Tag Archives: love

Introducing Joshua

Introducing my beautiful new grandson
Joshua Reuben Galliford
Born 10.27 pm Monday, 28th August
At Southmead Hospital
Birth weight 6lb 12oz (3.62kilo)

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Image: Joshua, 18 hours old.

With gratitude to the delivery team at Southmead Hospital. A special thank you to the amazing midwife, Sandy, who delivered him.

I watch,
knowing that which she
can only imagine, yet her agony
does not outreach her anticipation.
Even the searing pain fails
to twist her into anger
or fleeting regret.

As I watch, I remember
the first time I held her,
hoping that her life be joyous –
a hope which she now fulfils.

Sandy is reassuringly calm, but I detect a flicker of urgency as she glances toward the monitor, the instant before she tells Laura to grasp her legs, pull them toward her, and push. The baby needs to emerge very soon.

For an instant,
fear traps our lungs,
but Sandy silently commands
our trust. We exhale and it feels
like the room breathes with us.

Laura is magnificent,
as if she had given birth
a hundred times before.

My chest swells with pride
while I try not to enter the space
that exists between this mother
and her successfully married child.

Tomorrow, she will speak of trauma, not comprehending the strength she showed as her son was expelled from her womb. I will tell her she she was brave. I will say she made it look easy, but she will not believe me.

After a time,
the recollection of pain
will dim, becoming little more
than a tale she tells; an acceptable
paragraph or two
in her unique story.

One last push
and the room explodes with love.
Mother and son are skin to skin.
She holds him, kisses him.
He is beautiful.

She speaks his name, Joshua.
crooning in the soft tone that she used
all those months while he grew inside her.
He turns his head. His blurry eyes
seem to seek and quickly find
the face of his mother.

Birth
is a violent, traumatic act, and yet
within a minute or two of his emergence,
he is contented,enfolded by
my daughter,his mother,
his whole little world.

He recognises her.

When she speaks,
the very sound describes the deepest,
truest love.

In the days that follow,
Laura’s is the only voice
he responds to.

I leave my miraculous Phoenix
smiling softly, watching her long-awaited son
as he suckles at her warm breast.

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Didn’t she do well…

While this is about Laura, her husband deserves an honourable mention. Dave is a caring, experienced father who adores his new baby son.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Thanks, everyone!

WARNING! THIS POST MAY CONTAIN STRONG CHEESE!

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I’d like to thank all the amazing bloggers who have supported my prospective venture into uncharted waters. Some have reblogged the post in which I explained my plan, others have given helpful technical advice, or told me where I can access it. Many have wished me well. I humbly thank you all. Should my new blog succeed, I want you to know that you will all have contributed to its success.

It’s going to take a while to get the blog up and running, as I’ve decided to do a blogging course which Safar at Blisters, Bunions & Blarney thoughtfully directed me to. Although I’ve been blogging for two years, there are a lot of things I don’t understand about SEO (Search Engine Optimization), and I’m sure there will be other little details on the course which will be valuable. The course begins this coming Monday, and I expect to start building my blog after the first lesson; it won’t go public until I have all the details straight. A part of me wants to rush into it, but that wouldn’t be wise. It needs to create immediate impact to prevent the risk of it fizzling out. It has to succeed.

Thank you all again.
You have done more than you can know.

I had compassion by the bucketload, but there were a lot of factors lacking in my life.

By liking me, you made me feel likeable.

By trusting me, you taught me to trust again.

By showing your faith in me, you gave me faith in myself,

and with your love, you eradicated my fear of giving out love.

You’ve given me all the tools to succeed

(apart from writing: I’ve got that covered)

Please highlight space between brackets to reveal arrogant secret message.

🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂

If that sounds like some clever little piece of word-weaving-Jane-ishness, I want you to know it’s not. It comes from my heart. I’m a richer, better person for knowing all of you. I love you all.

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 ©Jane Paterson Basil

Gifts

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In
this
lonely
living room
clocks don’t tick.
Time
pretends
to stand still,
while I pretend
that there is no tock.
Festive
decorations
hang, my lights,
my many glittery bells,
giving the bright impression
that my life, and my family are well.
Tomorrow,
I will find a way
to chase away lost days:
catch up with the relentlessly
shifting, silent clock of turning time.
I will wrap the treats my  family really need,
though few of them are found in humble retail shops.
Here’s a list of all the gifts I want to give: health, happiness,
and
love, love,
love, love,
love, love,
endlessly.

©Jane Paterson Basil

For Laura

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I’m seated by the window, watching boredom unfurl,
when you walk down the street, my dear depleted girl.
I focus my eyes on your wasted little frame;
hunt for a clue that something is the same;
a hint of that innocence I used to see;
the essence of your childhood personality;
something I can recognise that hasn’t changed;
a spark within your heart that’s not been rearranged;
a clue that you still attached to this family
in whatever odd way you may wish to be.

your unreachable proximity is baffling to me,
I watch you closely though I know you can’t see.
I’m unsure if in my absence you feel like my daughter;
it pricks me with guilt, makes me feel like a voyeur;
I’m spying like a stranger, an agenda in mind;
to steal away the limited freedom of your kind;
to lock you in my love or in a barred up cage;
ignore your screaming agony, your frothing rage;
strangle all the dealers who knock on the door,
until you finally appreciate what life is for;
when you rediscover a child’s sense of mystery,
and your hunger for drugs recedes into history.

You’ve passed the houses and you’re out of view;
I wish I’d left my flat and caught up with you,
but I know you’re needing something as you’re in a hurry,
and your answers to my questions would make me worry;
I shouldn’t inquire but there’s a limitation
on how many ways to have open conversation,
since you fell into a hole full of chemical highs,
while to everyone’s surprise, your body survived.
There’s so little of you left, but whatever you do
and whatever more you lose, I will always love you.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

The lonely man

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Having made the decision to dismiss all things related to jiggling passion and doe-eyed romance, she hypnotised her libido into an indifferent torpor.

Months stretched peacefully into years, before a lonely man with physical allure, but dull conversation, approached with an inviting smile, injecting a rippling frisson beneath dry skin;
a tiny itch like the tail of a sting.

The eyes of the lonely man dove deep into the core of her, and with a finger, tickled unwilling, damp fantasies.

His hand(as if by accident), brushed lightly against her thigh, pressing lascivious ideas into wakening flesh.

As weeks went by, each accidental meeting added heat to her unwanted, wanton desire for the relief which he was longing to give.

And he, hungry for love, pitching for her heart, her soul, continued in the only way he knew,
until she, weakened by the ache, gave him the treat of no more than her body.

It would not be true to say she had no heart, for in the moist heat before he undid her buttons and zips, her heart froze at the knowledge that the lonely man with physical allure but no conversation, was undone.

Later, in her melting tower she turned the lock, took a shower, cleansed herself in steam, all the while humming the closing strains of a bawdy song, her demeanor briefly shaken by his desolate scream.

Wrapped in fresh linen, her renewed flesh forever banned from thinking of him, she slept.

The Daily Post #Banned

©Jane Paterson Basil

Those promises

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those loving promises
shaped by shy lips
lightly brushing the ear
with caressing sigh
weaving a dry melody

those loving promises
conveyed through eyes
glittering with unfulfilled desire
their fire hidden
behind a tiny fear

those loving promises
pressed into my aquiescant flesh
giving your firm body confidence
finally making you believe
you had won my love

those promises so truly given

I regret that for me
it was merely a pleasant game of
sensuous interplay
ending in physical gratification

it should have mattered
that you were more than a mechanical toy
to be switched on with a click
and quickly discarded

you were so much better than that

did I hear the rip of your heart splitting?
possibly
but I was more interested in the promising blue eyed thing
swinging into view

I smiled at him, never guessing
he was my retribution

The Daily Post #Promises

©Jane Paterson Basil

Hairy legs

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comely green eyes gazed into mine
reavealing his deepest desires
eyes that could hold entire conversations
even while the lips dripped drivel

I read the language of those eyes
the plea
please love me, they cried

the promises
I’d scatter flowers for you, build towering castles in your name,
it would be a passionate game of love that only two can play
me and you, side by side, day by day…
we could be a team, I’d buy you icecream, life would be a dream…

you get the scene

and the questions
wouldn’t I like the company, a helpmate, soulmate, best mate,
a man to to rely on, a shoulder to cry on
a warm companion in my bed
why won’t I try
to be half of a duo instead

I smiled at the cliched phrases written in his eyes

I’ll tell you why, I said
I’m not inclined to shave my legs

©Jane Paterson Basil

Somewhere he walks with children

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I loved my uncle Robert even though – or perhaps partly because – he was an irrepressible, irrisponsible alcoholic.

I was nine the first time we sat at the mouth of a river, drinking cider that he’d hidden inside his jacket. My mother and aunt believed him when he said we were looking for shells.

In the mornings it was best to leave him sleeping until late, when he was ready to wake, to evade his ill-tempered hangovers, but the rest of the time he was endlessly entertaining to we children, even though he may irritate anyone over twenty eight or so.

I must have been eighteen when his lung cancer was diagnosed. What with his dicky heart, his schlerotic liver and other complications, his body was not strong enough to survive.

After he died, my brother’s best friend, Pete, with whom I had dallied for a while, wrote a eulogy. The guy wanted to be Bob Dylan, but couldn’t, as the post had already been taken by a better poet.

Pete’s pretentious poem was read out at the funeral, accompanied by his inflatable ego. It claimed that my uncle knew something clever about glass houses which the rest of us didn’t. It sounded good, but wasn’t true; all my uncle knew was where to get the next drink, and how to blow up balloons so children would follow him down the street, in a parody of the pied piper, but without any harm coming to them. He loved children because he never ceased being one.

They laughed as they ran, and so did I, but the laughter stopped for a time after he died.

Maybe I grew up that day, standing with my family as his coffin was lowered into its resting place. I tried to see his face through the wood; to take in the truth of what it cantained. I had seen him several hours after he stopped breathing, and yet it was difficult to understand this final leaving.

My left hand clutched a sodden tissue to wipe my stinging eyes; my right one was plunged deep inside my pocket, fingers squeezing secret balloons in the bright hues he had liked. I’d placed them there with the intention of filling them with air while the grieving trickled dirt into the horrid oblong hole, but when the moment came I thought it would appear pretentious; just as Pete’s poem bore no relation to my uncle in life, so the balloons bore no relation to him in death, and there was a risk they may upset my aunt, who already gave the impression that her face was melting.

Those balloons stayed in my pocket for months before I threw them away. Even then I wondered if, in not inflating them, I had let my uncle down.

The last wisps of resentment cling tenuously as I admit P. had previously written a bitter poem about me, making the damning claim that I was a fake (to which I would have liked, childishly, to respond, “It takes one to know one). The reason? I didn’t love him.

Maybe he thought my uncle did, but Robert was pretty indifferent to all but children, mothers, relatives and alcohol.

The one thing P. said which made sense was:

Somewhere he walks with children

I hope he does.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Seeing you again

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as each day fades,
electric specks of yellow
dab across the urban scene,
and pools of synthetic illumination
stain the streets like nicotine.

evening traffic plays follow the leader;
an endless stream of petrol-soaked metal
looking for an escape
from the ever-increasing concrete heaps.

as night spills ink on the greasy river,
and windows, one by one, cease beaming,
I lie in my bed and feel my way to dreamtime;
jumping on a smokescreen bus which speeds me
to a remembered green place far away,
where I can select the weather;
the time of day; my age;
and my company.

I always summon the same details;
sunshine, early evening, seventeen,
and you; king to my falling queen.

we sit beneath an oak tree bent with history;
our secrets hidden in the depths of its tactful trunk.
this year’s leaves discreetly absorb
this rising night’s intimate whispers;
as together we lean,
making believe it is the last time we will meet.

this is my perfect dream,
repeated endlessly;
guaranteeing
I will always
see you
again.

The Daily Post #Tree

©Jane Paterson Basil