"Tomorrow" he says

Partly from my own childhood.

Only one person goes into Father's room

It is not me.
His sleeping threatens you from his bed.
His breath is sour vinegar and dust.
And,
if you are too loud,
He shouts.

Only one person goes into Father's room.
It is not my younger brother.
"I am not going," he cries.
Not even if you tease him with a toy in the dark corner.
A fabulous toy.
Almost seen in the darkest corner furthest from the door.
No matter how fabulous you make it,
Even when his fingers are grabbing at the air,
And the breath comes out of his wet lips in whistles,
And he is touching the door,
And the door creaks at his touch,
He is already past the floorboards which made the same noise,
He is so close,
He will not do it.
"There is no toy," he will whisper
And even though he is right
You must say
"You are chicken."
But you say this quietly too.
Because,
if you are too loud,
He shouts.

Only one person goes into Father's room.
It is not Mother.
Instead, she calls up from the bottom of the stairs.
She will listen for a while.
She will get nothing.
Then, calling him names,
She will come up the stairs,
Stamping her feet.
She will call out from the landing.
She will listen for a while.
She will get nothing.
Finally she walks up to the door of the bedroom.
She will shout from there.
Sometimes she shouts once.
Sometimes she shouts many times.
She is too loud.
He shouts.
He is louder than her but she has more words to say.
"You are pissing your parents' money away!"
That sounds painful to me.
"Your sickness is called laziness!"
I hope I do not get laziness.
I do not want to be in bed all day.

Only one person goes into Father's room.
It is the charwoman, with her broom.
Once a week she opens the curtain.
He groans.
I listen at the door.
She is busy, cleaning.
She tells him that he has made a disgraceful mess.
She tells him that he has a family to look after.

She is soft, but she is not scared.

He talks to her.
He does not shout.
"Tomorrow," he says.

Reviews

[Libby]

Possibly the best and most complete work I've read on here. I absolutely love the story with it's clear, precise language. You've accomplished the perspective of a child flawlessly. I'm impressed a great deal by this poem and I do think it could be published.

[TLK]

Thank you for your praise. This poem is written from the perspective of a child, one which I found quite easy to capture. I think the most important lesson I have learned is that a child may talk simply, but can still know a lot more than they should.

I do balk at you calling it 'complete'. In itself, it is entirely and totally finished. I could not imagine needing to change it significantly, as each time I read it it reminds me of the past and I feel a welling of emotion. However, it is a bit cheaty for it to be complete when it is by nature so short.

[Libby]

Maybe so, but length isn't often a factor I take into consideration when I'm measuring completion. More important is whether it reads smoothly. Without interruption from niggling flaws. I very rarely achieve a completed poem as I tend to write it in 30 minutes and never touch it again. So I admire the dedication it takes to write a refined poem like this one.

[TLK]

Would you be disappointed if I told you this took me less than 30 minutes?

[Libby]

Not at all. c:

[TLK]

I sat down one night and wrote all the poems that are currently up here in one fell swoop. They just splurged out like so much snot, spilling spellings and a suspicion of my mind's sedition, ready for the evening edition.

I'm trying some prose poetry now, which is a lot harder, because you can't just make it look like a poem with a few line breaks. I'm going to even have to - I know - leave it and then rewrite it later. The effort might kill me.

Knowing that the universe likes its jokes - for what are black holes but vast repositories of unheard Schadenfreude, galactic scheming against human hopes in deep piles, steaming? - it will probably be obvious (to you, to me) that for all the effort, the toiling and pouring - words laid out in sun-soaked rows and stinking, spoiling - even though I will put more in less will come out and, in the end, all will know that flowers grow in a meadow because - not despite - of the fact that you don't lend your hand against Nature's will to navigate the seasons, irrigate the soil, and all the fertile plans of fate despoil.



Hmm, it now looks like I am actually infected with prose poetry and can't not do it.
Help me for I am surely dying.

[TLK]

Uh, that previous comment (before the prose poetry meme took full, leeching hold of my skull) means that the more effort I'll put into it the less goodness will come out. I am a real proponent of the idea that true brilliance comes from behind the scenes, from the non-conscious mind. It is a well known fact that many excellent ideas come from the "three b's" of bed, bath, and bus. When you mind wanders it trips over some fresh trap of brilliance left by your night-warden, who spins his truncheon and tips a wink behind your back.

Uh, I'm doing it again. I might need to watch a few sitcoms to get normal language faculties back.

[Libby]

Absolutely, when I try to write I can't. And when I don't, the words just float up to the surface from nowhere. This is inconvenient as I rarely have a pen to hand. But still, it seems the more.. 'Organic' the poems origin the better. And don't worry I love those little poetic meanderings. They're great to read.

[TLK]

I try not to worry about my brain bubbles bursting. They are ephemeral, they live and skitter on the surface of the water like skating insects and, if they die, their children will still dance for me.
If I have ever had a good idea, it has let me know, for it has beat down the doors of my perception even when I tried to ignore it. In quiet moments it would tie me down and force-feed itself to me until I relented and, writing through keyboard or pen or scratching in the dust it would tell me of itself and then, and only truly then, be fulfilled in death.

[Libby]

You could publish that last one as a poem, easily.

[TLK]

It has more worth, hidden here, potentially only ever to be read by you.

Unless, of course, someone offers me thousands of beautiful rolling shiny fat pounds for it, in which case I will steal it back from you.

[Libby]

I guess that's fair enough. Prose before hoes/bro's.

[Becky]

This is great. Interesting message, well written, and unique format. Honestly, I wouldn't change anything. The writing was so... real. Well done.

[Kenneth The Poet]

A definitely deep work of art. You have described familial neglect and a child's not-so childish fears of authority and the unknown in such a powerful way. Bravo!

[TLK]

Yep, neglect is really the word that sums up this whole situation. Good insight.