Morning, world. Still here!

Photograph Bryan Smith

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The inspirational minister of the Methodist Church in New Malden and Kingston, Karl Rutlidge is sick with an inflamed heart. This is not a metaphor! He has Myocarditis an inflammation of the heart muscle. It is usually triggered by viral infections. His many friends in and outside the Methodist Church wish him a speedy recovery and offer him support and solidarity. And the odd chocolate and flower. He is a key member of our writer’s group and his party trick is to have written a whole poem by the end of each session.

Philip Hall on behalf of the New Malden Writers

A message from Karl

So, in the midst of the [insert expletive here] situation facing trans people right now, I find myself in hospital with inflamed heart muscles (myocarditis), likely caused by my body’s reaction to the properly horrible stomach bug I’ve had this week.

It is a scary time on various levels, but the kindness of the staff at Kingston Hospital, especially the truly lovely doctor who looked after me yesterday evening and got me through a scary few hours, is heart-warming and gives me a bit of hope.

I am trying to hold onto the fact that, however appallingly the Labour government behaves towards minority groups such as trans folk (and please don’t give me the ‘better that than Reform’ line; I am not prepared to simply roll over and accept oppression because the person doing it wears a red rosette at election time), there are still plenty of kind people out there who do care about us and see our humanity.

Feeling too emotional to say more right now, but all prayers and positive energy very much appreciated.

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I’ve been working on a poem for a while to try and capture the grief I’ve felt following the Supreme Court ruling and its aftermath, and an experience of God I had while spending time in Regent’s Park, which is where this photo was taken.

For context, in the early years of my transition, I worked in the head office of Santander, which was round the corner from the park, and I used to walk there most lunchtimes. The other day, after a meeting nearby, I decided to go back there for an evening stroll and for space to reflect.

This poem came out of that experience and was penned during the Writers’ Group at New Malden Methodist Church today. It is called ‘Evensong’:

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Evensong

Are spirits of lives long past found abroad at eventide?
Will shimmers of ethereal silver mingle with low golden sunlight,
dazzling the poet of present through prisms of bitter dark dew?
I peer through the indifferent green where aching heart hides
its agonies, innocent hopes crushed neath night disguised as right
as I watch my younger self cross bridge and fade from my view.
He strode forth with the budding confidence of a sapling
spreading its maiden branches, over tranquil waters transfigured
by glorious beams of midday sun into a mirror of God’s sweetest wonders.
Yet, now, ‘tis as if scars of creeping ivy snake forth, mapping
contours of exhausted disappointment over watery beauty disfigured.
What is Easter hope when wielded against daggers of sharp sinful thunder?
But just as I got up to go, struggling through tears to numbed feet,
a lone starling burst into voice from that bridge’s crafted bar
where new-born man once found radiant life and too sang free.
And in that moment, a heavenly siren broke through grief and didst meet
me there.
The echo of presence in Evensong sounded the subtle hurrah,
as spirited man and Holy Ghost both winked and waved back to me.

Having previously posted a more ‘serious’ poem I penned before the summer break, today’s offering is an attempt to write a less than serious sonnet. It follows the fourteen-line ‘abab abab abab cc’ structure, and I have tried to make it metrical, though it is for the reader to judge if I have succeeded!

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The Trouble with Writing a Sonnet

The trouble with writing a sonnet
is I’m not a Shakespearean bard.
I don’t own a Jane Austen style bonnet;
using fixed form is really quite hard!
But if the art were a little too easy,
we’d be squelching through bogs full of dross,
befuddled by rhymings so cheesy
and poems far fairer when lost.
Perhaps this should serve as a warning
to all who would pick up their pen,
and with more bravado than calling
believe themselves Keats or Auden.
So, this poet had better thus harken:
the sonnet’s craft bucks but no larkin’!

A poem composed during the Writers’ Group at Wesleys New Malden. It is called ‘Black Dog’, and was inspired by my conversation with Philip R. Hall:

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Black Dog

You might catch a glimpse of her in the corner of your eye.
A flicker of gravelled shadow rippling slowly across the surface sulphuric streetlight.
That breezy, subtle rustle of just-sensed movement
triggers a jolt of surprise, prickling your skin and crawling up your suddenly chilled spine.
She pads gently, tentatively, a few steps behind you.
Flashing across your startled mind’s eye
rushes a terrible nightmare of Hollywood legend:
the tensile scent of wolverine energy constricts the throat
as you choke upon the bitter smells of likely doom.
Churchillian despair stalks your fragile footsteps like cool dread,
awaiting the awful moment when it pounces and consumes you.
Yet, as you speed up your walk and make for the door,
groping after light to banish the Black Dog’s darkness,
you fail to sense an old familiar disappointment growing.
A shy black puppy’s tail sags, and the bouncy glow in her yearning eyes fades
as she falls back into the enveloping sadness.
All she wanted was to play.

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The Thames Path

Lead me to the Thames Path, for there I wish to walk
beside the ancient artery, the city’s tidal heart.
Show me where the roe deer play and parakeets do squawk,
and Old Harry’s royal barge from jetty didst depart.
I long to visit Hampton Court and grace poor Wolsey’s pile,
but not be ferried to the Tower through fearful Traitor’s Gate!
In Staines or Kingston would I shop with an eye to style,
then potter by the estuary where natural wonders wait.
Bridges galore do spread their span over the wide waters,
from Richmond’s calming splendour to concrete Waterloo.
Nature’s beauty is supplemented by human brick and mortar,
even though Thames Water treat the river like their loo!
So, along this fabled Path, I jolly well will go,
but never in the water will you see me dip my toe!

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Stream of Consciousness

Come, friend, and pause for a moment.
Take my hand, and clamber aboard
this humble craft. Let me sail with you
on this, the stream of consciousness,
and see what we might see and hear and breathe.
Golden flames flicker amid speckles of deepest red,
then float upon brief gentle breeze as they
carpet the dew-drowned ground, leaf by autumn leaf.
Did I remember to lock the back door?
The laughter of children playing punctuates
the seemly rhythm of miscellaneous birdsong
and the easy poetry of friends chatting of little ado.
We need two pints of milk and a loaf of brown bread.
Starry-eyed would-be chivalrous men struggle
to manoeuvre the oars of rented row-boats, the target
of their efforts each knowing she could do better.
I don’t think we need any more bananas…
And so we sail beyond these aspirant knights,
taking in the folly in snowy-white marbled splendour
a prince once had built to dazzle his subjects,
the Regent’s ardour captured in architectural armour.
I wonder what time it is?
But wait, don’t bluster. I’m all of a fluster.
Shatters now the crystal-glass peace of thee and of me.
My friend, we must dock and step out of this stream.
I’m seeing my chiropodist at three

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Ay Ay

Here is a truth: I cannot lie,
it’s hard to trust this modern AI!
ChatGPT is not my cup of tea,
and Alexa keeps saying she cannot help me.
I daren’t even look at Elon Musk’s Grok;
the newspapers warn me that it runs amok!
My phone’s full of Gemini, but I am a Taurus,
and predictive text only adds to the chorus
of apps all which claim they can lighten my load,
even turn off the lights in my humble abode.
Yet, Luddite though be I, I long for a past
with humans on stage and forming the cast
of my life’s great play, where I write the script.
I’d happily bury AI in the crypt!
There’s no substitute for paper-based methods,
and thus will I go, back my own forwards.
‘Dumb’ is the new ‘smart’ in my brave tech-less world,
so I’m off to write poems, with quill tip unfurled.

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Dr Karl Rutlidge is a Methodist Minister who advocates for trans rights and other social justice issues, and sometimes dabbles in writing poetry.