My Daughter Broke My Heart Poem – Thanks to all who submitted lockdown poems. Poetry in Close is an event on Sunday 5 July 2020 as part of the Ledbury Poetry Festival Online. The event featured a wonderful selection of pro-lockdown poems, including poems by LPF, Naomi Shihab Nye, Sarla Estruch, Suzanna Evans, Elaine Beckett and Kim Moore. They are read alongside poems submitted to the Ledbury Poetry Festival’s online call. Hosted by Chloe Garner.
These poems were written during the lockdown and the corona virus pandemic, at a time when the entire country and indeed the entire world is going through the same crisis. Although of course everyone’s experience with this situation is unique. I know that, for people and places in the world, compared to my own, the challenges are greater and sometimes more daunting. Nevertheless, in reading these poems, I found reflections and insights into my own experiences. Also the difference. Ways of thinking about or seeing what is happening in the present moment. I find these poems deeply resonant and I hope you do too.
My Daughter Broke My Heart Poem
Some other contributions were read during a Zoom session at Ledbury’s Online Festival in July 2020. These recordings are included with the following contributions we have.
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Kneeling in the pitter-pattering birdsong; Feeling the bright rays of sunlight burning through the shadows of gray raindrops, kneeling in prayer, there, day after day…
Now living in the kingdom of crows with the crackling sound of a radio station echoing in the background,
I once knew silence, known quench, known waterfalls in summer daydreams, known lichen, known thoughtfulness, known eternal tearful embrace…
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Memories like the finger of the sea, touching the heart, pulled away, torn away, close but forever gone again and again…
Sunset darkened, dry fields now drenched like soft cloth, laid in the middle of scorched conflicts, experts and crows who really know the place.
Opaque rocks, warmed by the evening sun, silhouetted against a sea of sullen stars, stealing the sky for themselves, overpowering the moons, slowly sinking into the dawn: these
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Day by day there are small problems, it doesn’t seem important, no one cares about their weight, or if they are fat
If you ask what it’s like, I’ll describe your dad making silly faces at you during work phone calls.
I will tell you that we witness the kindness of visitors, the community spirit, and veterans honoring our precious health care.
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I’ll describe those short May nights when meteors lit up the night sky and I held you above my head so you could swim among the stars.
I will tell the story of when we woke up to the first morning chorus of the year with the windows open to watch the spring flow around our room.
It’s easy to look back to earlier visions of happiness and capitalist excess in the markets of gossip of Ross and Hipp, at the end of a tit-for-tat-tonguing exchange culture of people passing on people. A confetti masquerade of expensive scooters and heel-pedaling coffee-wine-café people who use their identities are allowed to move in a dance of seemingly unassailable synthesis under the beautifully bejeweled architecture of children playing unattended, compressing social abstractions around the world like a flower. Flowing far down- stop like springs bursting like a virus of white noise causing a sense of conformity or a nervous hunger after the 5G radio frequency rolling in but still one between brains and groups at the top of our sites? What did he see us? A bug on the way? World-class laboratory testing? An anti-pollution revolution? Introducing a New World Order? Hate sports? No: Restrictive social distancing.
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So now to scenes of dancing in printed patterns of the eternal spring sun with the emptiest spaces of empty playgrounds and the sunlit facades of the hastily disappearing city in the last blaze of free trade, brutal-indifference sweet-repression. -ignorant fate-crazy-no-pride-science-in-the-mind-closed-circle straightjacketing death indifference, silenced by the sensitized masses take the classes of wedding drones and futile binary conflicts around, and silence forgets the many pleas for death complaints. Emergency talk is past the momentary slap in the face children saddened like cut flowers are reduced to mass-produced mechanistic expressions, the incalculable sadness of indifference to political-non-political comfort written to dictate endless orders expressing the mindless tongue of barbaric abolitionism. – a distant social contract to neutralize such absolute and unrelated fears as loneliness and pain sensitive to political institutional freedom that counts as a sentence: from left to right in a few words: the hope of looking back again
I remember a time when I stood in a moonlit sky with more moons than I had seen in years.
And I grabbed the bag, which had spilled something and it didn’t look like I threw it on the floor of the hall – and now I was standing.
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We’re not afraid anymore, and I try to remember the things we used to do, when we could do things.
I wonder if the world is divided between those who stand at their gates and aspire to be free with the sounds of the night before their eyes.
And who close the door until it’s over, and maybe long after it’s over, because you’re safe here.
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The best way to stop getting such dry hands? How early can I plan? Should we inject the killer?
How many servings of alcohol should you drink in a week? Now what happens when you cross the peak?
One day soon the children will say can we go and play in the field?
The Story Of
Where we will laugh with the fairies and play in the grass with our grandmas and grandpas for a long time.
The ‘Willow’ pattern on china depicts the story of two lovers, one rich, one poor. After death, there are loved ones
I am half in love with the easy life. The gentle vibrations of the world are passing through the echoing caverns
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By the silence of the stars. As the smoke and heat of the street lamp opened, they gathered in the sky and finally, they rested their long journey.
They celebrated quietly, dimming their lights. The sky is too much for the speechless vision that lies in darkness and silence
It’s comforting to know that I’m not alone in this grief, this new life, confined to our home.
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But taking comfort in someone else’s pain is never a true satisfaction like my own, I’d just like a happy world where no one injects Lysol.
We take a deep breath as the troubled waters rise, the clock ticks and the anxious passage accelerates.
Old year; The joy of entertainment, now echoing in the air (once felt good) is now bad.
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Lo and behold, over the course of a week, we noticed all the blues and birds we’d never seen before, raising our heads as they flew by.
And deer also occupy the land, lazy foxes sleep, and pheasants boldly roam the streets during the day.
And in this glory, people disappeared like shadows in the night, you know they are there but you don’t see them,
The Child With A Broken Heart
These weeks are exciting as spring ebbs and flows, but among the fruits, strange things begin to grow.
Like bright flowers, these strange phenomena that glow in the night light are small but simple.
Through the darkness, you hear the sound of color, slowly creeping music and sounds from somewhere underground.
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As the siege of crisis burns a deep hole in our wallet, the question of how and what we will eat like the money we have shared, the sand shifts under our feet.
When hunger wakes you up, your mind becomes sad, you cannot concentrate and your legs dangle because your body is weak; As the mad riots escalated, they vacated the shops,
Recurring nightmares or vivid dreams also conspire, a person will enter a great abyss and disappear from sight. ‘Wait a minute’, she whispers softly ‘there’s only so much you can do’.
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As the waters get deeper, my Facebook words of wisdom and memes bring laughter where there is none.
Imprisoned in a vacuum, enclosed only by four walls, a beautiful interpretation of the scene you remember.
Say the rhythms are burning in Italy’s lungs, The songs are sour and the earth is dead passion,
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I am talking about the hard place in the sun in the great place of Lagos and the days breathe till late evening,
And have we become photographs of our own minds that we hold onto the hope that it is on the paradox of science,
And the cans I bought were delivered from a warehouse in Macclesfield and put on the shelf by a local guy who was picked up by me and a friend who was working six days a week at the moment.
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