Sometimes it Happens

On love and loss and time passing.

Sometimes it Happens

For as long as I can remember my favourite poem has been Sometimes it Happens by Brian Patten.  It’s a beautiful poem about love and loss and time passing.

Here:

And sometimes it happens that you are friends and then
You are not friends,
And friendship has passed.
And whole days are lost and among them
A fountain empties itself.

And sometimes it happens that you are loved and then
You are not loved,
And love is past.
And whole days are lost and among them
A fountain empties itself into the grass.

And sometimes you want to speak to her and then
You do not want to speak,
Then the opportunity has passed.
Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish.

And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and then
There is somewhere to go,
Then you have bypassed.
And the years flare up and are gone,
Quicker than a minute.

So you have nothing.
You wonder if these things matter and then
As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter
They cease to matter,
And caring is past.
And a fountain empties itself into the grass.

Brian Patten

The poem has always spoken to me.  I think it has wedged itself so firmly in my head because of when I first read it – as a young woman, in a largely dingy attic room whilst at university in Sheffield.  I must have studied the Mersey poets as part of my degree, or perhaps my old Liverpudlian English teacher introduced me to them.  I don’t remember.  But I do remember that dingy room, where I did some important growing up. 

I lived there for two years and directly opposite my only window was an advertising hoarding perhaps extending to 12 or so feet square.  It dominated my view from that room. I know what was on the hoarding must have changed many times over two years, but I have a strong memory of a poster for an extra-large chocolate bar which had the slogan ‘for exceptional days.’  

My brain interpreted that as four exceptional days – that is, just the four, across your life.  As if that was your full allocation and that’s your lot which seems desultory thinking back now and is perhaps a measure of how few I’d had to that point, aged 20. And that slogan chimed with the Sometimes it Happens poem for me, and the loss and time passing and the whole intensity of disappointment in love and life, which felt nagging and physical and real at that time.

I think my emergence into an adult human or at least the beginnings of it, are located in that dingy attic room.  And as I look back now, I realise how lucky I am to have grown up then, because some people never fully manage it.

I am not, by nature, a sad person, indeed my pragmatism, practical drive, and easy-going attitude serve me well and are, on the whole, a good thing because I can roll with the punches.  But now I recognise it sometimes means you can be a bit accommodating, and a bit too understanding… and occasionally make excuses for bad behaviour.

I don’t think being an optimist is better than seeing the worst in everything, it’s just different.  And sometimes being an optimist can blindside you into thinking everything is okay when it isn’t.  But there you are, you are who you are...you win some, and some you lose.

Which brings me back to Brian Patten and the exquisite way he describes the moment when you feel something tangibly and powerfully, and then you don’t, and you realise that you were wrong or that it won’t endure and that it’s gone.  It’s not that you can’t reflect on the pain or joy of those moments, or re-live them over and over, or not at all but whatever, the fountain still empties itself into the grass.

It just does.  With time things just pass, hurt, anger, and sometimes love.  It just does whether you let go or not.  It felt like almost everything and then it doesn’t anymore – it feels like that was then and this is now.  And now because you’re alive, and thriving, is better.

Some time ago, I lost myself a bit.  Sort of at the time around the pandemic though not exactly then. Also, when, though not completely, at the moment my mother died in 2020, and her fountain drained into the grass.  And perhaps a bit   when I was overwhelmed by a brilliant team of committed folk leaving one by one.  Or when new people came in, perhaps then too.  Each episode wiping away the sharp, focused edges of me, contributing in some way to my being not quite myself.

And I knew, even at the height of all consuming things, with the most important show of my life playing on the biggest stage, that it would end.  That my dreams would flare up and vanish, just like that. And they did.

But something remarkable also happened within days of stepping away and having time and space.  I found myself again.  I looked up and there I was.  I waved and embraced the possibility.

And the fountain emptied itself into the grass.