Poetic Menopause

The Allegory of the Memory by Antoni Pitxot Soler

Long time no write. I meant to write a 'one year on' post, then a 'two years on' post but found I had so little to say, so this is something of a 'nearly three years on' post. I went for my regular check-up recently with the lovely Karen at St Mary's and was told to come back next year for what will be my penultimate visit. It has been particularly nice to see the same nurse each time and that she has been kind and supportive. My hot flushes have faded away after the first year and I only get them very rarely now, and it would be hard to pin down any other symptoms that have caused me any particular trouble. I debated deleting the whole blog because I didn't feel I had anything helpful to say on the subject but decided to leave it just because of the endometrial cancer and how important it is for women to be aware of the risks and symptoms. And also because I like looking out for the very occasional mention of menopause in literature.

Today I bring you a poem. I picked up randomly (it's the best way to pick up poetry) 'How the Stone Found its Voice' by Moniza Alvi (the cover image being the one above) and I found this one:

The Thieves

A period, you'd imagine, is no use
to anyone, but the woman who owns it,
who thought she held it secure

in the safe of her body.
Yet thieves broke in and grabbed it,
took it instead of her jewellery:

She's forty-nine, she won't miss it -
we'll just take the one, maybe two.
On the other hand, we'll have the lot,

stash them away. Nothing to boast about.
Not anything you'd forget, though.
To make off with them on a quiet night - 

it's like stealing the darkness itself,
or taking the moon, bowling it away,
expecting it to retain its glow.