#(yes this is in reference to the 1983 bbc television film directed by the iconic jane howell)

[creatediana]

There’s a lot on my head— namely, a head, like Marie Antoinette used to have— and King Charles (the First)— (the new one—whatever)— (I think he still has one, but it’s not in great shape).

But what of the mind? Never mind— but the body, it burns. And I lie in my bed looking at Joan of Arc in a BBC feature— condemned with a baby (or, bastard)— oh, Joan, or Jeanne, la Pucelle— a poor little maid that a poor little Bard suited up—in fine armor to slutshame. Oh well.

Oh well, well well well I’m not feeling these days but for movies and books that I gaze on. Praise God for recurring malaise and disease— I’ve been struck with for fifteen years now... quite a chunk of my life

when I’m just 24, and my grandmother’s baby— (my grandmother’s dead)— (but she wasn’t, before).

No, all four of my grandparents saw me grow up—as this wretch— little nine-year-old girl full of needles, I am— I continue to be in my hospital bed glued to the TV.

What integrity I must inspire in my elders— their wise niece and daughter a weakling, for now— (no, not now, but forever)— I take the remote and flip to cartoons.

I wrote poetry once— (I still do—in my head) (that thing I still have... despite) and I wrote it for years and I’m writing it now in force— in rebellion against the skin and the bones and the muscles, not moving without consequence—

but the mind— and the body!— being idle... I hate it. Even more than the pain, or the punishment I submit to— to claim Me my own over this, my fatigue— my war from some film like a period piece—

so. I fight for some king? Or for God? Heaven knows— but I’m stylishly dressed, eloquent, my last words and woes of my tragedy— (how nice that’d be)— find heroic catharsis for the audience to see...

but for Me? What of Me? Oh, that’s Sunday. Or not. Wait, it’s Friday?—They all look the same in my house. My garden’s no calendar, my dog’s not my boss, but my job is to live... but loss... all of this— losing years once again of my bright little life.

Nana’s sore little girl, I submit, put my pen down again.

“Chorus—pretend Me I’m buried.” - a free verse poem written 7/07/2023

#ive been through a lot lately #and forever #free verse #poetry #poem #poets on tumblr #free meter #spilled ink #chronic illness #shakespeare #joan of arc #henry vi part 1 #(yes this is in reference to the 1983 bbc television film directed by the iconic jane howell) #(sick girl entertainment) #modern poetry #original writing