(I need a disclaimer with this poem... a young reviewer of 'Formica' in an otherwise affirming review, hinted that two of my poems were sort of ... smug...oh dear

(Second disclaimer: A fellow poet posted a summary of her mammoth efforts in 2023, poems written, accepted, rejected, etc, and so I felt inspired and inclined to try and measure up...)

(Third disclaimer: Right now, nothing any poet dares to write will measure up when we allow ourselves to think of the children in Gaza)



Twitter is full of people 
bemoaning their fate
usually of which they
appear to be the author

A pregnant journalist
tweeted surprise her hands
ambushed by carpal tunnel
Oh I was instantly empathetic

Sweet memories of my first
pregnancy, making do with
Time Magazine rolled tightly
tied like splints to both wrists

plus the unsalted peanuts
In a drawer at work where
I scrambled feverishly to
avert nausea, face clients

Endless night trips to the toilet
plus a free stylish UTA airline bag
ruined when my urine sample
lost its lid and leaked full tide


Not to mention filling six or
maybe seven sick bags on
TWA New York to London
I’ll whisper this – first class

An upgrade, we hadn’t paid
the hostess was appalled
I’d eaten so much breakfast
Quite sniffy she was about it


But my best kept secret
Hush, don’t tell anyone
I’ve tried, no-one believes me
I loved giving birth

So there ,,, Time Magazine
for makeshift splints
but when the big cramps came
I sang deep and out of tune

Like a surfer, I sang through
every contraction, so focused
knowing a baby was arriving
and it was up to me to push


I made the mistake once of
telling a newly traumatised
mum that I loved childbirth
I’ve learned my lesson