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Extended Work
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| Lorraine Part 6 | |
| By amy456 | ||||||
| 05 July 2006 | ||||||
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Back to Megan's diary. This was written really quickly this morning, so it's not that great. Can any reviewers specifically tell me what they think about the inclusion of poetry? Megan’s diary Hello Diary, She took my top!!!!!! You have to sort of laugh about it, I guess. And how can I blame mum for it – I did tell her I disliked it. At least Kirsty will be happy. And I suppose it wasn’t really healthy keeping it as a sort of shrine in my wardrobe, as a testament to what might have been, had I been normal . . . You can tell, can’t you, that I’m in a fairly cheerful mood today. I did cry about it last night, but I feel much better now. The sun is shining and I’ve nearly finished I Capture the Castle. It is such a great book! Furthermore, I’ve been reading some excellent poetry. This was the counsellor’s idea. See, I always used to hate poetry, I think ‘cos I used to be really lazy about it. I like to be passive when I read, and I never used to get what it meant. If we did poems at school occasionally the teacher would explain them really well so even I could understand, and then you’d sort of think, “Hey, that’s actually really clever!” But most of the time I just couldn’t be bothered with it. Then when the counsellor came along, I think she was a bit of a poetry freak, and when she found out that I was always scribbling (I think mum told her) she asked me if I was a poet. I told her no and she said that was a shame and that poetry is often good for people who feel alone and upset, like I did at the time. I wasn’t too sure about that. Isn’t there that bit in Persuasion about how those who can best appreciate poetry, are the ones who should read it less? Anyways, she lent me some poetry and some of it was dire and some of it was actually very good. So I bought some of my own and I find that it really helps, in times when you think you are alone and you want to indulge your misery, so you put on some melancholy music and settle down with a book of poetry. Often you find that what you thought was inexpressible, somebody has managed to express, and you can barely keep from exclaiming, “That’s how I feel!” So in a sense the poetry was good for me, but in another sense it did always tend to make me cry. Mum went back to the counsellor and must have complained about this, because Janice (the counsellor) told me that mum had told her that the poetry was apparently depressing me further. She said she thought it was strange because she’d been carefully selective about the poems she had given to me. So I sort of admitted that I had gone off and got my own. I think she was a bit offended, and she said that she didn’t so much want me to read poetry, as to inspire me to write my own. At that point I told her point blank to forget it, as she had obviously never read any of my previous poetic attempts, and if she had she would certainly not be advising me to waste my time in concocting any more silly rhymes. This was about as outspoken as I’d ever been with Janice, and she triumphantly drew herself up and said, “It’s not the literary merit that matters. It’s the expressing of feelings.” Oh, how I groaned! Counsellors are always wanting us to talk about our feelings. In some ways I do want to talk about my feelings, but I also don’t want to talk about my feelings, if that makes any sense. Like, I can write to you and that’s good, but I don’t want a complete stranger knowing all my issues and asking me prying questions. I think Janice wasn’t a very good counsellor. She certainly didn’t help mum. But back to the poetry. I know it’s boring, but I want to copy down a particular poem that I like, written by a lady who lived long ago, called Charlotte Smith. You can skip it if you want to, but I really want to do this. It’s called “To Hope”. See, it’s a nice title, isn’t it? Oh, Hope! Thou soother sweet of human woes. How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn? For me wilt thou renew the wither’d rose, And clear my painful path of pointed thorn? Ah, come sweet nymph! In smiles and softness drest, Like the young hours that lead the tender year, Enchantress, come! And charm my cares to rest:- Alas! The flatterer flies, and will not hear! A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain, Must I a sad existence still deplore Lo!-the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain, ‘For me the vernal garland blooms no more’. Come then, ‘pale Misery’s love!’ be thou my cure, And I will bless thee, who though slow art sure. Now to speak truth, I’m not quite sure what ‘pale Misery’s love’ is. However, I defy anybody who’s depressed or suffering to read this without weeping. Mum has nothing like this. She’s always crying over something or other, but she has no poetry or writing to help her through. For this I can only pity her. As I said, she’s always crying. The ironic thing is that believe it or not, I’m the only one who has any sympathy for her. And I do. I know what it’s like to feel so depressed you just want to die. Other people, even dad, sometimes get frustrated with her. People think you’re young, you have your health, and three healthy children, think of people who don’t have any of that. They don’t understand that depression is an illness. There doesn’t have to be a reason. Anyway, I’m starting to depress myself again just thinking about things, so I’m going to finish I Capture the Castle now. Actually, the ending to that always makes me sad too, so perhaps not the best idea? Ciao for now, diary. Megan
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