Hospital Poems

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• A hospital isn’t a home
  There’s no room for emotions – and no space to cry
  A hospital isn’t a home
  There’s no hugs and kisses – and no one knows why

  A hospital isn’t a home
  And does anyone really care
  A hospital isn’t a home
  But I can’t be anywhere but here

• I stare into the white walls of space,
  Eyes looking at me sorrowfully,
  I wish I could just say,
  “It’s okay- this happens everyday!”
  But then they would be even more sorry.

• This is where your heartbeat lingers:
  somewhere between hospital bed sheets
  and the new-found aching in my chest.

  The bed in which you slept
  has been soiled by silent tears
  and your nervous sweat.

  You were always home to me,
  but I was robbed by all your misery.

  Replace your sorrows with an absence
  of yourself, and I’ll make my home
  in your hospital bed sheets.

  For some, this is a place of miracles.
  For us, it’s one of tragedy.

• Three pounds a month they
  ask, save the Tiger, save the
  Panda, save the Jaguar, save
  the rain forest.
  Three pounds a month for
  the children’s hospital and
  for the save the children’s
  fund, the RSPCA, RSPB,
  Cancer research, just, only
  three pounds a month, now
  my pockets are empty with
  all these donations.
  Our governments, they also
  donate, mainly to the
  FAT CAT SOCIETY
  yes those poor sods who
  caused the majority of man’s
  suffering with their greed and
  avarice.
  Please just three pound a
  month for the Daniel
  Cheesemans poetry fund.

• Another would-be life slips down a hospital sluice –
  a mangled tangle of tissue, a broken bouquet of limb buds.
  Carmine carnage reduced to simplistic statistic.
  But these hospitals are blanched mausoleum-white,
  operating slabs are sarcophagi, stirruped legs are strung high,

  and a crimson slurry seeps from between splayed thighs.
  Death-pimp doctors are gloved and gowned, loom grandiose,
  assume arrogance and surgical masks of indifference.
  Feminine thought frisks to freedom now:
  the biannual foreign holiday, career climbing and the company car.

  Birth is an inconvenient blip on the social calendar.
  Huddled horror-mute before my Philips flatscreen last night,
  peering through the fretwork of my fingers,
  a sickening frisson shivered through me; vertiginous waves
  breaking on my body’s shore, faintness flooding my head.

  Today I cannot elude my abhorrence;
  it overshadows me, obliterates former complacency.
  Tonight people will be on the pull in club-clotted towns,
  and bedsprings will squeak a soulless sound
  as more life is made to be taken.

• I’m staring at the iv bag
  praying it would just
  empty faster but i know
  that’ll do no good and
  it’ll take at least another
  two or three hours and
  you’re sitting in what
  looks to be the most
  uncomfortable chair
  in the world and i
  invite you to lay on
  the most uncomfortable
  hospital bed in the world
  with me but you said you
  didn’t want to take up too
  much space and crush me
  but to be honest i don’t
  think i’d mind being
  smothered by you
  i’d still love you

• Hospitals remind me of my father.

  The chilly fluorescent lights stinging.
  So much pain, but
  It has to go somewhere.

  Concentrated.

  Most people forget it exists until it’s too late-
  Life or death,
  And maybe hope.

  She wasn’t as gentle as I would be,
  Spoonfeeding him.

  His back, crooked, hunched.
  His gnarled hands, like weathered wood.
  My head on his chest.

  I remember late nights,
  Doing homework on my lap.
  Fidgeting.
  Pinching siblings overwhelmed by boredom.

  I barely recall the sound of his voice.

• It’s not that I don’t like the hospital.
  Those small bouquets of flowers, pert and brave.
  The smell of antiseptic cleansers.
  The ill, so wistful in their rooms, so true.
  My friend, the one who’s dying, took me out
  To where the patients go to smoke, IV’s
  And oxygen in tanks attached to them—
  A tiny patio for skeletons. We shared
  A cigarette, which was delicious but
  Too brief. I held his hand; it felt
  Like someone’s keys. How beautiful it was,
  The sunlight pointing down at us, as if
  We were important, full of life, unbound.
  I wandered for a moment where his ribs
  Had made a space for me, and there, beside
  The thundering waterfall of his heart,
  I rubbed my eyes and thought, “I’m lost.”

• Grip my hand
  Don’t ever let go,
  Just give me one more chance
  To let you know,
  I didn’t mean what I said
  And I never thought you’d be here,
  In an hospital bed,
  Lying cold, numb, almost dead,
  And I can’t take it,
  Please pull through I know you can make it,
  Don’t leave me here
  Make me shed this tear
  You’re all I’ve got,
  Even if I appreciated it or not,
  You’ve always been there,
  Near or far apart,
  Even though I didn’t realize,
  You were in my heart,
  And I know you’re strong
  And to this fate you don’t belong,
  I need you here to comfort me,
  I need to you to fight,
  Don’t shut your eyes,
  Don’t fall into the light,
  Because if you go, my world will fall apart,
  And I’ll have a broken heart,
  And now as you lie here I know,
  I’ve always needed you,
  Right from the very start,
  And I’m not letting you go.

• They stood, almost blocking the pavement,
  As though at a window display;
  The stretcher was pushed in position,
  The ambulance started away.

  Past porches and pavements and people
  It plunged with its powerful light
  Through streets in nocturnal confusion
  Deep into the blackness of night.

  The headlights picked out single faces,
  Militiamen, stretches of street.
  The nurse with a smelling-salts phial
  Was rocked to and fro on her seat.

  A drain gurgled drearily. Cold rain
  Was falling. The hospital-clerk
  Took out a fresh form of admission
  And filled it in, mark upon mark.

  They gave him a bed by the entrance;
  No room in the ward could be found.
  Strong iodine vapour pervaded
  The draught from the windows around.

  His window framed part of the garden,
  And with it a bit of the sky.
  The newcomer studied the floorboards,
  The ward and the objects nearby,

  When, watching the nurse’s expression
  Of doubt, in her questioning drive,
  He suddenly knew this adventure
  Would hardly release him alive.

  Then, grateful, he turned to the window
  Behind which the wall, further down,
  Was breathing like smouldering tinder,
  Lit up by the glare of the town.

  There, far off the city was glowing
  All crimson-aflame; in its swell
  A maple-branch, ragged, was bowing
  To bid him a silent farewell.

  ‘0 Lord,’ he was thinking, ‘how perfect
  Thy works are, how perfect and right;
  The walls and the beds and the people,
  This death-night, the city at night!

  ‘I drink up a sedative potion,
  And weeping, my handkerchief trace.
  0 Father, the tears of emotion
  Prevent me from seeing Thy face.

  ‘Dim light scarcely touches my bedstead.
  It gives me such comfort to drift
  And feel that my life and my lot are
  Thy priceless and wonderful gift.

  ‘While dying in fading surroundings
  I feel how Thy hands are ablaze,
  The hands that have made me and hold me
  And hide like a ring in a case.’