When Will They Learn?

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I believe this poem to be self-explanatory. I would like to stress that I am not anti-American and I do not condone in any way the events of 9/11 or those alleged to have taken place in Syria, they were and still are abhorrent.

I do, however, believe that the West and in particular the United States have to recognise the fact that many of the nations around the world have histories and cultures many times older that their own. These cultures have different beliefs, values and ways of functioning. The fact that they are different does not necessarily make them wrong.

I hope you like the poem.

When Will They Learn?

Summer draws to a weary finish.
Throngs of tourists diminish.
The first leaves fall gently to the ground
as through the hubbub sirens sound.

A whisper, gentle on the breeze
flits around with the summer leaves.
It tumbles through the city scape
touching all, its voice takes shape.

Through the hubbub a lone bell tolls
As they name three thousand souls
whose tragic loss of life was written
by their own ignorant predisposition.

Yet as they mourn their tragic loss
Their nation’s ‘hawks’ wind up the Boss.
Again they want to interfere
by dropping bombs from the troposphere.

A sure fired way to make good friends -
of nations, their way of life offends.
Where different values are the norm
Just drop bombs – stir the swarm.

Then sit back and wonder why
So many people had to die.
They don’t seem to understand
it’s always better to shake a hand.

John Carré Buchanan
11 September 2013

The Poet

My apologies to my regular readers for my extended absence. I have spent the last year or so completely immersed in fighting CRPS and the combination of drugs and surgery have dulled my ability to think and write. I’m just a week from finishing a staged withdrawal from pain killers and whilst there has been a marked increase in pain, I can almost think clearly for the first time in quite a while. Hopefully I will be able to start writing regularly again.

This poem is about something that most poets experience at one time or another. The words; notebook, pencil and dictaphone spring to mind, but in those early morning moments reaching for the pad……. Well, we all know the score.

The Poet

Awakened.
In the darkness,
the thought,
perfectly formed,
races around a clouded mind.
So perfect.
So complete.
So, memorable.
It compels,
it swirls and churns,
demands attention,
confounds sleep.
Yet, in the morning
the rested mind recalls but fragments;
that, perfect thought,
gone.

John Carré Buchanan
23 August 2013

The Mail

British Forces Post Office - Posties - God Bless Them.

A while ago Frank reminded me of the importance of snail mail. This took me back to a poem I wrote a couple of years ago about the mail reaching troops in the field, and the effect it had on morale.

I will always remember the sickly sweet smell of the letters (whoever they came from) after they had spent a week or two in a bag with hundreds of letters from wives and sweethearts who had each splashed a little perfume on their letters to their loved ones.

I hope you enjoy the poem.

The Mail

The Posties came up trumps today,
a sack of pure morale
delivered to the burnt out shed
in which we are corralled.

Girlfriends, wives, mums and dads
have written to their loved ones
and even Gaz is smiling
with a letter from his sons.

The corporal had a laugh.
As he dished the letters out
‘Private Smith……give that to Jones.”
and laughter rang about.

Chalky’s and Trish had a baby girl,
The first photos came today.
He must have shown everyone,
they’ve called her Anna-May.

Yozzer got his third Dear John
He seems to have the knack;
Of making women love him
but then they knock him back!

Danny uses a dicta-phone
to communicate with his kin.
Another tape arrived today
and now he’s plugged right in.

Swampy got a letter
With a drawing by his son
A picture of his daughter
flying kites with her mum.

Two parcels for; ‘a soldier’
went to Big Pete and Don.
Don’s had photos of a girl
and she had nothing on.

An envelope with SWALK on
is lying on Jim’s bed,
when his stag finishes
his smile will split his head.

The sickly mix of perfumes
which mingled in the sack
have tainted the tax man’s letter
perhaps I’ll send it back.

Yes, the Posties came up trumps today.
These messages from home
remind us that someone loves us
and can reach us wherever we roam.

John Carré Buchanan
18 January 2011

Demons Vs Love



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During the last couple of months I have been using a tricyclic antidepressant which has been shown to have an analgesic effect for some chronic pain sufferers. Unfortunately in my case the drug did not have the desired effect and changed my already dismal sleep pattern making me slip into sleep at irregular intervals both day and night.

The nocturnal snoozes became a real issue for me as I found that when I woke in pain I was incredibly difficult to gain control of harmful thoughts and prevent the inevitable slip into a dangerously depressive state.

During this period I spent most nights racked in pain, unable to sleep, fighting horrendous thoughts; thoughts I took to see as ‘demons’. Fortunately during the days I had the support of family and friends. This allowed be to recharge my emotional batteries sufficiently to survive the following night.

This poem aims to describe my feelings during this period and also show the importance of both faith and love in the healing process. I dedicate it to my Family and Friends who have had and continue to have, my back since this ordeal began.

Demons Vs Love

Curtains have closed,
teeth have been brushed,
Goodnight kisses shared.
The house falls quiet,
now it’s time:
demon time.

Now there are no distractions.
one mind stands alone
protected by thought.
Demons rage wildly;
fuelled by pain
and a burning desire for freedom.

Rational thought crumbles
as demons swarm over it.
Anger, grief, guilt, loss, despair;
they’re all there like rats and they
scurry and gnaw at the fabric
of the thought shield.

Counterpoint after counterpoint
are rebuffed and defeated.
The organised mind is shredded.
Every tear produces new edges
which cut and grate the soul
until it begs for release.

Night after sleepless Night
the exhausted mind
struggles to repel demons.
Day after day
cracks in the shield
are repaired by their love.

John Carré Buchanan
31 May 2012

A Prayer

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A Prayer

Floating,
muffled sound,
grey darkness,
through soft shut lids.
Warm body,
cold thoughts.
so cold they burn-
as they roll over me;
like water on a
wave washed shore.
I am laid bare.
Warm body,
cold mind,
oh;
that the body were cold?

John Carré Buchanan
18 May 2012

Early Memories - Guernsey VII The Tuck Box

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Early Memories - Guernsey VII - The Tuck Box

We each had a tuck box,
they mostly looked the same;
some were red, others blue,
with studs along the sides
and the all-important lock
to keep the contents safe.

Henry’s box was the finest
he’d made it for himself.
The dove tails were immaculate,
the brass hinge and locks inset
and gleaming French polish
bought out the oak’s tight grain.

My box was just a normal one
but I’d customised it in style
and covered it in carpet cuts
saved from my parents’ house
It looked pretty different;
like a block of soft brown fur

Each of us kept our treasures
confined in our tuck box.
They contained all we had;
our toys, sweets, comics,
pictures of heroes and
letters from Mum and Dad.

To us each box was sacred,
they were our only private space,
a place no one else would enter
where our secrets could be held safe
Save from the house masters;
who’d rummage and pry within.

My tuck box was covered in carpet
and my treasure were kept therein
but it wasn’t the only box I had.
Like Henry I’d made others
as strong as his oak box
but these were in my mind
and they were tightly locked.

John Carré Buchanan
30 March 2012

1:40 - Worth It?

This poem is the last of the series I began last week showing how planning for a flare up and the time immediately after it could minimise the impact that the flare up has on people who suffer from Chronic Pain.

The last four days have been particularly unpleasant, but they could have been far worse for me if I had not prepared for them. The process of planning for the flare up and discussing my plans with my support group, (whilst remaining flexible enough to allow the plan to change) has allowed me to come out of the flare up without getting depressed.

For most readers taking 120 hours to plan and recover from an event which in itself took three hours might not seem too much of a success, but the fact that on this occasion I was able to do something which I really wanted to do and was able to prevent myself falling into depression was a major achievement.

If anyone has been affected by my last few blogs, please re-read them and see the hope and satisfaction that was in them. You may then understand that the underlying message is, it is possible to come through a difficult patch if you have the time to plan how you intend dealing with it and you communicate that plan with your support team. The measure of success has to be; is three hours of pleasure worth one hundred and twenty hours of hard work? On this occasion, I believe it was.

Normality Returns

Sometime in the night he’d fallen asleep
It had been after half past four,
now he was awake.
There was movement in the house.
Checking his watch; it was seven.

He felt rested, two and a half hours
after four days and he felt rested.
As always the taste of vomit was there
but the searing pain, the burning pain
that devoured every scrap of reason had gone.

Four days of torture, with no reprieve.
Nights of constant questioning.
Hour on hour pushing back and holding firm.
The sand pitted and scuffed by the mighty battle
but the line remained uncrossed.

This was a battle well fought
Planned from inception.
One hundred and twenty hours
Set aside for just three
And all the while depression held at bay.

Now back to normality.
when sat or stood always timed.
Lawyers, doctors, medication,
plans for every little thing,
just to keep the demons at bay.

John Carré Buchanan
16 November 2011

Morning

Last night was one of those nights when there was a price to pay for my doing something I wanted to do rather than doing what I should have done during the day. My last post discussed how I had planned for the resultant Flare Up.

As expected the night was not too pleasant and I spent most of it using mind games to keep myself from cracking up. This shows how effective mind games can be in dealing with chronic pain. It must be stressed that they do not stop the pain, but they do stop depression and by so doing they also stop irrational behaviour.

Morning

In the distance an alarm clock sounds briefly
beep – beep; beep – beep.
Relief floods in as another night draws to a close.
In the kitchen slippers scuff the tiles.
A click heralds the soft purr of the kettle warming.
Soft footfall draws nearer.
The rattle of the doorknob heralds the light beam
as the door swings open.
Her face peers into the gloom,
their eyes meet with clear understanding;
another sleepless night.
She crosses the room and opens the curtains
and the last demon flees.
Now he is safe,
racked in pain with the familiar taste of vomit in his mouth;
but safe.
The fear of acting on his thoughts conquered.
The desire to end all, silenced for another day.
For in the lonely hours, wrapped in pain
curled in a foetal ball, he had wept
tears mingling with sweat on the sheets,
face contorted with the silent screams
as the body spasmed time and time again
and the mind fought itself to a standstill.
He’d applied the technique to his thought.
Demons had hurled the seeds of doubt,
and stabbed deep, the knives of harm and hurt
his guardian had ‘challenged’, ‘normalised’….
...... Oh buzz words be dammed.
His guardian had fought, fought all night,
using every ounce of strength and he had won,
but now he had to face it all again.
They'd talk about it later, analyse it and improve.
He glanced at his watch, took the morning meds
and lay back to wait for the calm;
the calm before the storm, that was another day.

John Carré Buchanan
14 November 2011

The Toolbox

This morning I was still awake when the birds started the dawn chorus, it was the third time this week and the seventh in the last ten days. Once again I’d spent most of the night using a toolbox of mental exercises to ensure that I did not descend what I call the ‘Spiral of Doom'.

In essence the spiral is a model which explores the correlation between mood and the effect pain has on an individual. It is important to stress that the correlation is not between mood and the pain itself. On the downward trend, pain leads to deteriorating mood which makes the pain more noticeable and therefore the mood worsens, at the very bottom of this spiral lives the hell in which an individual believes self-harm is preferable to living with pain. Conversely if the mood is good the effect the pain has on the individual is lessened and life can become more enjoyable.

Assuming that in this model pain is a constant, there are two variables; the effect of the pain and the mood. There are ways to reduce the effects of pain; usually these involve the use of medical intervention of some kind. But a more practical, everyday way to influencing the spiral is to change the mood; this can be done by controlling the way thoughts are handled.

A thought is simply a collection of ideas, it is not anything more or anything less and it certainly is not a fact. That said it is possible to allow thoughts to catch in the mind and develop to the point where we truly believe them to be facts. When this happens an unfortunate incident like spilling the coffee ten minutes before giving a presentation can be elevated in the mind to the point where a whole day has been a total disaster. This is achieved by unhelpful thoughts such as;

“why is it always me? – I’m going to look like an idiot – the presentation is ruined.”

It is an unfortunate fact that unhelpful thoughts left unchecked will flash in and out of the mind sowing seeds which all too often go on to become self-fulfilling prophecies.

With practice it is possible to put the brakes on this process by challenging unhelpful thoughts. In the example above I could counter with something like;

“it doesn’t always happen to me, the presentation will be just as good even if I do have a coffee stain on my tie, and the lights will be dimmed so no one will notice the stain anyway.”

At times I have even written the answers down. It’s a bit like a Chinese take away menu; unhelpful thought number 7 gets challenged by helpful thought 4, 5 and 11. This ensured that I could get my responses in before the next harmful thought arrived. The list was written during the first few bouts, I found that the act of writing thoughts down slowed the process and gave me time to come up with better counter thoughts. These were then developed when I was a better able to think straight.

Eventually it became possible to recognise that I was having an unhelpful thought and I began to thank my mind for the thought but allow it to drift on as if it were a leaf on a river, by doing this I allowed life to progress without dwelling on the unhelpful thoughts.

You may have noticed that I use the terms helpful and unhelpful thoughts and not positive and negative, this is because “thinking positive” is not always the best approach. For instance if a person was to find a lump in their body and resolved to think positively about it they might find that by the time they visit the doctor it’s too late to do anything, Helpful thinking allows the individual to remain calm and assess the situation rationally and is more likely to result in an earlier visit to the doctor.

Having said all that; as I sat there listening to the dawn chorus (and secretly hoping that all 3 cats were out) I remembered the following quote from the 1970’s film “Kelly’s Heroes”;

‘Why don't you knock it off with them negative waves? Why don't you dig how beautiful it is out here? Why don't you say something righteous and hopeful for a change?’ -Sergeant Oddball.

This morning that turned out to be the turning point I had been looking for.

The Toolbox

I have a special toolbox,
it’s one you cannot see.
It’s full of very clever tools
that I find work for me.

The top draw holds the basics
the tools used every day
Information and knowledge
To help keep fear at bay

The bottom draw is bigger
it holds the tools I need
To keep my mind healthy
when pain my thoughts impede

Conventional ways of thinking
can cause the mind to lock
for logic and analysis
can’t every dam unblock.

I’ve tools designed to challenge
unhelpful thoughts and feelings.
These trusty friends I often use
to stimulate a healing.

A new tool that I’m learning
uses counter force to win
In theory it’s simple;
you welcome these thoughts in.

There’s the pebble in my pocket
The leaf upon a stream
the words I choose to frame it
SMART goals define a dream.

Some tools have roots in business
Whilst others are based in sport
I’ve learnt to pick and mix
to live the life I ought.

My toolbox is a treasure trove
it draws on my whole life
to furnish me with techniques
that help reduce my strife.

John Carré Buchanan
13 March 2011