Room:

Construction lines like scaffolding
Build and criss-cross in my mind’s eye.
On paper, in drawings and paint.
This room once so forbidden
taboo
strictly keep out,
no admittance
Do not enter,
keep out
Yes this room – is now mine.

But I feel like Dorothea Brooke in Middlemarch
When her old croc of a husband dies
And she is left with a promise to ‘complete my life’s work’
She enters his study and is overwhelmed by bundles of papers, scrolls and books.

I too am engulfed by the scale and breadth of objects amassed in that one room.
Like Miss Havisham surrounded by her decomposed wedding feast of fifty years
I am encroached upon by photographs of ‘jolly japes’ from the 1950’s.

Like Mrs Rochester my addled desire is to take my revenge
by a small pocket fire.
Just to eat up these useless things.
Taking care of business.

Unfortunately Miss Havisham and Mrs Rochester died
in the small flames they desired
for a small amount of
-          Just for fun revenge
-          “I’ll show you”, revenge
-          “This will teach you”, revenge.

Well it doesn’t have to end like this.
I’m definitely not going up in flames
but the past is.

Even if it’s metaphorically
cleanse the room.
Not in anger
but in a Spirit of creativity
the Spirit of renewal
The spirit of change
new growth.
O’Donnell tenacity.
In Hoc Signo Vinces.
(Under this sign we are victorious)



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Five Pandemic Poems

Collect Art Publication July 2023