Birds did not observe
The minute of still silence
Above, the sun shone
How do you weigh a house?
The bricks and mortar, tiles and chimneys?
No doubt those guards are weighty.
Surely include the landscaped garden,
its drooping flowers,
and heavy seed heads?
The shrubs, the herbs in pots?
The ponds?
The lolly stick crosses of long missed pets?
The contents are substantial.
Soft sofas and chairs
Imprinted with cosy evenings,
tables laden with feasts,
wardrobes full of outdated fashion,
beds crumpled with comfortable passion.
Oh, and the books. The shelves,
and shelves, of books.
How do you weigh a house,
where thoughts expanded,
where children left their giggles in corners,
where the halls still echo with the stamps
and slamming doors of angry love?
Where images of daily living in the living room
never fade?
A house where you can still find pine needles
In the carpets of Christmas pasts,
and there are still stars on the ceiling,
stuck there on a little girl’s whim.
Where hugs and waves and tears
tarnished the front door
after you said ‘I’ll be back soon’.
How do you weigh a house
that is at once so empty
and yet
so full?
So you’ve passed.
You swotted, sweated and swore,
read, written, revised,
composed, edited,
edited again,
met deadlines
dreaded marks.
Disagreed, cried.
You almost gave up
but gritted your teeth
girded your loins,
got on with it.
And you passed!
You Passed!
But what now?
What now?
She stood at the door
and said
‘I’m not living, I’m just waiting to die’
She watched as the rain fell
Onto bare ground
And flowers grew abundant
And the sun made them glisten
The longer days came and went
The flowers died
The trees cried leaves
While still she stayed and watched
Then the snow came
And cleansed the earth
Spring returned triumphant
And the flowers grew again
And then she understood.
‘Get a smart meter’ the ad said.
Oh, if only I had one
I would never have stayed
to listen to those idiotic words
dripping from your mouth
like wasted water.
The electric shock
that you claim to feel
whenever I am near
drains me and I can’t recharge.
Oh yes, the light’s come on,
one hundred watts of understanding.
You sputter like a loose wire.
You shouldn’t be kept in a
confined space.
A dangerous appliance.
I turn you on.
You switch me off.
After ‘Queen Elizabeth I by Nicholas Hilliard, 1533 – 1603
Oh, I bet that dress was heavy,
dripping with pearls and jewels,
and hangers on. The puffed up
sleeves on those young arms.
That frosty veil of lace
cloaking your drooping shoulder.
And that skirt.
Double, triple, layer
of silk and taffeta
and deep piled velvet,
dragging in the dirt,
wicking up the mire,
all heaped on your
virgin hips.
Did it weigh on you?
Did you need the fancy collar
to hold your chin aloft,
or just to stop the chain
from chafing
that pale and slender neck?
As you may know, I’m currently getting to grips with a Masters in Creative Writing with the Open University. As an exercise we were asked to look at lines in poetry and experiment with using different lengths. This is the lyric essay that I wrote as a result:
On Writing Long Lines
Well, I’ve never written a line this long
before, I’ve always gone the short route, yes
shorter even than this which seems to me to be
rather overlong, rather, you know, unnecessarily
wordy. It’s true, I’m not saying much, not capturing
your interest. See, I’m not fluent in this kind of thing, not
experienced in these long poetic pieces that successfully play
with language. Those lines that are musical, that live on in the ear
like a snapshot of a really good memory from years ago when you went
to the beach and laid prostrate for eight hours reading your favourite novel
of all time. Or that time when you danced until three under a full tropical moon
and, after the hangover wore off, you hummed the tunes for days on end never wanting
to lose that feeling of abandonment. But as you know, we all have to knuckle down and when
we’re asked to write in different lines, being creatures that need approval, we do as we are
told, even though its alien, it makes us feel weird inside, it makes our voices shake
and tremble towards the end as our breaths run out and our brains just can’t
take anymore. And so I’ve done it. I’ve written lines that maybe are not
poetry. Maybe they are. Who is to say? All I know is that in future
I’ll stick to my own little way and I’ll speak loud and clear
and in tiny lines of just three feet, no more than that,
and I doubt I’ll ever pen a poem using long lines
such as these, ever, no never, again.
Teaching the art of composition for photography.
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