Fundraising in Claire's memory
‘I’ve had a wonderful life.’
‘I’ve had a wonderful life.’
I decided to put together all the poems I’ve written in memory of our incredible friend Claire Freeman. They chart the journey from finding out her diagnosis, to losing her and celebrating her life to the Indian wedding she just should have been at.
Of all my poems, these are the ones I’ve been able to find the courage stand up and read aloud because they come straight from the heart.
A massive amount has already been raised by her family for the hospice of St Francis where Claire spent some of her last days at the age of 24. I’m hoping to raise even a fraction of that by running this half marathon next month.
Please give generously to either the hospice of St. Francis https://www.justgiving.com/hosf/
or donate on my Justgiving page https://www.justgiving.com/account/your-pages/radiantpeni
or donate on Laura EJ's page who is running a whole actual marathon for cancer research!! https://www.justgiving.com/LauraEJ/
Of all my poems, these are the ones I’ve been able to find the courage stand up and read aloud because they come straight from the heart.
A massive amount has already been raised by her family for the hospice of St Francis where Claire spent some of her last days at the age of 24. I’m hoping to raise even a fraction of that by running this half marathon next month.
Please give generously to either the hospice of St. Francis https://www.justgiving.com/hosf/
or donate on my Justgiving page https://www.justgiving.com/account/your-pages/radiantpeni
or donate on Laura EJ's page who is running a whole actual marathon for cancer research!! https://www.justgiving.com/LauraEJ/
Dear Pineapple
You probably get asked this a lot
'Why anyone?'
I imagine you'd reply
if I were to ask; why Claire?
And why then?
You took root, and somehow
your bulky flesh, spiked
with determination
lurked, unstirring in the shady space
where her first baby should have grown.
Where amniotic fluid
should have steeped
as a solid hopeful hand
engulfed hers
at their first ultrasound.
Not the hushed whispers
of the sonographer
urging the consultant to be called,
as the lights flickered back on
the door closed, a chair pulled up
and the bad news broken
by the book
in small bite-sized chunks,
like uniform segments
of watery tinned pineapple.
It wasn't meant to be
her mother's hand on hers
quaking with just what it means
to find a liver
crammed full of metastases.
And Claire, she broke it to us like an expert
'Sweetie, I'm afraid I've got some bad news,'
but her three missed calls
on an unremarkable Tuesday
had been the warning shot.
Just as on that day in December;
those three missed calls
from a friend of hers I barely knew,
Pineapple, that's when I felt
your weight.
You probably get asked this a lot
'Why anyone?'
I imagine you'd reply
if I were to ask; why Claire?
And why then?
You took root, and somehow
your bulky flesh, spiked
with determination
lurked, unstirring in the shady space
where her first baby should have grown.
Where amniotic fluid
should have steeped
as a solid hopeful hand
engulfed hers
at their first ultrasound.
Not the hushed whispers
of the sonographer
urging the consultant to be called,
as the lights flickered back on
the door closed, a chair pulled up
and the bad news broken
by the book
in small bite-sized chunks,
like uniform segments
of watery tinned pineapple.
It wasn't meant to be
her mother's hand on hers
quaking with just what it means
to find a liver
crammed full of metastases.
And Claire, she broke it to us like an expert
'Sweetie, I'm afraid I've got some bad news,'
but her three missed calls
on an unremarkable Tuesday
had been the warning shot.
Just as on that day in December;
those three missed calls
from a friend of hers I barely knew,
Pineapple, that's when I felt
your weight.
That Last Click
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
When you chose that last profile picture
it was as if you knew all along
That it would be the one that remained, and you’d become
my only Facebook friend who could never message in return.
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
Twirling on the meadows in your graduation gown,
shivering in your mittens with a pretend frown
as if you knew all along
that after that December, there were no more to come.
Poking up in corners, always with a glass of wine; that impish grin.
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
Dressed up as Marilyn Monroe, tongue sticking out
at a couple kissing in Potterrow,
as if you knew all along
the hollowness of that last click, as the photos go back
to where they began, and that’s it; there’s no more Claire.
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
Smiling kindly from the order of service, as if to say
‘I’m sorry sweetie’. So like you, consoling us on that day,
as if you knew all along.
The whir of the photo machine draws to a stand,
print after glossy print of your radiance drops, warm into my shaking hands.
You’re looking at the camera in every single one,
as if you knew all along.
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
When you chose that last profile picture
it was as if you knew all along
That it would be the one that remained, and you’d become
my only Facebook friend who could never message in return.
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
Twirling on the meadows in your graduation gown,
shivering in your mittens with a pretend frown
as if you knew all along
that after that December, there were no more to come.
Poking up in corners, always with a glass of wine; that impish grin.
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
Dressed up as Marilyn Monroe, tongue sticking out
at a couple kissing in Potterrow,
as if you knew all along
the hollowness of that last click, as the photos go back
to where they began, and that’s it; there’s no more Claire.
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
Smiling kindly from the order of service, as if to say
‘I’m sorry sweetie’. So like you, consoling us on that day,
as if you knew all along.
The whir of the photo machine draws to a stand,
print after glossy print of your radiance drops, warm into my shaking hands.
You’re looking at the camera in every single one,
as if you knew all along.
Delhi Wedding
I could feel you
in the glint of sequins,
beneath draped fairy lights,
and in the tinkle of earrings
as we twirled
in the gold-edged fabrics
laid out before us for the saris,
they made us in turquoise and jade for us
and the fucshia pink one we knew you'd have picked.
I could almost hear your squeal in my ear
as Naomi appeared
dazzling and beautiful on her wedding day.
And I could feel you, solemn-faced beside me
as sanskrit vows were exchanged
behind the gauzy heat
as marigold petals were heaped on the fire.
I could sense you
move to her mother's side
as the tears streamed
behind wavering flames
with something slightly more painful than joy.
And you were there, bindhi on,
mohito in hand
and not a trace of bitterness
as we make these passages
in this life you had to leave.
In the warm Delhi breeze
a butterfly came to rest
on the dry grass beside us
then flew off,
high above the silk-swathed marquees
as their carriage was lifted away.