As The Day Shortens
Poems by Ann Goldsmith
I started writing poetry a few months ago, when I joined the Life Story Group run by our local hospice at Dorothy House.
Since my illness, I found I couldn’t paint any more - physically or emotionally - and I thought my creative life had come to an end.
It was wonderful to see other people also recording poignant moments in words or snapshots, whatever; and to watch their creative spirit come alive. For once the emphasis was off the medical side of Cancer Care. I commend the philosophy of Dorothy House.
Attempting to write poetry has helped me to think beyond my illness. It has been a completely new challenge; I have discovered a different way of layering thoughts and feelings.
In most poems there is an interplay between those two inseparable companions - hope and despair. Blame the Birds is a response to our planet in crisis. As a passionate environmentalist, this theme will haunt me. The life-affirming force of the human spirit breaks through in Theresa’s Dance and in Ingrid - both tearaways in their own right!
When I could no longer look after my four tortoises - parting brought so much pain - a poem was necessary! I could now see this marvellous ancient creature in a more universal light. Making the drawing also helped me to come to terms with the loss.
I feel there are a few more creative avenues to explore and recently I have started to experiment with paint again: some of the poetic ideas have filtered through.
I have met some wonderful people along the way and am very grateful for their encouragement and support.
During the last few months I have gained more insight into the feelings surrounding those of us facing cancer. The negative soul-searching can be transformed into a more creative realm and I am sure that we all have something to say; some precious fragment of our lives to record - in such a way - that our family and friends will remember just who we were and what we believed in.
Ann Goldsmith - April 2006
SINCE KNOWING
And when I knew - my mind went to
A distant place. A steady voice droned on,
Laconic explanation shattered hope;
So much for fact - the awful side of truth.
In pain, I share a bay devoid of
Land or sea where pebbles are frail faces
Chiselled out of shadows. Our boat is
Moored a breath away from where we lie.
And now, I live in moments squeezed from
Fragile days. Always in defiance
Of this Thing that changed our lives.
My space is where the gods and fear are one.
FRIEND
A chair can take you, On its wheels, beyond The space of your defeat. A friend can push you To a patch of warmth Where frozen hope can melt. The thing that matters Most is the friendship, Unswerving over four decades.
HOPE
Today the bird of hope has flown I can no longer hear her cry. Above the multi-storey and the spires Her feathers form grey clouds. The black dog stealthily appears He whines to make his presence felt; Although I see him slink away His shadow lingers on. On brighter days my spirits rise The pain has eased, my mind is strong, But like the fabric of this tortured earth My body is still frail.
THERESA'S DANCE
Theresa hates school so she changes the pace. Craving attention she sings songs in Science. disconnects the computers and other appliance. Her peers applaud but teachers lose face. Mistrust of adults goes back for some time. She often feels hurt even when they are kind. School is an anchor so why rock the boat? It's cool to be naughty so hide the remote. Turn up the sound in IT, there's a roar Answer them back as you take to the floor, Nothing is fair so there?s nothing to lose Swear if you must or take off your shoes. Banished from class Theresa shows scorn Put in detention she's often forlorn. She shouts at her elders and screws up her face But Theresa well knows she was setting the pace. At 14 she feels the pain deep inside It's almost three years since her Mother died. The gas was full on when she came home from school. How can a mother be so cruel. Something has changed - her teacher is new Shimmering colour the Art Room a party Theresa's attracted by anything arty. Should she join in and play the game too. Paintings of figures and dazzling designs Terra-cotta clay pots, plastic and wire Rows of clay hedgehogs and models of heads. I will give my performance at once she said. She danced on the work tops and painted her face Her hair shone with diamonds, her wings were of lace. Her teacher stood still and gave a wry smile As twelve painted ladies fluttered in style.
A TORTOISE KNOWN
Terrestrial Chelonian She thrives in the torrid heat But if the Gulf Stream slips away Her torpid limbs may freeze. No epitome of slothfulness when fine She marches through the dandelions. Energised by solar rays She balances to reach their heads Snapped off with razor gums. Spur thighed moving stone Sealed in her leathery carapace. She has a timeless beauty of her own Unlike the millennium dome, she lasts. When it rains the geometric ridges on her Shields stand out Mottled black and ochre daubs revealed. On three inch scaly legs she crawls away With ease she bears her six pound weight. After thirty years does she still dream Of colonies and winter heat, Of Moroccan or Tunisian miles Where long ago she trudged her youth. Towards the sun before it sinks She very slowly turns her shell Savouring the latent glow. Heavily she leans against the wall To yawn her huge pink yawn. Her ancient shadow brings to mind A wilderness which once was hers A place devoured and modernised But where she somehow still belongs.
BLAME THE BIRDS
Blame the birds For deadly spreading of disease For strutting mottled precincts Defiling sacred dream machines on streets. Denounce the ghosts of feathered game Deserters from the field of fire. Ban the screaming gulls in towns Where litter binned is strewn again. Beware the Jubjub bird and shun The Crane for spearing Easop's frogs. Blame the great Heraldic wings For hugely spreading Imperial Power. Condemn the ragged beak which rasps Darkly grating in the soul. Fishermen must shoot to cull Their ocean rival as he dives. Dismiss the ashen bird who fades Before his plumage thrills the eye. As twelve per cent of species wane Blame them for their silence.
RIVER
River, Oily clear, Slides beneath the precinct, Shrinking at the edges, Bathed in acid heat- Leaking sediment. Wind, Carving ripples, Dries out shoals of flotsam. Plastic tatters stream From half-hung branches In a frenzied dance. Surface - Shifting skylines - Mirrors geometric clouds Above the edifice, Skimming depths of Blue - black darkness. Glimpsed In sunlight, Iridescent feathers Weave a floating garland. Fish outline themselves In silver. Dawn, Glitzy lemon, Filters light shafts On the early stillness, As River takes a breath The day splits open. Shorewards: Pellucid water Curving as it dawdles on, Humming to the birdsong, Longing for the rushing Of the tide. Ingrid Death will not erase your sparkle; In our midst we see you now soul mates in a snapshot delicately framed. Your flash of lipstick softening defiance with pain on hold but still a cheeky frown. For love of cats a Cheshire smile. Whilst others in upholstered comfort sat, you packed your bags to up and go, by rail or coach - Scotland, Blackpool or anywhere you fancied. Running almost empty pushing boundaries - your intrepid spirit fuelled by willpower. Death will not erase the essence of your being. Welded by a common web cruelly spun by fate we shared your drive -. the upbeat moments and the rest. Each inspiration passes to the next - until the throb of life removes itself.
COLOUR MOODS
Self-pity has no colour. Like slanting rain it Fills the air and Seeps into my being, Drizzling over days. Umber is the mood That deepens anguish. Bands of indigo and brown Stain my canvas darkly, As the day shortens. Envy is the green That taunts the soul. Just another cliché - Drowned out - as colour Washes over words. Blue sedates the clouds; Cool vapour quells the Planet?s rage and mine. I wear blue linen when The morning smiles. Translucent moments Paint a vast expanse - Yellow under Red on Orange, filters through my Veins - Exhilaration.
“I am sure that all of us facing cancer have something to say; some precious fragment of our lives to record in such a way that our family and friends will remember just who we were and what we believed in.” - Ann Goldsmith 
The orginal illustrated version of this book of poems is downloadable in PDF Format for printing or off-line reading. All words and images © Ann Goldsmith 2006
