21KM – WHY??

 

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Half-marathon today, running with a great friend.

 
I’ve been running half-marathons for years and I still keep being asked the same question: why? For those not used to endurance sport, it’s hard to fathom why one would get up at 4:30am on cold winter Sunday to go run a 21KM race.

So today, as I sit up in bed with a pillow under my legs, I decided to write a poem to try to explain why I’m out pounding the pavement when people are still cocooning under their blankets.

Poem: 21KM – Why?

The blinking stars remind me I should be in bed

The gusty Autumn wind leaks through my jumper

I want to bring my broken body home

Because it’s hard and it hurts, and it’s too early and it sucks

But I strive for a goal, for an experience

 

It’s not for a throne, for wealth or even health

The steady repetitive strides

Along the endless roads, tracks and trials

Lift my mind beyond my limits and denials

And yield a sense of completion and joy

 

In a leafy road that goes uphill

I pound the pavement until my mind is still

And silence the little voice that doesn’t believe

So, I keep going accumulating miles and blisters

Because I’d rather run battles than sit and watch

 

Call it endurance, stubbornness, stupidity

But when I look past the finish line

I see that the way has been paved

For a world of great achievements

Because the mind can take you there

– Rosana Wayand
Copywrite 2017

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My first poem: Life contracted

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My children and I are home sick today and I’m feeling yucky but grateful that I’m entitled to sick leave. There are so many casual workers out there in precarious jobs with no access to the entitlements that the rest of us have. I felt like having a go at writing a poem about my reflections on this. I started these verses last year but there is nothing like a day in bed to make me grab a pen… Here it goes:

Life contracted

On the margins of the labour market I sit
and contemplate my life many shifts
I bear all the risks and I weep

As the clock strikes at zero hour
I wake to a journey of uncertainty
Evenings and weekends isolate me from myself

The Guardian of the hours profits from my weakness
Unprotected I soldier on but labour in vain
I don’t have a future, I’m worn with His gain

What’s the value of my honest toil
if I traded my soul for a life of turmoil?
The fruits of my labour in sterile soil

To the Master of the liberal market:
Your servant was once commercially viable
but his portioned task is now unreliable

So in a turbulent market I drown in despair
My life is contracted it needs repair
The source of my joy has been outsourced

Burst of casual work are deflating my soul
and dignity escaping me with every new blow
How I long for the soothing labouring hours

Rosana Wayand 2016 Copyright