D.O.I [old reviews]

Dependent On Independence

 

 

The bedroom seemed sterile

despite the crumbs and dust,

which no doubt lurked beneath

the wardrobe’s husk, beyond a Hoover’s

penetrating limits.

 

Emptied of treasure,

and junk like bubble bath gift sets

when I would have preferred

a shower [of money], and the guilt

that accompanies drawers stuffed

with this knowledge.

 

Like a hasty murderer, I filled bin liners

with unwanted cosmetics, carrying these

out to the wheelie bin, lowering the lid

over a series of birthdays on which relatives

proved they didn’t care to know me.

 

The bunk-bed promised to enfold

within itself, the hours built up over years

of creaking frustration half-disguised as

self-exploration; likewise, the eruption of stew

the night I’d spewed up every morsel consumed

after ten days of food deprivation.

 

One or two tell-tale blood stains

if you knew where to look; the floor, the duvet;

the jeans I’d worn down A & E. An array of blades

locked in a safe, were packed and waiting for me.

Tidy. Empty. Posters stripped and rolled into

 

blank canvasses, only showing their reverse side,

like my mother showed her perverse side

when forbidding the sticking of civil rights

campaigning on the window pane, in a “tacky display”;

I bit back my rage that day, as always.

 

Leaving a couple of items behind, wanting

the place to still be mine for a short time,

I was disappointed when they brought round the car

to drop them off, along with boxes of stuff

from the attic; things they’d once taken without asking

[they’d forgotten my fan, as my sister’s was broken

 

and we felt its nonattendance that summer,

propelling us towards Argos catalogues];

ornaments and stuffed dogs I’d wanted to give to

an Oxfam shop, but my mother had refused �"

now they claimed our space, as musty issues.

 

I returned a week later, a bemused visitor

at the sight of my old refuge freshly painted

and used for storage of my sister’s excess.

The bunk bed still balanced on three legs, but

a desk took up the other side;

 

one I recognized as previously mine �" it had

disappeared, without explanation, when they decided

on decoration as a solution

to “the gloom” of an eighteen-year old’s room

in his absence; I had returned to chaos, mess

and lack of a desk [serious business for a young writer].

 

Sister explained that hers had got broken, so mine was given

as a  replacement. It had been too long to feel anything

but intrigue and amusement.

A house cleansed of me [and my passive charity]

was an interesting place to be.

 

Author's Note

Let me know if the tenses and flow are ok - and what you think of it. Thanks.

Reviews

[Spoken]

I love the tone and feel of this. I can really relate, I moved out abruptly.. leaving a few things behind... only to revisit a room that did not resemble mine and things I had left carelessly tossed in a box like unwanted junk. Great piece. I loved the imagery.

[Sinceer]

great read

rare to find someone who can write those unsual descriptions and coined phrases, original yet relatable...

but yes, the rhyming seemed to flaw in one or two aspects...metrically and consistancy..
the latter being a nice break from the norm, but personally i didnt think you pulled it off to the greatest effect...same for the rhythm of it...in slices..i read it with smooth fluidity...but as a whole it seemed a watered down version of jarring...


props to all the concepts and imgagery...
it was mellow and enjoying to read...

i will have to check out other writes from you...i reached this post from reading one of your comments you left for Nikaule..

pC

on another note...

this being a sort of poetic lyric hybrid...i thought i would link you to my venture into that style..

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/sinceer/49621/

[Bubo]

Nothing wrong with this excellent piece.....as always a profound and very touching piece of moving away, that struggle, and having all that you knew erased as if you had never been there..........so many lines here that felt deeply personal, some reminding me of my daughter, the constant struggle.

Like a hasty murderer, I filled bin liners

with unwanted cosmetics, carrying these

out to the wheelie bin, lowering the lid

over a series of birthdays on which relatives

proved they didn't care to know me.


So sad you can have relatives that really don't see you, and of course it causes pain and anger, the self harming, non eating..........trying to release pain, but also punishing oneself, the feelings of being unworthy.
My heart so felt for you, of course my mother did the same, erased me once i had moved out right down to clothes i had left and persoanl items, i never asked where they went,my sister took over the room and that was that.

I am always in awe of your work, such depth and this for me is one of your best pieces.

[Alex Ferraro]

I enjoy how the poem seems to build up. A family insulting you by whiping you from the house with paint...but then you dissipate the build up wonerfully. It's a different ending to what I thought would be coming, and a pleasent surprise at that. A lovely write all in all. Congrats!

[Emily B]

My mother turned my room into a sewing room. Kept my brother's much the same, though. Nothing jumped out at me as far as tense. Nothing jarred my senses as incongruous. It seemed things flowed where they should and paused where they should. Great narrative voice. We sit and listen while she unloads her story. Probably a story she had been bottling up for way too long. It's a great write.