Published poems by Veronica Ashenhurst, who has Severe ME

https://twitter.com/user/status/1744665692656292310

Published here.

No prizes for guessing who the S.M. of the poem is, and I was deeply touched to have such a wonderful poem written for my birthday.

Thank you, Veronica.

 

Hi S4ME Poetry Readers,

It has been a tough year for me so far, as my mum (who is my caregiver) and I got COVID at the end of January. The infection was very hard on both of us, and it has taken me several months to return to some form of ME/CFS baseline. It saddens me that so many folks have simply adopted a "COVID is over" narrative. The virus remains serious. As a result of the setback, I have not been able to write as much poetry as I might have liked. That said, I do want to share one poem of mine that was recently published. In the poem, I've aimed to weave together aspects of the ME experience with some themes from Shakespeare. I hope you enjoy it.

Quintessence of Dust

A friend sent Hamlet. But my cells contain
a tyrant who made me set the play aside,
for he metes out strength in scraps. Yesterday,
I washed my hair, my heart sped, I lay down.
Now, I turn in bed for Act II, press play,
hear Denmark’s prince say there is nothing
either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
I flinch at the words: they seem to mock
my faithless limbs. Still, I sit up to view
the dusk, winter’s pearl. Disease has taught me
defeat, and here, by rose light, I glimpse
the body’s opposites: this fallen clay —
yet, also, this soliloquy on being,
taut and wistful as a violin.


The poem appears in the Spring issue of MORIA Literary Magazine, edited by the students at Woodbury University in Los Angeles:
https://www.moriaonline.com/issue-t...6/quintessence-of-dust-by-veronica-ashenhurst

 

I've just got around to posting about Veronica's Hamlet poem on Twitter. It's good to see it got some traction there:

https://twitter.com/user/status/1828381580655517910

 

Hi S4ME Poetry Readers,

Thank you for your kind words. I am glad you liked "Quintessence of Dust." Today I'm sharing my most recently published poem. I hope it resonates with you.


Sorrow’s Gardener

I’m apprenticed to you. Through time’s screen
I glimpse you in the garden with
galoshes and a spade. You say

you know how to plant sorrow. I
have sorrows, I reply. I’ve lain
in bed these years, sifting silence.

My day is faded like the room,
the wheelchair waits, my thoughts insist
the world has turned away. You give

me your hand, that you might bury
my cares in soft earth. June’s a choir,
you claim; it can turn pain to

peonies that flush with life for
ten heady days. Yet still I clutch grief,
doubtful that blooms could grow in such

soil of loss, for I am your halting,
younger self—scared of hope—even
as you sing the mending sun’s return.


The poem appears in MedMic: Conversations, Culture and Creativity from the Health Care Community. MedMic is an online magazine geared toward healthcare professionals. I feel it's important for poetry about the ME/CFS experience to appear in these kinds of online spaces. Have a look:
https://medmic.com/sorrows-gardener/

 

Thanks, Veronica, you write so beautifully and evocatively about the experience of ME.

And it’s great to have your work out there for others to read and maybe understand a little better

 

Hi S4ME Poetry Readers,

Thank you for reading my work - it means a lot. The poem I'm sharing today appears in a British poetry journal. My earlier work appears primarily in American journals, so I am glad my poetry about the ME/CFS experience is now resonating across the pond. The poem grapples with medical gaslighting. The journal editor chose to include a content warning, so please do take care when reading if you've also had painful interactions with doctors (a sad reality for many ME/CFS patients).


Art Therapy


Looking at Cézanne’s sketch, Boy Beset by Rats,
I feel kinship with the flailing boy, for
memory plagues me as a creature might—
sharp-toothed, squealing. I recall the hospital,
exhaustion stilling my limbs like venom.
The doctor claims I just believe I’m ill,
implying I chase pity. I’d like to drown
his words as if they were rodents from that sketch,
for the doctor is mistaken. But he
flicks his hair and looks so sure. My breath comes short.
I grip the book of Cézanne’s paintings, flip
past the boy, find a still life: the sea-blue vase,
three fruits, sunlight’s yellow magic. I sigh,
and for now, bitter memory darts away.


The poem appears in Acropolis Journal, where you can also view artwork by Audrey Carroll, which is paired with my poem:

https://acropolisjournaluk.wixsite.com/acropolisjournal/veronica-ashenhurst-art-therapy

 

Hello @Veronica, thank you for sharing your beautiful poems with us