Heather Carol

Artist and Poet


Poetry

                                

                                              SOCIALLY EQUAL?

                                            As I wrap my lover in my arms
                                            what will shock Society most?
                                            Female fondling female
                                            or that the disabled have charms?
                                            Our caress becomes close;
                                            as Society's barriers fail.
                                            In the cage of social thought
                                            sex is not for such as I.
                                            Stereotypes lock away reason.
                                            I am a paralysed fly caught
                                            in the web of a social sigh;
                                            guilty of erotic treason.
                                            Side-transferring to the sheets
                                            I feel the silk of another's skin;
                                            passion shared in her eyes.
                                            Difference exploring sensual treats.
                                            Disabled bodies unpin
                                            prejudice; enjoying without disguise.
                                            Disability inspires creativity,
                                            sex without pretence.
                                                                                                                                      A continual social taboo.
                                                                                                                                      Ignoring cultural negativity
                                                                                                                                      I enjoy sensual incense
                                                                                                                                      that bigotry can't subdue.

                                                                                                                                      (c) Heather Carol 2018


                                        DROWNING


                          Upset

                          triggers an emotional chasm.

                          Neurological signals begin to seethe;

                          deadly as a Serpent's threat.

                          I feel my neck tighten and spasm.

                          I am unable to breathe.

                          I try to dampen my fears;

                          caught by my gills in a net.

                          Concentrating. Frowning.

                                                                                                                    Involuntary tears.

                                                                                                                    My palms trickle with a cold sweat.

                                                                                                                    I feel myself drowning.

                                                                                                                    Tears on my lash.

                                                                                                                    focus my fight

                                                                                                                    against neurological slaughter.

                                                                                                                    In my mind's eye I seee Ash

                                                                                                                    entwined with Oak in inner sight.

                                                                                                                    A grove reflected in water.

                                                                                                                    Using this image of life,

                                                                                                                    and medication, I struggle;

                                                                                                                    trying to evade Death.

                                                                                                                    Finally, muscles release, reversing strife.

                                                                                                                    I defy Death's triumphant juggle

                                                                                                                    and take a breath.


                                                                                                                   (c) Heather Carol 2018.



                                                                AIR

                                        Our connections
                                        are damaged, butt still intense.
                                        Hiding in my memory magazine;
                                        Sounds, scenes, scents. Recollections
                                        of my lack of sense.
                                        My pain unforeseen.
                                                                                                                                  The control of your will
                                                                                                                                  is trapping wings
                                                                                                                                  that need to be free.
                                                                                                                                  I feel the change, and the chill;
                                                                                                                                  chains forged with rings.
                                                                                                                                  Emotional jail with a devastating key.
                                                                                                                                  Vulnerabilty
                                                                                                                                  scares you.
                                                                                                                                  Giving love takes trust.
                                                                                                                                  With cold glares of hostility;
                                                                                                                                  your jealousy begins to brew.
                                                                                                                                  Worries stay undiscussed.
                                                                                                                                  Caged within an abuser's bars,
                                                                                                                                  reason eventually dawns.
                                                                                                                                  I cannot be me.
                                                                                                                                  I have no reservoirs
                                                                                                                                  as heartbreak wakes and yawns.
                                                                                                                                  but I need to fly free.

                                                                                                                                  (c) Heather Carol 2018.

   Here is a poem with a comic tone which explores social perceptions of disability and sexuality. It was created for, and performed at Tammy Whynot's shows at the Welcome Trust, London, and Queen Mary University, London in 2015.


                                   WHAT DO YOU SEE?


                                     Hey there.

                                     You've been staring for a while.

                                     Do  you see the wheelchair,

                                     my twisted foot; or impish smile?v

                                     I'm cheerful, and can be perky;

                                     always dressing in rainbow fashions.

                                     I'm also curvy,

                                     despite disability benefit rations.

                                     I love having fun on my divan,

                                                                                                                               despite disabling, disordered nerves.

                                                                                                                               I'm a hot, lipstick lesbian,

                                                                                                                               warmly attracted to feminine curves.                                                                                                                                                                                                      Boy George might prefer a cup of tea,

                                                                                                                               but passion is still important to me.


                                                                                                                                 (c) Heather Carol 2015




                                     DIARY OF A DYSTONIA SPASM


                               Disordered nerve pulses dash,

                               like trains through a tunnelled maze.

                               Neurological wheels hurtle on damaged rails,

                               triggering tremors as signals clash.

                               Colliding like electrical sparks, shocks of pain impale.

                                Limbs jerk; ache and seize,

                                contorting like angles in a transport map.

                                Muscles constrict, clenching, as cramps increase.

                                 Suddenly, clear signals start to commute. Limbs unfreeze.

                                 Briefly, relief and suffering overlap.

                                 Then mobility returns, restored, as tendons release.


                                  (C) Heather Carol 2015.

                                                                                                                         


                                           FEAR


                          Endangered,

                          like a moth near a flame;

                          my sense of self,

                          cowers within a frightened mind.


                           Dread.

                            I fear your psychological game.

                            I am losing myself;

                            my confidence undermined.


                             Why should I trust you now?

                             Your moods sinuously twist and turn.

                              I see emotions in your eyes,

                                                                                                                        as menacing as a Cobra's dance.


                                                                                                                        How

                                                                                                                         venomous words burn,

                                                                                                                        belittle, and chastise.

                                                                                                                        I feel like prey in a trance.


                                                                                                                        I'm isolated from all I know,

                                                                                                                        and trapped by fearing flight.

                                                                                                                        Yet, I still want to believe you,

                                                                                                                         when you seem caring and contrite.


                                                                                                                         I have just felt my stomach churn.

                                                                                                                         The rasp of the key

                                                                                                                         signals your return.

                                                                                                                         Will I hurt again tonight?


                                                                                                                         (c) Heather Carol 2015



                                  RODIN'S "THE KISS"


                    What do you see when you look at us?

                    Do  you see our fire caught in the cold stone,

                     or the hewn marks of the sculptor's art?

                     I wonder if our story is known,

                     or if our tale has been lost in time.

                     Two lovers locked in a stone embrace;

                     art mirroring life; catching a moment.

                      Are we just a subject to discuss

                                                                                                               or does our hunger quicken your heart?

                                                                                                               As I look into my lover's face,

                                                                                                               what do you see?


                                                                                                                (c) Heather Carol 2012


                                                       Photos by Debbie Humphry and Yannick Yannof.

                                                        Artwork (c) Heather Carol.