Poem · 3:42am Aug 29th, 2017
A house is like a mould, I think:
It has lines and contours and nooks and crannies
And every house has a shape of its own.
When you put a person in a house
They grow to fit the shape of it–
Conform to its contours–
Feel out the space and impress upon the imperfections.
There’s a wall in my house with words written on it.
“Anglers Quarters,” it says, “Also known as Irish Row.”
It tells the whole history, top to bottom, front to back.
The Irish came to work, to mine the iron and melt it down.
They needed houses. So they made ‘em,
Small and cheap and quick and easy,
So, just like that, there was Irish Row.
I grew up in number 1. It’s the biggest of the lot.
Sometimes, I feel my frail skin with my fingers,
Pick out the problems and the imperfections,
The scars, the bruises. Sometimes I imagine
That they form sentences on my body, in Braille.
“Anglers Quarters,” they say, “Also known as Irish Row.”
History stamped on my skin, on my bones; Scrimshaw.
Not gonna pretend this is good but I felt like I had to get something out. I think there's more I want to say but it's harder to write these days.
Very lovely. Ask Augideog and Horizon what they think, they write far more poetry and I do.
Well, I certainly enjoyed this. The rythem and imagery was good, and I particularly liked this line: "That they form sentences on my body, in Braille."
And just keep trying to write! If it's writer's block that you've got, just try to push through it.
Houses become part of you.
Nice poem dude.
I agree with the small party here. It was enjoyable, for sure.