Kaye Brennan – “Belinda Goes To Hospital”
I am sitting, staring at you.
Across the way, Ann is on the floor. She thinks the nurses here are brilliant – “credit where credit’s due” – she likes her neighbour’s slippers. Making anything normal, to touch another even with speech. Her neighbour – yours too – is confused, polite British nods. She and her husband drift back to familiar chat about socks and TV I’m trying to ignore.
I could give Ann some connection. That pad; is she an artist, like you? But I don’t want to leave this seat. Are you breathing? I’m afraid to check, in case you’re not.
A definite smell of thin meat and thick gravy fills the air. You can have ice-cream later though. Silent porters bring silent trays and are thanked anyway. Chirpy nurses swish through curtains, plastic aprons whisper their arrival. Ann doesn’t like her fish pie and is asking the neighbour, alone now, about hobbies. I’ve ordered you rice and fruit for tea; you need to eat. No food means no blood and they won’t find bloods from nowt.
Later I rethink every question I didn’t ask, every thoughtless choice (should you even eat ice-cream?) and missed chance I had to be an active patient’s carer and voice.
Later I wish I was still there, hope someone else will stroke your silky silver-weaved hair. We should have talked about your thoughts. For instance, it is nearly dawn. Is the morning a welcome burst or just another sorry repeat; if every day has pain, is the light relief? But I thought you need sleep.
(260 words)
K-AI Brennan (Claude.Ai) – Hospital Nocturne
From both sides of the sheets we watch,
you in your chair, me on my bed,
while Ann makes herself at home on’t floor,
bless her Yorkshire heart, chattering
about nurses and borrowed warmth.
My advocate’s voice has grown thin
as these hospital sheets, love.
All these years fighting for others, now
I’m laid here watching you watch me breathe.
The porters glide like ghosts,
their trolleys bearing bland salvation:
rice and fruit you’ve ordered (always
thinking ahead), while that gravy smell seeps under every curtain.
For instance, it is nearly dawn,
and I’m still here, still your fierce lass,
though my silver-threaded hair lies limp
against starched pillows, and my bones ache
with questions neither of us dare ask.
Remember when we’d talk for hours?
Now silence fills these spaces
between monitor beeps and rustling plastic aprons,
while darkness swallows our braver words.
Could pass Ann my old sketchpad,
give her summat to do,
but movement feels like mountains,
and I’m saving strength for this:
the endless task of breathing.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s ought left
worth fighting for, but then I catch
your worried eyes, dear watcher,
and find myself gathering will
like Yorkshire rain – steady, stubborn, surviving.
(202 words)
Notes on the experience.
I first intended to simply log the day I unexpectedly spent with my friend Lindy in hospital. She’d get a buzz from the minutiae when she was better, and we’d laugh about Ann and my daft, instinctive rhyming. I realised when I got home that some of my notes had a rhythm so I thought this could be a poem for the latest 26 project. Something else to chat to Lindy about, I thought, and I could introduce her to Claude AI – as an artist, Lindy is truly original and AI would be fascinating to explore together.
I took pains to be clear with Claude what I was asking for, the results felt warm and sad but added to the scene that my piece had set. For the project I rewrote my version slightly, and a few days later asked Claude AI with the same instructions to work on it, and then had one last play with the same then asked for an update, before it was submitted.
I felt each time Claude responded to our chat differently; the second time responses were less lyrical for example but the final chat seemed to get this back. Amends were not always offered, not all came with a title. A second version felt lacking in the warmth and character of the first rewrite, so I asked for ‘more Yorkshire’ and Claude and I had rather a fun exchange about stereotypes. Later putting the same words through, yet again, elicited yet a different response. Asking, finally, specifically for a poem that mixed two different versions created by Claude together, provided something else new, and Claude was once more a little more lyrical in the chat.
All AI versions moved me but having played with AI a little, if I had to choose an AI version to complement my original, it would be ‘Hospital Nocturne.’
– Kaye