JULIA'S POEMS..Julia's poems tackle the taboos of cancer and illness head on. Often irreverent, funny and moving - but never sentimental. Here are four of her writings... Too HeavyDear Doctor,
I am writing to complain about these words
you have given me, that I carry in my bag
lymphatic, nodal, progressive, metastatic They must be made of lead, I haul them everywhere
I've cricked my neck, I'm bent
with the weight of them
palliative, metabolic, recurrent And when I get them out and put them on the table
they tick like bombs and overpower my own
sweet tasting words
orange, bus, coffee, June I've been leaving them
crumpled up in pedal bins
where they fester and complain.
diamorphine, biopsy, inflammatory And then you say
Where are your words Mrs Patient?
What have you done with your words? Or worse, you give me that dewy look
Poor Mrs Patient has lost all her words, but shush,
don't upset her. I've got spares in the files.
Thank god for files. So I was wondering,
Dear Doctor, if I could have
a locker,
my own locker
with a key.
I could collect them
one at a time,
and lay them on a plate
morphine-based, diagnostically, with a garnish of
Lollypop, monkey, lip. InjectionBrown walls. The clip and gleam of hospitals.
Here I am again, having scans, being told
To roll up my sleeve, be still. And here he is, a freckled man, jabbing at my
hardened arteries, not listening when I say
not that one, that one's dead. He fails to draw blood, disappears. In walks a woman with headmistress eyes.
'This one's a squealer,' says the nurse,
so she sighs, rears up with a needle. I just want to howl for mercy,
to gulp and scream, tell my story,
again and again. Make them sit still, listen. Waiting Room in AugustWe've made an art of it.
Our skin waits like a drum,
hands folded, unopened.
Eyes are low watt light bulbs in unused rooms.
Our shoulders cook slowly
in dusky rays of light.
This morning we polished our shoes, so that they should wait
smartly. Our wigs lie patiently
on our dignified heads.
Our mouths are ironed. Acute ears listen for
the call of our names
across the room of
green chairs and walls. Our names, those dear consonants
and syllables, that welcomed us
when we began,
Before we learnt to wait. Call us to the double doors
Where the busy nurses go!
Haven't we waited long enough?
Haven't we waited beautifully? Days of Terrible TirednessThese short days when I try too hard
to get there to make myself, To sit and push, to pull in words
pull up weeds, take vitamin C, to pedal to arrive, think it through
to write my lists, tie up ends; I think sometimes it's finished now
this endless drive, this pacing on. I think sometimes I might just sleep
wrapped in fur, close my brown eyes, be washed away, be satisfied
with this and what it always was. | 
