My favourite memory of you
was waving that spindle of
blank DVDS
you had just brought inside
the middle of the Market Hall
near Moor Lane Bus station
like a prize trophy
instead of the golden medal
you had just won for school.
was stood outside the Canteen
near the old Chadwick Campus
when you broke into
a totally off the cuff version
of Leonard Cohen’s Hallijah
only for the heavens to explode
during the 4th line.
My favourite memory of you
was getting barred from
the Gypsies Tent,
the Hen and Chickens
the Sweet Green Tavern
and the Blue Boar
in a little over two hours
the night before your
wedding.
My favourite memory of you
Was the one of you
with tears in your eyes
Which crawled over
The bridge next to
The general into the river
Like two half cut emerald
jewels
An hour after your wife gave
birth.
My favourite memory of you
Was at your daughter’s wedding
When you thought you had time
To nip to the pub up the road
For a quick bitter
And were still there two hours later
When she had called the Police out
Thinking you’d had a accident.
My favourite memory of you
was waving that spindle of
blank DVDS
you had just brought inside
the middle of the Market Hall
near Moor Lane Bus station
like a prize trophy
instead of the golden medal
you had just won for school.,
and the way you moaned
when I found her in a corner
scratching in the dark with a
stick
as the wind reached hurricane force
before pulling away sharply
and we simply held onto each other.
(Day 28 of NaPoWriMo asked for 'And now, the prompt! In 1958, Gaston Bachelard published The Poetics of Space. In some ways, it was a book about architecture. But Bachelard’s book wasn’t about angles and sight lines and how to make sure your roof stays on straight. It was about the experience of spaces, their psychological and perceptive implications. The high vaulted ceilings of the cathedral, the low, cozy beamed roof of the cottage. Drawers, closets, the insides of seashells — all of these reflect and expand on shelter, on our thoughts, memories and feelings. A box that opens, a box that closes — the sense of space revealed and concealed has a powerful emotional core.
Today’s challenge is to write a poem of space. Perhaps you could write about the contrast between the snug confines of a shell and the airy majesty of opera houses. What about a cavern? — it is both airy and oppressive — a vast pocket deep underground! Or you could write about the spaces of your memories — the space formed under the table with its big tablecloth, which was your playhouse and fort when you were a child. (I myself spent happy hours in the space formed beneath two large bushes in the backyard). Thinking about the emotional aspects of space give me the same kind of feeling of inversion and surprise as looking at an optical illusion — here I was, not noticing all of these currents of feeling, but wow! There they are.' This led to this piece for me which was about memories which is something I have been writing about more and more recently)
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