No blog tonight. Christopher is undergoing experimental treatment. We are attempting to extract brain-wave patterns to determine the exact processes that occur in a poet’s mind.
Christopher here. Here is a poem.
I remember when my mum
painted the living room door.
I was six.
She painted it white.
White did not bring joy to
my heart. The curtains were a mash
of carpet-swirled flourishes.
The carpet was a mish of
We had a rocking chair,
finger-snappingly metronomic with its swing.
I saw this white,
bold, plain and striped up the door
and was bored by it. Bored by the tin
and brush that sat by the electric box for three weeks.
Valuable space for toys being used there,
though it soon became a base for the baddied,
seiged on all fronts by turtles,
power rangers and their wrester cohorts.
One day I was playing in my bedroom.
I found a box of swapsies
for my sticker album, now complete so
I suppose they were no longer swapsies.
I took the box in both arms and waddled downstairs.
My mum was in the kitchen,
the smells of leek, carrot and gammon filled the house.
I stood in the living, clutching the box of
stickers in my grasp.
The door closes behind me and it startles me
for a second.
I turn round and see the boring white, streaked
While my mum cooks tea, I spend the afternoon
decorating the door for her. The curtains, the carpet,
I don’t think she likes just plain old white.
Splinter, April everyone greets my mum when she comes into the room.
I greet her, proud of my decorating skills.
‘Look mummy, the door isn’t boring anymore.
My mum sighs, laughs
while rubbing my shock of thick hair
and walks back into the kitchen.