Never Too Old To Learn...

I was idling through Twitter yesterday, when I came across this link:

http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/five-important-things-women-dont-know-about-men/

Oh, no! I thought, here we go again, more lust-driven twaddle about how to be better in bed. I don't need this, I am as good in bed as I want to be, thank you.

Already, in my first pronouncement, my bias is evident. I read all I can about the plight of women, (and I'm not retreating from my views as expressed earlier this year in, 'Ain't I A Woman.' ) but I have NEVER seriously made room in my thinking for the worldview of men. Never, not once, in sixty-two years. 

'Maybe I should read this,  maybe I will.' I thought, and I did. 

I can't speak for other women, but I have, usually unthinkingly, treated men rather badly. I have contributed, sometimes, not always, to the anxiety, quiet rage, and feelings of powerlessness that were so eloquently described in that blog. I haven't, at the very least attempted to understand the true nature of gender differences. 

For the future? At least I know a little more about the masculine ego and it's drivers - as described by a MAN. I can TRY to proceed with a little more caution and a lot more understanding. 

ANYONE Can Be A Poet

I snitched a document from that great storehouse of wisdom in the sky, that plagiarists paradise, the World Wide Web, and it was called, ' Fifty-One Types Of Poetry'.

I like lists. They appeal to the left hemisphere of my brain, which I indulge from time to time lest it's logical-mathematical qualities wither on the mind from criminal neglect.

So, from the top:

"ABC: A poem that has five lines that creates a mood, picture, or feeling. Lines 1 through 4 are made up of words, phrases or clauses and the first word of each line is in alphabetical order. Line 5 is one sentence long and begins with any letter... "



.

I loved this photograph. It succeeds in two ways: perfectly reveals a moment, as a camera doesn't lie, and it perfectly conceals a great and wonderful story. As all our stories are - even the sad ones. 

As poetry is an evolving art ( my excuse) here are SIX lines... . 

Dancing Feet

Here am I, in the Sinai desert, with my dance troupe, at dawn, performing to the music of oud and drums. It is my fifty-first birthday. As I recall the magic of this day, I am reminded of my strength and my resilience and am full of laughter. I hope this comes through in the writing.

A Work of Heart

To write this poem, 

I planted my feet,

Strong, bare feet,

Firmly, in the sand.

I raised my arms, then, 

Dropped them, as I was taught,

To my shoulders.

Aligning my palms to the strengthening sun,

I waited,

Alert, for the words

To drift, or bounce or slide

Down, 

      

       Down 

          With the music.

I lifted my head and

Listened, listening,

For the deluge.

Quietly at first...

Trilling over my fingertips

Snaking down my arms

Shivering across my shoulders

Thrumming through my breast

Shimmying with my hips

Turning

         Turning

                     Turning

Clapping with my hands

Stamping with my feet -

The poem came!

And

                    I DANCED.

And Today's Challenge Is..

Kevin.

Kevin is an accidental nephew. He joined the family in May 2012, when my Jamaican sister-in- law fetched him to England to be with her, to complete his education, to have more and better opportunities... . I cannot say, , we never discussed the matter. 

Sylvia was desperately ill, even then, last May, and  in September she died. 

So Kevin, recently reunited with a mother, who in all honesty, he hardly knew, found and lost her in less than six months. 

One small tragedy perhaps, when the totality of human suffering is taken into account, but one that is having a profound effect on the life of this orphaned boy, and everyone around him.

My brother does his best. And he does well; he is patient, and kind - but he is fifty-seven years old, and has never been a father before. He too, is grieving, and the anger, resentment and pain of a twelve year-old boy is a huge load to carry. 

Kevin loves school. He is bright, questioning and keen to do well, but he just isn't coping. Neither is the school. Nor is Mervyn.

So today's challenge is to go for that very difficult interview with The Head Of Year at Kevin's school, that will, in all probability, end in Kevin's permanent exclusion.

Added to the constant interrupting, the petty larceny, the occasional fight, Kevin has sworn at a teacher. (At least he didn't hit him. Kevin says the  teacher called him 'a plonker' . Perhaps he did. Some teachers might,)

I don't know what I shall say,  other than to repeat what I said the first time Mervyn and I were called in: 

'There are five well- meaning adults in this room. Surely, between us, we can rescue one little boy?' 

I had hopes then. Now, I'm not so sure.