Two poems this post. One gives the title and the other was sparked by a memory. I have been painting my sitting room this week, as I worked this poem formed.
Our Front Door in 1974 was Purple
My mother liked her wallpaper.
Big, bold, complex patterns,
that repeated across the walls
confounding the swirling colours of the carpets.
They were busy rooms where people
smoked, drank sweet tea, commented on the neighbours.
My father could paper a ceiling,
an arcane art that died with him.
I paint the rooms I live in,
bold colours to be sure,
but calm in compared to my childhood.
The front door of our house was a deep purple in 1974, however I cannot find any photographs of it. Perhaps in a later post. This is a straight forward piece of work. I attempted to chart the changes in style but on reflection thought it weakened the poem.
This next follows on from the last post, in fact, it was started before The Word for Wolf but I was unhappy with it. I think it works now. Your opinions would be welcome.
No one has the complete works,
but piecemeal pickings to fill their magpie bags.
This works for me now.
Technical and emotional workhorse words speed understanding.
Some combinations replay my Mother's voice in my ears as I speak,
other times there are never quite enough though
I rummage through my cupboard I fail to nail the thought.
Over there, beyond comprehension are other things,
experiences I cannot begin to fathom,
they are lined up to receive the blessing of identity.
I envy people who can sustain the thread of a poem until it fills the page. I have rarely been able to do so. I often think if I had been an artist I would have painted miniatures.
I am leaving you with some Soca from the 1980's. Scrunter singing She Want Me to Sing in She Party. The reason for this selection is that I had my i-pod on shuffle as I painted and this came on, so I listened to it twice.