The delicate business of writing poetry

Living, as Clive James put it, under a life sentence, and having refused chemotherapy, I find I respond to the time issue in contradictory ways. On the one hand, I read avidly, almost as if I’ll be tested at some later date. I am morbidly well-informed on current affairs, the status of the old white male and the situation in Ukraine. I crawl through Lucretius and Horace in search of wisdom. On the other hand, I avoid my favourite filmic masterworks (Chinatown, On the Waterfront, The Remains of the Day, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning) in favour of Secret Army, The Edgar Wallace Mystery Theatre and any 1950s thriller that features frequent chases to some Tudoresque Surrey cottage. In other words, everything that is unreal, out of reach, leaving no trace and comfortably mediocre.

My diagnosis was preceded by a decline in my ability first to eat, then eat or drink. Entering the wards for the first time in 30 years was a shock. This was not going to be a restful experience. There was no sense of reserve or reticence in the nursing and auxiliary staff, who announced their views and exchanged gossip without restraint. Which is not to say there was not plentiful evidence of devotion and good-heartedness in trying circumstances. I yearned for a room of my own, though conceding that for some patients, constant noise and interruption was almost welcome. I was the silent enigma in the corner bed. When I was eventually moved to a room of my own, it was (unknown to me) because they had given up on me. I do recall thinking that since I must be dead, the afterlife must exist in the form of visiting hallucinations (wife, sons and daughter).