My Old Room (Poetry)
21st April 2013
Waking up in my old familiar room
when the walls were painted pink — before
the emulsioned coats of blue and that last choice
of far-too-flowery paper and changing fashion’s clutter —
only a sliver of morning light beneath my lids
cheating reality I’m lingering back there —
a time when the woven cotton bedspread is near-new
before the sun bleached its pink to a milky threadbare rag
when the original furniture sits random and mismatched —
pieces evicted from our crowded sitting room
to sparser bedrooms — an old walnut veneer radiogram —
its lift-up top a generous space to gather dust
and plaster fairground ornaments — bulky and unplugged
ever-voiceless in the nearest corner — its black bakelite knobs
turning round without effect— deprived of any function while
a box of long-unplayed 78s warp groove to groove in a cupboard.
The small wardrobe is a pre-war relic — carved
and narrow in its child-size coffin shape too shallow to hold
more than a dozen ladybird labelled hangers —
a good winter coat (age 6 to 8) — a Sunday best/party dress or two
some mothball-smelling hand-me-downs a richer cousin
grew too big for and I really wasn’t keen on crushed in behind
firmly out of sight — and a battered shoebox pushed right to the
back of its thin oak floor holds the kind of treasures any child might
hoard.
Opposite, a dining chair sits orphaned from a set of four
that will not fit comfortably in a two-up two-down semi
and by my bed the exotic wobbly frailness of an ebony table
that once belonged to my maternal great-grandmother
its dark graceful lines too unreliable for anything of weight
and hiding woodworm that will eventually send it into exile —
relegated to the shed — the graveyard of old belongings
those household outcasts that might sometime have a useful
afterlife.
Shining on the floor a square of bright patterned linoleum with
(I later found) crease-free sheets of 50s newspaper lying underneath
and the floorboards at its edge dark-stained in contrast
to the whiteness of the painted skirting — leaving a thin gap for
the spiders.
One luxury — real lambwool guaranteed according to the label
on the back — the rug where successive pairs of slippers wait while
childhood sleeps away. From the ceiling a cartoon-decorated plastic
lampshade dangles — the bulb’s dim 40 watts of beam
scarcely enough to force the shadows down under my divan.
Handmade and unlined in their utility the curtains hang
from brassy rings — thin shiny playtime wedding bands too big
for our small fingers — and the wires stretch hook to hook
and they zing like no other sound when the curtain’s pulled across.
That room will never change for me — its stage is set — each detail
stored — clear as daylight pouring in on waking — and all the while
I keep my eyelids closed I’m in that bed and dreaming of a time
when I am grown and looking back recalling how things were —
the child still safe inside and finding shapes that comfort with
their well-worn familiarity — the constant promise of four walls
and the need acknowledged — to have one place that stays always
the same.
when the walls were painted pink — before
the emulsioned coats of blue and that last choice
of far-too-flowery paper and changing fashion’s clutter —
only a sliver of morning light beneath my lids
cheating reality I’m lingering back there —
a time when the woven cotton bedspread is near-new
before the sun bleached its pink to a milky threadbare rag
when the original furniture sits random and mismatched —
pieces evicted from our crowded sitting room
to sparser bedrooms — an old walnut veneer radiogram —
its lift-up top a generous space to gather dust
and plaster fairground ornaments — bulky and unplugged
ever-voiceless in the nearest corner — its black bakelite knobs
turning round without effect— deprived of any function while
a box of long-unplayed 78s warp groove to groove in a cupboard.
The small wardrobe is a pre-war relic — carved
and narrow in its child-size coffin shape too shallow to hold
more than a dozen ladybird labelled hangers —
a good winter coat (age 6 to 8) — a Sunday best/party dress or two
some mothball-smelling hand-me-downs a richer cousin
grew too big for and I really wasn’t keen on crushed in behind
firmly out of sight — and a battered shoebox pushed right to the
back of its thin oak floor holds the kind of treasures any child might
hoard.
Opposite, a dining chair sits orphaned from a set of four
that will not fit comfortably in a two-up two-down semi
and by my bed the exotic wobbly frailness of an ebony table
that once belonged to my maternal great-grandmother
its dark graceful lines too unreliable for anything of weight
and hiding woodworm that will eventually send it into exile —
relegated to the shed — the graveyard of old belongings
those household outcasts that might sometime have a useful
afterlife.
Shining on the floor a square of bright patterned linoleum with
(I later found) crease-free sheets of 50s newspaper lying underneath
and the floorboards at its edge dark-stained in contrast
to the whiteness of the painted skirting — leaving a thin gap for
the spiders.
One luxury — real lambwool guaranteed according to the label
on the back — the rug where successive pairs of slippers wait while
childhood sleeps away. From the ceiling a cartoon-decorated plastic
lampshade dangles — the bulb’s dim 40 watts of beam
scarcely enough to force the shadows down under my divan.
Handmade and unlined in their utility the curtains hang
from brassy rings — thin shiny playtime wedding bands too big
for our small fingers — and the wires stretch hook to hook
and they zing like no other sound when the curtain’s pulled across.
That room will never change for me — its stage is set — each detail
stored — clear as daylight pouring in on waking — and all the while
I keep my eyelids closed I’m in that bed and dreaming of a time
when I am grown and looking back recalling how things were —
the child still safe inside and finding shapes that comfort with
their well-worn familiarity — the constant promise of four walls
and the need acknowledged — to have one place that stays always
the same.