"Tomorrow," he says

Partly from my own childhood.

"Tomorrow," he says

 

Only one person goes into Father's room.
It is not me.
He is like a spider, with many eyes.
He threatens you from his bed.
His breath is sour vinegar and dust.
And,
if you are too loud,
He shouts.

Only one person goes into Father's room.
It is not my younger brother.
"I am not going," he cries.
Not even if you tease him with a toy in the dark corner.
A fabulous toy.
In the dark corner away from the door.
No matter how fabulous you make it,
Even when his fingers are grabbing at the air,
And the breath comes out of his wet lips so you can hear it,
And he is touching the door,
And the door creaks at his touch,
He is already past the floorboards which made the same noise,
He is so close,
He will not do it.
"There is no toy," he will whisper
And even though he is right
You must say
"You are chicken."
But you say this quietly too.
Because,
if you are too loud,
He shouts.

Only one person goes into Father's room.
It is not Mother.
Instead, she calls up from the bottom of the stairs.
She will listen for a while.
She will get nothing.
Then, calling him names,
She will come up the stairs,
Stamping her feet.
She will call out from the landing.
She will listen for a while.
She will get nothing.
Finally she walks up to the door of the bedroom.
She will shout from there.
Sometimes she shouts once.
Sometimes she shouts many times.
She is too loud.
He shouts.
He is louder than her but she has more words to say.
"You are pissing your parents' money away!"
That sounds painful to me.
"I have to tell everyone you are sick!"
Yes.  He is sick.  That is why he is in bed all day.
"Your sickness is called laziness!"
I hope I do not get laziness.
I do not want to be in bed all day.

Only one person goes into Father's room.
It is the charwoman, with her broom.
Once a week she opens the curtain.
He groans.
I listen at the door.
She is busy, cleaning.
She tells him that he has made a disgraceful mess.
She tells him that he has a family to look after.
He talks to her.
He does not shout.
"Tomorrow," he says.

Reviews

[Libby]

Possibly the best and most complete work I've read on here. I absolutely love the story with it's clear, precise language. You've accomplished the perspective of a child flawlessly. I'm impressed a great deal by this poem and I do think it could be published.

[TLK]

Thank you for your praise. This poem is written from the perspective of a child, one which I found quite easy to capture. I think the most important lesson I have learned is that a child may talk simply, but can still know a lot more than they should.

I do balk at you calling it 'complete'. In itself, it is entirely and totally finished. I could not imagine needing to change it significantly, as each time I read it it reminds me of the past and I feel a welling of emotion. However, it is a bit cheaty for it to be complete when it is by nature so short.

[Libby]

Maybe so, but length isn't often a factor I take into consideration when I'm measuring completion. More important is whether it reads smoothly. Without interruption from niggling flaws. I very rarely achieve a completed poem as I tend to write it in 30 minutes and never touch it again. So I admire the dedication it takes to write a refined poem like this one.

[TLK]

Would you be disappointed if I told you this took me less than 30 minutes?

[Libby]

Not at all. c:

[TLK]

I sat down one night and wrote all the poems that are currently up here in one fell swoop. They just splurged out like so much snot, spilling spellings and a suspicion of my mind's sedition, ready for the evening edition.

I'm trying some prose poetry now, which is a lot harder, because you can't just make it look like a poem with a few line breaks. I'm going to even have to - I know - leave it and then rewrite it later. The effort might kill me.

Knowing that the universe likes its jokes - for what are black holes but vast repositories of unheard Schadenfreude, galactic scheming against human hopes in deep piles, steaming? - it will probably be obvious (to you, to me) that for all the effort, the toiling and pouring - words laid out in sun-soaked rows and stinking, spoiling - even though I will put more in less will come out and, in the end, all will know that flowers grow in a meadow because - not despite - of the fact that you don't lend your hand against Nature's will to navigate the seasons, irrigate the soil, and all the fertile plans of fate despoil.



Hmm, it now looks like I am actually infected with prose poetry and can't not do it.
Help me for I am surely dying.

[TLK]

Uh, that previous comment (before the prose poetry meme took full, leeching hold of my skull) means that the more effort I'll put into it the less goodness will come out. I am a real proponent of the idea that true brilliance comes from behind the scenes, from the non-conscious mind. It is a well known fact that many excellent ideas come from the "three b's" of bed, bath, and bus. When you mind wanders it trips over some fresh trap of brilliance left by your night-warden, who spins his truncheon and tips a wink behind your back.

Uh, I'm doing it again. I might need to watch a few sitcoms to get normal language faculties back.

[Libby]

Absolutely, when I try to write I can't. And when I don't, the words just float up to the surface from nowhere. This is inconvenient as I rarely have a pen to hand. But still, it seems the more.. 'Organic' the poems origin the better. And don't worry I love those little poetic meanderings. They're great to read.

[TLK]

I try not to worry about my brain bubbles bursting. They are ephemeral, they live and skitter on the surface of the water like skating insects and, if they die, their children will still dance for me.
If I have ever had a good idea, it has let me know, for it has beat down the doors of my perception even when I tried to ignore it. In quiet moments it would tie me down and force-feed itself to me until I relented and, writing through keyboard or pen or scratching in the dust it would tell me of itself and then, and only truly then, be fulfilled in death.

[Libby]

You could publish that last one as a poem, easily.

[TLK]

It has more worth, hidden here, potentially only ever to be read by you.

Unless, of course, someone offers me thousands of beautiful rolling shiny fat pounds for it, in which case I will steal it back from you.

[Libby]

I guess that's fair enough. Prose before hoes/bro's.

[Leni]

This is really awesome. Creates a really vivid feelings and atmosphere in me. I do feel that you lost a bit of power after the Mother verse and to the end. I liked the idea that we would never learn who went into Father's room. It is slightly chilling in the beginning and I liked that. I feel that you dilute the image as you go. Beautifully written, maybe just trim a bit?

[Penlady]

I was there! Feeling what the children felt and thinking how the innocence of little ones is marred by the adults surrounding them, them having to take what is dealt and not being able to do anything about it because they are children...
And too, you have shown how adults can be at battle with no truce in sight, yet someone like the charwoman is able to communicate (probably because there is no true emotional tangle) and tell it exactly as it is, yet eliciting a normal level of speech from the man....then you have one wondering if the man is truly depressed, since any healthy person welcomes work... marvelous writing...marvelous...very human story, great writer you..

[TLK]

Thank you for being there with me.

[Alvin L. Kathembe]

Wow...this is brilliantly written!
This is perfect, your technique really is astonishing. Love the choice of words. You really paint a picture with your words - In my mind's eye I could see the closed door and the whispering children...I like how you played with "If you make a noise, he shouts." That was really good.
The stricken patient has forsaken his duties. His sickness has alienated him from the rest of humanity - the charwoman is the only one allowed into his quarantine. Maybe he'll call for a doctor -
Tomorrow?
I hope I never catch laziness either. 100/100 and straight into the favourites.

[TLK]

Thank you for your review. It's always a delight when a perceptive reader puts time into your writing.

[Emily B]

oh, oh . . . perfect ending

[Alexandria Reece]

I swear I could smell this entire story first and then I began to see it. It reminded me a bit of the beginning of 'The Tell Tale Heart' by Poe, where the old man is sleeps in his bed, although the lethargy you tell tale of is perpetual and your mother's anger, unlike the caretaker of the old man's mania, was completely valid. I think it was something about the dark imagery that made the connection in my head. Anyway... this is very well-written, the sensory aspect is especially phenomenal. The ending is rather brilliant and the planning seems impeccable. I also enjoyed how you maintained the mindset of your youth while structuring your thoughts with the wisdom of an adult. Incredible :)

[TLK]

Thank you for being so kind to link me to Poe. I also enjoy that you picked up on the sensory aspect. I think that senses should probably be important in a piece of writing authored by a precocious child.

[Alexandria Reece]

Indeed and you are very welcome :)

[anjamaka]

I thought this was very good, and inspirational! I really enjoyed it. Thank you for reading one of my pieces and for writing as well as you do.

[Ken Simm.]

This is classic depression. So your father was disabled. This situation seems all to common.
Whilst the subject matter is understandable the writing and depiction of it from a child's uncomprehending standpoint is simply beautifully done. With pathos but without self recrimination. A remarkably impressive piece on all counts.

[TLK]

Thank you. My father was indeed disabled, but by his addiction to booze more than any obvious physical deficiency.
I would like to write more that is in a childish voice, but at the same time I don't want to practise it so much that I end up doing it all the time. Although I could retrain as a nursery school teacher...

[Ken Simm.]

The classic dffierence betwwen childish and childlike. You should study Paul Klee

[Emily Dickinson Jr.]

It's oretty good ! :-) It's a great story but kinda weird to me. I don't undertsand why theyre afraid if he's only lazy. There are also a few gramatical mistakes but I'm sure you'll fix them

[Shimmerbliss/CAF]

This is a fantastic portrayal of watching a parent in depression told so well and authentically from the perspective of one who is too young to understand. I love your openings of "Only one person goes into Father's room" and then following with who it is not. This is so vivid, so sad, so enlightening....have I blubbered on....I am just lost in the experience of this piece.

[TLK]

Yes, I knew I wanted to get to (what I think is) the only concrete rhyme of 'room' and 'broom', because I thought it was the kind of simple poetry a child could muster. However, to get there with no setup would be terrible. So then I realised I could first say who dares not trespass.

The characters, partly real and partly not, just lined themselves up after that.

[Shimmerbliss/CAF]

It worked so well. Excellent in all aspects.

[New Dawn]

Beautiful poem - powerful yet understated, could imagine the situation perfectly . Don't change anything !

[TLK]

Two people have told me not to change this so far.
My hands now itch to do just that. I have an urge to - no! - introduce new characters, sidekicks even. Scrappy Doo, perhaps.

[New Dawn]

Sorry! Didn't mean to leave you in a quandry - just like it as it is

[TLK]

Heh, it's not your fault - I just like to be contrary sometimes.