My grandparents’ furniture.
These things around are not just things,
But remnants of your bygone days -
holding neither bits nor bobs
but memories of all your ways.
A touch of walnut, brush of lace,
and I am five years old again.
The scent of powder, cakes and oil
makes me wish I were still ten.
But you are gone and I am grown,
with my own house to care for now,
surrounded still by all your things,
I bathe in memory, love and…
I wrote this piece for a bookarmy.com writing group. The words given, which have to be worked into a poem, were:
Angel, Christmas, Patience, Music and Reflection.
I didn’t come up with anything especially deep, but it’s pretty festive nevertheless.
_______
Shopping
Another year without a snow fall,
threats of shopping looming,dooming,
and yet with patience I continue,
trawling high street, bystreet, in the glooming
day. The Christmas adverts glint and glitter,
Music played since mid October,
forcing all reflection through a bitter
eye. I take a break, a cup of coffee,
feel refreshed and start anew,
trawling through the million things
on offer – I must buy for you.
It takes all day, my shoes give blisters,
and there’s nothing here I like,
people – pushing, shoving push-chairs -
cocky students on their bikes,
all make this take a great deal longer,
than it did last time I tried.
My coat – apparently not rainproof -
lets a stream of water in
along a seam I thought had dried.
Defeated, damp and cold surender,
sends my feet back to the car,
I drive in silent contemplation
and back at home I light the fire.
I display the usual trickets,
set a pan of wine to mull,
place the angel on the treetop,
bake my pastry full
of mincemeat – ready in september -
and wait for you to come back home.
My gift this year is not expensive,
but I’m sure it’s one you’ll like -
I have done the Christmas shopping,
written cards and made the cake.
The tree is finished, bright and splendid,
the Yorkshires mixed and set to bake,
all that’s left for you to do
is put your feet up by the fire.
My gift? That you can celebrate.
I’m not sure I like this poem quite as much as the last one because it doesn’t rhyme and works solely on the rhythm of the syllables. I wrote it around midnight last night on hearing the train race through Soham without stopping. Normally from my house, there’s no way you’d even know there was a railway line nearby, but last night the village was so quiet, you could even hear the wheels on the track. The poem is meant to be read in the rhythm of an old steam train building momentum and works best if read aloud. I hope it works.
SOHAM AND THE TRAIN
My room is cold
I like it here
The glazing lets the train sound in.
The village – quiet – sleeping, still and
moving as I close my eyes, the gin
infusing as I watch the ceiling spin.
The train goes by, the train goes by.
Sleep. Sleep.
I couldn’t make my ‘I hate modern feminists’ rant into something reader-friendly so I thought I’d post a poem instead. It’s rare I write in verse and I did this one for some themed competition or another…
I always think I suck at poetry because people read so much into it, and there’s never anything more to mine than the words as they stand. Apparently though, other people don’t seem to agree with me. I’ve got poetry coming out in two anthologies very shortly – two and half (M- is my co-author on one) in the Olympia book Expression- The Olympia Poetry Anthology 2009
It isn’t about myself, incidentally. I plagiarised the idea of someone standing at the door with a suitcase from the Del Amitri song ‘It’s Never too Late to be Alone”, specifically the lines, “You can find yourself one day staring into space / With a suitcase waiting by the door / You can think you’ve got it made / ’til it hits you in the face / That these are not the people you wanted to be before”…
RESOLUTION
They’re bitter-sweet, these things around.
Remnants of the life I’d found…
…Or thought I had, at any rate.
And pushing on in other ways
Will not bring back those bygone days,
nor cause these feelings to abate.
And so it is that here I stand,
with suitcase and car-keys in hand,
with fingers round the handle curled.
And were this door not burdened with
a sadness that in some ways is
regret, then I could face the world.
But leaving now with all unsaid
about the ways we’ve been misled
seems honourless and cowardly
and through all other tribulations
problems, trials and complications,
honourable we’ve tried to be.
So it is I close the door
remember what we’re married for
and put the waiting kettle on.
there happens now a brief delay
until I softly put away
the signs that I was almost gone.
