The artistic life

envelope

Typhoid
cholera
TB
stalked the Victorian house
they did not imprison
but took their chances
hoping and praying
for divine intervention
Darwin's fittest survival
not cowered in solitary confinement
where loved ones die alone
no cuddles,
no sweet caress
just a letter of gratitude
from kith or kin
read by a gentle nurse
with tears in weary eyes
frightened it will be their turn next
to pass the envelope

Annie Elliott

Ann writes much that is raw emotion, but direct, as she rails against confinement and petty hypocrisy. She also thinks deeply and produces work that is intense and moving, as in her new poem, envelope. We are all too aware of death stalking the country, looking for a way into our lives to cripple and destroy all it can. Relationships, trust, livelihoods, whole careers and hopes, are being taken. Even the young, immune we hope from the virus, will be affected by loss of education or close elderly relatives, and by rising unemployment, incipient inflation, and a reduction in available finance and support for university or work.

Many young couples in their twenties will have been devastated by the wrecking of their marriage plans, unable to arrange their future lives together or gather their clans to celebrate a birth or mourn a death. Edwin's partner, Andre, was due to fly home this summer for his sister's wedding but this too is cancelled and he does not know when he may see his family again.

My own efforts at poetry are more mundane than Ann's, and alas my artistic efforts are no better than the poetry. The art equipment arrived yesterday (see Doing time), though this sounds grander than the actuality, i.e. a pad of paper, a packet of brushes (made in China!) and a set of paints. I decided to do a portrait of Edwin as a young boy, and have learnt now why artists are considered so radical, with the world set against them. Though copied from an old photo, it looks like a parody of a young man. Edwin says it looks like Lucy, and Ann says I must have been thinking of her subconsciously. No I wasn't! Please accept, it was not meant to be insulting or an unconscious Freudian representation; I am just a poor artist.

Portrait of Edwin as a young man

A Scientific Epitaph

My life is run,
My journey done.
My telomeres drop one by one,
Till one more gasp
And John is gone.