Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 21/02/15

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.

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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

curtain-patterned swirls.

We had a rocking chair,

heavy oak,

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.

Just spares.

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

and inviting.

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.

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