Friday, 14 September 2018


I am unsure about this post's poem. I suspect it may need more editing. However I feel that now is the time to unveil it. Conflicting perspectives.
The poem arose from an exercise I set myself; to write about a once familiar room, to focus initially on the fabric of the room and let the centre be peopled as and when.

A familiar space.
Painted polystyrene ceiling tiles,
the unforgiving light from a fluorescent tube
that emphasises the carpet’s swirling colours
forever locked in a garish conversation
with the bright, busy wallpaper.

These days, this room
seems to stoop, like you.
A contraction that mirrors the years I have spent
living with a calm predictability
in places where the walls merely whisper.

Every time I enter this room
the bulge in the floor is more pronounced
and catching my eye, you always say
Whoever lives here after me can mend it.

Sat there watching reruns of cookery on tv
I wonder if this is how a mountain begins,
those first tentative probings before
the fault line suddenly fractures in cathartic release
and half of the house is either side
of this new, stupendous great divide.

Perhaps the carpet is pregnant, near full term,
about to give birth to something
patterned with swirls and flowers?
Then again maybe not.
The cookery programme unfolds,
an enthusiastic presenter in a pretend kitchen.

I think it needs to go away for a time, distance may grant insight.
I end this post with Anna Ternheim and Lars Winnerback singing Little Lies.

Until next time.

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