A poem: More Sugar

Back in summer, when Lockdown 1.0 was about to lift, and we’d done…what was it in the end…? 15 weeks with the family? Homeschooling, eating all our meals at home, all of us under one roof, all the time, with no breaks.

I did not take for granted how lucky we were to be safe, healthy and happy. Although I absolutely adore my husband and children, by the end of it, I was fantasizing about living in the middle of the woods all on my own…

So that is precisely what I did.

I found this dinky little hut in the middle of a wood, with no electricity or mod coms and I tucked myself away for two utterly blissful nights. I slept, read, wrote stories, wrote therapeutically, wrote morning pages, painted in my art journal, made only the most rudimentary of meals for myself, walked in the forest, napped, pondered and pressed my RESET button.

It was the best retreat ever.

Whilst I was there, something happened that took me completely by surprise: I wrote my first poem.

Now, whilst there is not doubt some cringey poetry deep in my adolescent history, I’ve shown next to no interest in either reading OR writing poetry to my recollection. So this was more than a little left field.

And yet, since then, I’ve written more. Some are good, some not so good. It’s not for me to judge. One thing I do know is that in poetry I’ve found the subtlest, most efficient, swiftest way to capture whatever feelings I may be experiencing in that moment, that I struggle to articulate in longer form. It’s also free therapy.

Going back to that moment I wrote the poem, I was angsting over some raggedy writing in my journal. I felt a wave of frustration and anger rush over me, and all of a sudden, PLOP, this poem poured out of me, onto the page, fully complete, with not a second’s hesitation. It was quite weird, and just a touch addictive…and it’s a hit I’ve been seeking daily ever since.

Here it is.

More sugar

More sugar helps me numb the pain,
it might as well be crack cocaine:
‘social’ media, a boxset, the screen,
Still my needs are left unseen,
The problem is my addictions are ‘acceptable’,
But myself, I find them despicable,
I plunge into a spiral of despair,
a dark place, a filthy lair,
Self-loathing and vile words they come,
whenever I’m inclined to numb.

The answer is of course compassion,
kindness, soft words, small actions,
How can I expect others to treat me kindly
when I flail about so blindly,
Beating myself up,
I’d do better to fill my cup.
Kind words, compassion, love and grace,
I vow to fill that dark, harsh place,
Pouring love, being gentle, a soft heart.
I find the flow, and make my art.

Alexia Pinchbeck 27.07.20