Saturday, September 05, 2009

Back briefly...

Did you all have a good summer? The heatwave here reached an almost unbearable level last week but a Mistral for two solid days (that snapped the spokes on the garden parasol!) has blown it away and we're back to a loveliness of blue and warmth and light breeze, a special combination that I've only ever experienced on this coast.

Thanks to everyone who expressed an interest in the subscription only poetry seminars. I'm still working on the fine details and will post all the information here once I've finished.

In the meantime here's something to ponder and perhaps let a poem emerge from your ponderings.

Getting rid of things:
1) Does it have significant sentimental value?
2) Would the memory of the time/place/person it represents be enough?
3) Does it have functional value (i.e. do I use it more than once a month)?
4) Would I be able to get by without it?

These are questions I asked myself before moving in an attempt to de-clutter and avoid packing up a load of rubbish! And they worked... to a certain extent. But here are some more questions:

What's the difference between the things we can get by without and the things that are essential to our well-being? Is functional value more important than beauty? Are we frightened of memories fading? Can we measure and compare the depth of our feelings and emotions towards different people/things?

Feel free to post any responses.
Lynne x


margaret beston said...

Good to see AppleHouse back again Lynne. Funnily enough, I had to part with a much-loved sofa this year, so your trigger struck a chord ...!


It had to go -
who needs three sofas anyway ,
especially one whose radiance faded
years ago from too much basking
in its sun-bright room,
whose flattened cushions
once connived with cats
curling guiltily into feathered depths.

High sided arms that snuggled
bedtime children reading stories,
lulled grown-ups into Sunday snoozes,
have long-since slackened, jaded velvet
tacked together with clumsy stitches.

It’s time to let go -
wave it off in the waiting van,
let it move on
to feel again a baby’s softness,
comfort tearful playtime bruises,
watch new stories grow, silently
stash memories away.

©Margaret Beston

Lynne Rees said...

Lovely poem, Margaret. Your opening two lines are so poignant -already I want to shout 'I do!'

Keith Wallis said...

Letting go

A contemplation moment.
I need this moment -
its limpet grip upon a selfish mind
strictures, imprisons, controls.
Parting isn’t an option
a farewell that does not fare well,
a goodbye that is not good.
I need a moment,
under its spell, its charm,
an entrancement trap
an enchantment snare.
A contemplation moment.
It’s only an addiction
if I cannot let it go.

Sharra said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Sharra said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Sharra said...

Hi Lynne, Great to see you back after the summer. I'm having formatting problems with mine, so sorry about the deletions.

Top heavy
Today I spin till dizzy, claim the space I’ve carved
from the house. Tonight I’ll reach all four corners of the bed
. but as I lie still
. the ceiling presses down
. its weight tips the balance.
Overhead, cables writhe between the cast-off clutter, slithering
into the angle of roof and rafter. Each box anchors a sliver
. of who I used to be,
. stops the future
. leaving without me.

Sharra said...

The lines with the dots at the front are supposed to be indented, so the others overhang them.

Lynne Rees said...

Nice to see you back, Keith and Nicky. Thanks so much for posting your poems - 'letting go' of anything - objects, people, ideas, emotions, beliefs - is one of those subjects that surprises us when we give it time, isn't it?

Speak soon.

martin cordrey said...


Just throw it out move on:
a piece of paper

bright name of a night club on one side,
your phone number on the other,

the first thing you gave me,
followed later by a kiss.

This is a key.
Also a door, a door to before and after.

The key unlocks distant music,
vibrations of bass touching my heart.

I can smell smoke, perfume.
Your eyes glitter like a silver ball.

You accidentally brush my arm
something I take for granted years later.

Its because of this children now exist
to stroke a silver cat not born back then.

What worries me is my aging mind;
moments, music, laughter are slipping away

drowned out but the new. I am so afraid
to forget, frightened that loosing their memory

will mean I wake one morning to find
they never happened at all.

Lynne Rees said...

A sensitive poem, Martin, I enjoyed it.

Mary Rose said...

Disposal Day

It’s time.
The airing cupboard will no longer close,
towels stuffed in with difficulty
why have I kept them so long?
How many years since we had a pink bathroom? It’s a starting point.
pink towels are unearthed, unused for years, flung to the floor
with abandon. Value
sentimental nil, functional nil, never used
nothing but good can come from their loss which will be Oxfam’s gain.
Then come the ragged ones, hurled viciously on to a separate pile
to be torn up for rags.

I am fervent with motivation to be rid of things
I raise the lid of the ottamon in the bedroom,
jammed tight with used second hand plastic bags,
each purchased as the ideal holdall/handbag fit for purpose
the trouble being that none is.
To the wardrobe, where I can never find anything I want. I snatch eagerly each top and useless jumper. But sentiment creeps in when I hold long dresses.
Never mind if I can’t wear them, I’m too old for them, they won’t fit,
I place them back tenderly on their coathangers.

Two large bulging bags now stand in the hall ready for transporting. Enough for today.

Lynne Rees said...

Hello, Mary Rose. Lovely to see you on AppleHouse again. An energetic poem, that dips into a sense of real loss at the end - 'I can't...', 'too old...', 'they won't...'.
Thanks so much for posting.

bandit said...

I first thought your list was in regard to words in a poem.