Frayed Cords

If I went back,

I could show them 

where the air raid shelter used to be,

my father's shed ankle-deep 

in perfumed shavings,

and the exact spot on the wall 

where our cat would chatter 

at birds in the cherry tree taunting him,

or sulk after his holiday in the cattery. 

They wouldn't want to know, I think, 

that the house used to have sash windows 

and that my father used a holiday 

to replace the frayed cords, 

that the alien-eyed gas masks 

I used to play with were kept 

in the cupboard under the stairs 

next to the broken gramophone 

with the HMV ear-trumpet

and 78s in finger-worn paper sleeves. 

A house with a crystal set history, 

faint, crackling, distant voices,

pre-war and pre-war 

making do and mending, 

mental scars, and physical scars, 

like the grooves lumbering coal-carts 

gouged in the alley-walls 

that were our fielders in summer 

and wingers in winter. 

That the gentle giant of a shire 

waiting where now they park their car 

smelt like newly baked bread 

and pawed the road with a restless hoof, 

while the bread man chatted

to my mother and winked at me,  

as he lifted the flap of his leather satchel

and rooted for a farthing change,

they wouldn't want to know. 

That the coal-shed smelt like a coal-mine, 

that a freshly cleft stump of coal 

was history in your hand, 

as far removed from the lives 

of flat-screen folk 

as beating carpets in the back yard 

and wringing washing with a mangle, 

they wouldn't want to know.

.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

Beautifully written. Quite a nostalgic read for me as there was much in your lines that reminded me of my maternal grandparent's house in Hammersmith. So much detail, like the air raid shelter, the coal shed and the mangle. I can still remember the smell of coal dust, the coal man delivering and the rag and bone man. My Granddad used to tell me everything he could have bought with a farthing. I still have one. Thank you for this lovely read.

Chris

[Gerald Parker]

Pleased you enjoyed it. Thank you for commenting.
Gerald.

[Carthage Thorne| The Wi..]

I absolutely love this poem! It speaks volumes, and makes me wish I could visit the house that inspired the very words of this piece. It sounds intriguing, interesting, "historical"... I feel like there is so much still to know now and that what's offered here about the place, only a "hint" of the memories that I feel are stashed in the place. This poem tells a really good story too. I've got a friend who absolutely loves "old-homes"... definitely going to share this one.

Very well written! I look forward to reading more of your work.

~CarthageThorne

[Gerald Parker]

Very pleased you liked this poem. There's plenty more on this site! Thanks for commenting. It is a typical English terraced house, very small by American standards, built probably in the 1920s.

[Carthage Thorne| The Wildcard]

Oh that's awesome, I love the 1920's. I was a jazz musician and played all the music from that era through the 40s.

[Pete Langley]

A hefty post, mate. Pure nostalgia delivered like new-baked bread, filling the head with the comforting whiff of warm soft recollection, of old values and pace of life. Beautifully crafted. P.

[Gerald Parker]

Thanks Pete. An effort from ealier this year. Pleased you liked it.
Gerald

[Laura Lynn]

This is my first time reading this; and quickly but just now I love "as beating carpets in the back yard/ and wringing washing with a mangle,"...& "a freshly cleft stump of coal/ was history in your hand"...it's distilled and proffers this image to us...

[Gerald Parker]

Many thanks, Laura Lynn, thousands of miles away across the ocean. I'm pleased this resonated with you. Thanks for stumbling across my poem and taking the trouble to comment.

[P.S.]

I see why you have been published so often, your use of imagery in this poem alone as well as your control in your writing is so impressive. All of this coming from an amateur writer. Very powerful expression of lives destroyed and recognition of the fact that these decisions made, which result in destroying lives (meaning memories, hopes, and dreams as well as actual lives), are made with the intention to disregard the lives destroyed in accomplishing their goals (collateral damage).

[Gerald Parker]

Many thanks, P.S. I'm pleased you liked this poem. Thanks for stopping by.