I wrote an untitled poem in April 1988 which I never really understood. It tumbled out of me and made perfect sense poetically but still I don't know what its about. Now, with the gravity of this disease it may have found its time. I'm not going to transcribe it here now but, as this blog takes new directions I will in time, put down its 57 lines and give it the light of day.
The strappers made a comment yesterday regarding the size of the lump, commenting that the purpose of radiotherapy is to reduce its size. I remember the oncologist surgeon saying in passing that size was not all important but that he hoped it would reduce. When I feel its dimensions I fancy it has changed in texture more than anything else. I sense it could be mushier. But when I probe deeper its surface may be softer but its a hard little stone.
Its tempting to objectify the Lump. To give it qualities and insert it into the story as a character. Its a strange Cat. Alien. But to so, is to give it existence and a beginning, a middle and an end. If I denied its existence, unthought its presence, would it die? I sense not. I think denial could be its Shiraz.
There's a crack, a crack in everything, that's how the light get it. (Leo Cohen)
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