deborah Caulfield, 30 January 2015

Last modified by Deborah Caulfield, 1 February 2015

Assisted dying - two poems I wrote earlier

Poem 1

Retirement in Abingdon UK
isn’t like in Oregon USA

here we get assistance
to live with independence

there the doctors help you 
toss your controversial life away
on the dubious basis that pain
removes your ability
to die with dignity

on google and yahoo
the issue
is in no way similar
to euthanasia

for when suffering is terminal
and someone kindly kills you
say thank you
and smile
as they put down the lid on you

your shoes soon filled 
by someone youthful
someone who’s useful


Poem 2

Terrified by Falconer
I would bring in Bill
who’s not dead yet
if living is better

forget about ageing
in the paradox of place
they may not be able to keep him
in a landmark case

Posted by Deborah Caulfield, 16 January 2015

Last modified by Deborah Caulfield, 16 January 2015

Life, the universe, and flarf.

I wrote this flarf poem in the first few days of this New Year, having written almost nothing for a month. I hope it sparks the imagination and provides the reader with a fresh, unique perspective on life. 

Flarf seems to have come about by accident. It began as a send-up, a bit of a lark, by Gary Sullivan, to bring out the inherent awfulness, etc., of some pre-existing text.

Flarf his now an accepted and respectable way to generate poetry. Flarf is taken seriously. Poets enjoy writing it and readers, apparently, enjoy reading it.

Dan Hoy said flarf is like collage; it's what happens when poets spend too much time fucking around on the internet.

For me, a newcomer to the form, flarf works as a creative laxative, for the times when I sit there needing to write but it just won’t come out.

The starting point for this poem was rather straightforward, neither clever nor stupid; Into Google’s search bar I typed: What is the answer.

Working with various sentences and snippets in the search results, it soon became apparent that the phrase what is the answer can be read as both a question and a statement; I tried to use this ambiguity in the poem, make it more definite, which is a slight contradiction.

I like contradictions in poems.

What is the answer
he knocked
and entered
without waiting
for a thing
or written
a reply
or return
a reaction
to a statement
or situation
a solution
to the poverty and unemployment problem
a remedy
a way out
is a properly funded range of services
say or write something
to someone
of course
I can
she answered
simply increasing the number of troops is
a quick fix is
the answer
make a rejoinder
in reaction
a sound
such as
a telephone
or knock
or ring
at the door
Digby answered
the ultimate question
takes 7½ million years
deep thought
to compute
and check the answer
what is mrs short for?
didn't originate
as the term describing the female head
of a whorehouse
in use
long before
the real answer
to life
the universe
and everything
ask a grown-up
the almighty
it takes 7½ million years
to calculate
your username
is the answer
what is the question
is the question

Posted by Deborah Caulfield, 6 January 2015

Last modified by Deborah Caulfield, 6 January 2015