Howl By Annie Ridout I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by the patriarchy, starving ‘hysterical’ objectified, dragging themselves through each day with the additional burden of caring for all the kids, as well as parents and their friends, employees, freelancers, employers, fellow parents on the school run, who like them are overworked
Wrote a poem about pregnancy; about finding it hard but remembering to be grateful for what’s to come…
When I was a child, I played with dolls but I wanted my own baby. As a teenager, I babysat other people’s kids but I wanted my own baby. (I nearly had one. But I didn’t). When I was 25, I got married and wanted a baby. But he wasn’t ready, so we waited. I
Look at me! Look at my babe! We’re wonderful, we’re fine! I’m chilled and coping and loving it – I’m relishing every moment. She’s a gem by day, an angel by night – she’s perfect in every way. She never cries, not really – (except when hungry, tired, cold, hot, scared, bored, windy, stuck, hurt).
A poem about my newborn baby…
Sometimes when I’m walking morbid thoughts pollute my mind and the more I tell myself to lighten up, the more I find those thoughts of darkness and of death prevail and then before I know – I’ve planned the day off work for the funeral of a friend or family member who’s alive and well
She traces her finger over dark polished narrowboats: maroon, forest green, mustard yellow, deep red. “My life,” she explains, (bright red lips, bright red nails) “is lived out on my boat, making art; making food.” Then she leads us through to her Garden of Dreams – chairs are comically small; empty frames; engraved wood and