Poem of the Month - January 2010

New Year passed quietly for us - me, David and the cat - down at the beachhouse. Call it getting old, being boring, friendless - whatever takes your fancy, but for me it was a time to quietly and contemplatively reflect on the past and give some thought to the future, which becomes even more critical in your fifty-fifth year of life.

I started writing a poem early on in the evening, and created new stanzas each hour until 9 o'clock when an electrical storm caused a power-out. I took all this in my stride, after all I love a thunderstorm. I supposed I could have continued in the old-fashioned way,  writing in a notebook by candlelight,but I didn't, and that's OK.

I don't suppose the poem was very good. Rarely (unless you are someone like John Keats) is a first draft poem worth hanging on to, but I do recall a line in which I expressed the view that people who host New Year's Eve parties are really only interested in one thing - inflicting their own weird and often pathetic taste in music, usually while becoming increasingly intoxicated, on their guests (who, no doubt silently make New Years resolutions that revolve around revenge the following year, and which, no doubt, involves an entire box set of Abba albums, or their own fantastic CD compilation of sixties television themes).

So I won't inflict my very bad New Year's poem on you, however as this month is all about new beginnings and casting out the old habits, thoughts and ideas, I have dug out this one from my treasure trove.

Letting Go

You lie there, amongst the ruins of last night
In what passes vaguely for a bedroom,
Surrounded by the wreckage of teen-age
Assorted personal items strewn everywhere -
Has there been a tsunami here?

Far too many pieces of clothing to all be yours,
Waiting, uselessly, for owners to return and claim,
So justifiably can never be thrown away.
A quick scan shows several that should be here
Are missing, maybe never to return.

And you lie there, like the dead,
As if it doesn’t matter in the least that you are late
Again.
How did two such reliable people give life to
Someone with no time management skills?

But you look so peaceful with your half-stubble chin
And the traces of hot-pink lipstick on your cheek
From one of your many ‘girl-friends’ with a name like Sunrise, Tayla or Bi-arncha who
Is always so-o-o thrilled to meet me.

You could live in here for about a year
If cold pizza was something you actually ate
And warm half-bottles of Pepsi were considered drinkable
These shrines to the good life,
Victims of a teenager’s paradoxical existence,
Are never consumed, but throwing them away
Is obviously fraught with too much separation anxiety.

Or, perhaps it is the aroma that emanates -
Judging from the amount of traffic
That enters and leaves the room between sunset and sunrise,
This obviously drives the girls wild.

Still you lie there, oblivious to the world,
Like you hold the monopoly on sleeping rights,
(I’d like to be eighteen again – sigh - maybe).
I am envious and troubled at the same time,
This turning night into day can’t be healthy.
I hear the sound of your mobile,
Muffled under layers of blankets
It’s too early for it to be one of your mates.
It will be your boss, wondering where you are.
Should I answer it? What would I say?

I decide against going in there and disturbing what is probably
An advanced form of filing system
Why else would all those CDs and DVDs and X-Box games
That cost us so much -
(Not that you understand the concept of money,
I hear my own mother’s taunt rebirth inside my mind, and wince),
Be suspended on the edge of the bed
Devoid of plastic protection,
They are probably all placed exactly so that
You can find them without even looking.

I consider waking you, and while I am still
Deciding whether it is time you took responsibility
For your life, or whether I can stop being a Mum just yet
One eye opens, then another, and you raise your head a little.
“Hey”, you mouth huskily, “wassup?”

“I-isn’t it time you went to work?” I stumble,
Trying not to sound too overbearing.
“They changed my shift, I’m on late today.”
You yawn and turn over noiselessly,
The back of your head tells me the conversation is over
I am not wanted or needed, redundant and inconsequential
But I’m not ready to leave, not yet -
So you lie there, snoring softly, while I just stand here,
Watching.