Dependent On Independence

The bedroom seemed sterile

despite the crumbs and dust,

which no doubt lurked beneath

the wardrobe’s husk, beyond a Hoover’s

penetrating limits;

 

emptied of treasure,

and junk like bubble bath gift sets

when I would have preferred

a shower [of money], and the guilt

that accompanies drawers stuffed

with this knowledge.

 

Like a hasty murderer, I filled bin liners

with unwanted cosmetics, carrying these

out to the wheelie bin, lowering the lid

over a series of birthdays on which relatives

proved they didn’t care to know me.

 

The bunk-bed promised to enfold

within itself, the hours built up over years

of creaking frustration half-disguised as

self-exploration; likewise, the eruption of stew

the night I’d spewed up the bowlful consumed

after ten days of food deprivation.

 

One or two tell-tale blood stains

if you knew where to look; the floor, the duvet;

the jeans I’d worn down A & E. An array of blades

locked in a safe, were packed and waiting for me.

Tidy. Empty. Posters stripped and rolled into

 

blank canvasses, only showing their reverse side,

like my mother showed her perverse side

when forbidding the sticking of civil rights

campaigning on the window pane, in a “tacky display”;

I bit back my rage that day, as always.

 

Leaving a couple of items behind, wanting

the place to still be mine for a short time,

I was disappointed when they brought round the car

to drop them off, along with boxes of stuff

from the attic; things they’d once taken without asking

[they’d forgotten my fan, as my sister’s was broken

 

and we felt its nonattendance that summer,

propelling us towards Argos catalogues];

ornaments and stuffed dogs I’d wanted to give to

an Oxfam shop, but my mother had refused –

now they claimed our space, as musty issues.

 

I returned a week later, a bemused visitor

at the sight of my old refuge freshly painted

and used for storage of my sister’s excess.

The bunk bed still balanced on three legs, but

a desk took up the other side;

 

one I recognized as previously mine – it had

disappeared, without explanation, when they decided

on decoration as a solution

to “the gloom” of an eighteen-year old’s room

in her absence; I had returned to chaos, mess

and lack of a desk [serious business for a young writer].

 

Sister explained that hers had got broken, so mine was given

as a  replacement. It had been too long to feel anything

but intrigue and amusement.

A house cleansed of me [and my passive charity]

was an interesting place to be.

 

Reviews

[Lorraine Pearson]

I feel the rage and frustration in this piece...there is pain in the transition time upon moving out...parents all too soon shovel their child's things into boxes etc. This was a good write, it expressed so much, and the feeling that accompanied the experienced could definately be felt.
~Lorraiyne

[None]

Things don't matter much to those in which they do not belong to.
Your treasures and valuables, along with those you wanted to give to someone who might use them--your thoughts came last to those around you. A tough age to be and not be heard by those you thought were "on your side."
I love the humor and your emotions displayed throughout, which stamp your poem and make it a delight to read. A unique subject and you wrote quite wonderfully about it!

[Kasey Klein]

Hey C. Boylan.

Hope you're having a great weekend.

[Chloe..Across the Unive..]

This is very good .. so many facets of this poem make me think .. i love the first verse .. the line of the Hoover is really good.. and this part i like

and we felt its nonattendance that summer,

propelling us towards Argos catalogues];

ornaments and stuffed dogs I'd wanted to give to

an Oxfam shop, but my mother had refused �

now they claimed our space, as musty issues.


Reminds me of digging through an attic ... very good write.
Chloe
xoxo

[zig]

i think you have cleaned this up a bit since the last time i read it, or maybe im imagining it. anyway, i really like this, i think its one of your strongest peices yet. i like how everything is demonstrated rather than just declared, great details, "...lowering the lid

over a series of birthdays on which relatives

proved they didn't care to know me." has so much more proof han just saying they didnt know me. very nice. liked the pace, and especially liked the voice. i take it you are a young writer (?) and a voice as polished as yours is impressive for a writer of any age. enjoyed this very much... keep'm coming. zig

[Gary H]

I'm struck by a feeling of sadness reading this. Maybe I'm mis-reading the poem and just thinking about personal experience. There's some neat descriptions in this and I'm struck by the English nature of the read.

[PianoandPage]

the first stanza is pure bliss. i love how quickly you sketch out the wry humor, the perception vs. observational quality of relating your move out of the parent's place. the rest is really just details.

"lowering the lid
over a series of birthdays on which relatives
proved they didn't care to know me." - i love how all the junk is described here. this says alot about your relationship without really derailing from the poem.

"The bunk-bed promised to enfold
within itself, the hours built up over years
of creaking frustration half-disguised as
self-exploration;" - is this what i think it is? if so. awesome.

the ending was good. i like how you rhyme just enough but not too much. people seem to struggle with that. you don't.

[Alessander]

I have owed a review many times over, although my reveiws usually aren't looked foward too lol...Anyhow, I think there are a very few places which can be tightened up a little bit my friend. I'll just show you how I would probably edit it (if you want to know my rational, just message me. Same bat time, same bat channel):

The bedroom seemed sterile

despite the crumbs and dust,

which no doubt lurked beneath

the wardrobe's husk, beyond a Hoover


emptied of treasure,

and junk like bubble bath gift sets

when I would have preferred

a shower and guilt

that accompanies drawers stuffed


Like a hasty murderer, I filled bin liners

with unwanted cosmetics, carrying these

out to the wheelie bin, lowering the lid

over a series of birthdays on which relatives

proved they didn't care to know me.



The bunk-bed promised to enfold

within itself, the hours built up over years

of creaking frustration half-disguised as

self-exploration; likewise, the eruption of stew

the night I'd spewed up the bowlful consumed

after ten days of food deprivation.



One or two tell-tale blood stains

if you knew where to look; the floor, the duvet;

the jeans I'd worn down A & E. An array of blades

locked in a safe, were packed and waiting for me.

Tidy. Empty. Posters stripped and rolled into



blank canvasses,

like my mother showed her perverse side

when forbidding the sticking of civil rights

campaigning on the window pane, "tacky display";




Leaving a couple of items behind, wanting

the place to still be mine for a short time,

The suburban safe car pulling round

to drop them off, along with boxes of stuff

from the attic; things they'd once taken without asking

[they'd forgotten my fan, as my sister's was broken



and we felt its nonattendance that summer,

propelling us towards Argos catalogues];

ornaments and stuffed dogs I'd wanted to give to

an Oxfam shop, but my mother refused �

now they claimed our space, as musty issues.



I returned a week later, a bemused visitor

at the sight of my old refuge freshly painted

and used for storage of my sister's excess.

The bunk bed still balanced on three legs, but

a desk took up the other side;



one I recognized as previously mine � it had

disappeared, without explanation, when they decided

on decoration as a solution

to "the gloom" of an eighteen-year old's room

in her absence; I had returned to chaos, mess

and lack of a desk



Sister explained that hers had got broken, so mine was given

as a replacement. It had been too long to feel anything

but intrigue and amusement.

A house cleansed of me

was an interesting place to be.



I think what's happening is that you don't trust the read to pick up on the subtlities (and I don't blame you), and you are putting stuff in for internal rhyme's sake, but I just think the additional info turns the work into more of a journal. I really like the last two lines and all the previous details. there is more to the poem than the surface suggests, which is refreshing. Perhaps just a few more images?

[Emily B]

I remember this one. From b.c. days. There comes a day when we give up our refuge or run from our prison. It's really one and the same isn't it? I am just as impressed with the words as last time. I remember the times my parents told me they gave my brother more because he 'needed' it. And I guess when you grow up you either get over it all or you don't.

[Jon]

This is brilliant.

Just read it through a couple of times and I think it is a really good piece - great content, sentiment and humour flow through and it is jam-packed with astute observations that I think many of us can appreciate from our own experiences.

Its like that part of life where you have to grow up and you kinda learn the hard way that you can't have it both ways and therefore can't be too sentimental about the past.

"Like a hasty murderer, I filled bin liners
with unwanted cosmetics, carrying these
out to the wheelie bin, lowering the lid
over a series of birthdays on which relatives
proved they didn't care to know me."

Great humor here - really made me smile - we all have those relatives.

"blank canvasses, only showing their reverse side,
like my mother showed her perverse side
when forbidding the sticking of civil rights
campaigning on the window pane, in a "tacky display";
I bit back my rage that day, as always."

Like this a lot for its flow and rhyme, and for the way it expresses the memories evoked by the room.

Cheers for sharing ;)

[Travis Lawrence]

Certainly reminds me of "My Room", I get the same feelings reading your poem as when I was writing mine. It's eerie going back, after you've been gone so long. Definitely, this is a poem that deserves to be read many more than one time, so I will add it to my reading list and go over it a few more times, sporadically on the timing to make sure I get diverse reflections.

In my first impression, this was my favorite stanza:

"Like a hasty murderer, I filled bin liners
with unwanted cosmetics, carrying these
out to the wheelie bin, lowering the lid
over a series of birthdays on which relatives
proved they didn't care to know me."

The gifts we are given carry weight. This also makes me think of how much useless stuff we own/buy because we feel we have to, for gifts or on impulse or whatever. Most of it just sits...

One part I didn't like:

"likewise, the eruption of stew
the night I'd spewed up the bowlful consumed
after ten days of food deprivation."

I like where you are trying to go, but all I can think of is diarrhea, and it's quite off-putting. If I come back and have more thoughts, I'll be sure to post. It's just, this is a lot to take in. Thanks for sharing!

-Travis