Poetry Pals - Week 5 - Place

Poem made to represent a place from childhood

Hi all,

This was a hard task this week, as the actual assignment was to write a poem about your childhood town. Set by brilliant

Antonia Taylor

on

Poetry Pals

this week, after a brilliant poem from themselves.

As a prompt, I'd love you to write about your childhood hometown. What's changed? What hasn't? How do you feel about it? Will it always be home to you?

However, this is place I would have great difficulty writing about because basically I don’t have one. I am now on my 30th house and that averages out at a new house every 1 year and 10 months. And I’ve rarely been back to an old home/ town. I have written other poems this week whilst mulling how to attempt this, one about the grief of losing your life energy to a chronic illness, one about errant poems, and I finished last week’s one on Wednesday. And have a few more started in draft. It was like I’d get a snatch of a line or two and then my mind wandered off to think about something else. So like last week it was still a work in progress until almost the last minute.

When I was much younger we did visit my Granny almost weekly despite living in many different houses and places, and next door her sister and husband lived; Aunty and Nunc. (Took me until well into adulthood to realise Nunc was short for uncle). Whilst Granny cooked the Sunday roast for quite a lot of family in her teeny tiny kitchen we were often sent round to se Aunty and Nunc. Despite being the same house but the end of terrace, the inside was completely different and these elder relatives I barely knew due to my own shyness, and who rarely spoke were a little intimidating. I often just stood in the doorway and let my older cousins go in. But it left an impact.

1. Nunc, Granny, and Aunty, 2. Granny and Aunty, 3. Aunty as I remembered her

I’ve been experimenting with block form and was trying to do it with this poem but it really didn’t work. It’s not a form I’m used to, and so I revert to my normal style.

Aunty and Nunc

They sit together, 
comfortable in their earth-brown room, 
warm devotion dripping from every corner. 
Wood dresses the walls, 
worn old cupboards crammed 
with mis-matched crockery 
chipped and crazed. 
Nicotine stains mellow woodwork.
A balmy autumn sun hits the window 
warmth permeating the room. 

The room is small but for the child 
dominant, huge and overwhelming. 
She sits meekly 
on a chair, large, wooden, brown, 
resting against an oversized pine table. 
that fills the room 
impelling the rest of the furniture to 
ease around it. 

At eye level, 
droplets jewelling the frosted glass, 
rests a jug of old fashioned lemonade, 
bitter and cold, 
made by the gnarled yet 
kind and loving hands of the old woman.  
Struggling to hold the clumsy glass, 
too heavy for her young hands,
she sips politely, 
nose wrinkling at the acrid taste.

Dozing in a chair opposite, 
the old man’s heavy frame fills the space
and she wonders how he fits 
between the solid oaken arms. 
His soft snores tumble around the room, 
gently stirring the dust. 
She dares to sneak a look at him. 
He is very old, nearing the end of his time, 
yet he seems calm. 
Even asleep love and kindness ooze from him. 

Aunty turns and pats his hand 
and in his sleep he smiles. 
Relaxing in the calming atmosphere 
the child lifts her head a little more and is greeted 
by the beautiful brown eyes holding hers, 
both smile shyly and the old lady gently strokes the child’s soft hair. 
She says no words for none are needed: 
touch is enough. 
Time passes slowly and calmly, 
love soothing jangled nerves 
and cosiness pervades.
	Feb 2024

Eve though I am still in a massive ME/CFS crash I am immensely enjoying this group of lovely people that write poems at the same sort of time on the name or of theme. It is fun seeing how many different takes there are on the themes too.

Anyway, as I’m still struggling energy wise, it’s short and sweet. Till next time.