By Dan St. Yves
As I often tend to do right before a column deadline approaches, I wander about my home office for an hour or six, glance occasionally at the blank page on my computer screen, then Google search random ideas. This month, I had an “Aha” moment as I typed in “poems about homes”. I’ve done a column or two about songs written on the themes of a house before, so it seemed like a sure bet.
However, it slowly dawned on me as I was cutting and pasting copy that you are, after all, dealing with someone’s creative efforts, likely protected by copyright. I had no prior permission to use any of their work, so I had to abandon what I had thought to be a lifesaver for this month’s column.
After another hour of pacing and avoiding my keyboard, I began to muse about how I was a writer myself after all, why couldn’t I write a poem or two about houses? How hard could that be?
Well, you’ll have to be the judge. I decided to take on a theme for the writings, so these are all odes to various rooms in houses. At least, odes from my perspective.
Fridge whirring gently against the wall in its nook,
At least today, yesterday’s racket was akin to a raging brook,
Keeping my food fresh and tasty,
Plus, a frozen turkey, for future baste-y.
(OK, that wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it might be – let’s move on to another room!)
Oh, man cave, reprieve from the outside world,
Sports collectibles and beer fridge, my relaxation unfurled!
Big screen TV, recliner so comfy,
I could stay here long enough to become a mummy?
(Well, when you end a sentence with “comfy”, you paint yourself into a corner poetically, really… What room is next?)
Tiny room, with smells often rank and muggy,
I must cross through you to get to my garage’s motor buggy,
I hear the dryer spinning, going round and round,
Soon my pants will be back, and a t-shirt once left in a mound.
(Clearly I lean towards haiku versus epic iambic pentameter, but I have to say, these are really starting to take shape – a lead balloon is a shape, right?)
From my wicker chair I purvey,
A yard I just paid to survey,
Seems my back fence was built in error
I’m encroaching my neighbour, my brother – mon frère…
(I smell poetry gold! Or maybe those are just the sardines I left out on the counter after making lunch??)
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I think I just stole a verse, my peep,
That makes me restless, tossing and turning,
Another copyright infraction, in heck I will be burning!
(Great, now I’m lifting lines from far better poets than I…makes a person want to cry. Why oh why Delilah, why? What a minute – oh my!)
Here I sit, broken-hearted…
(Uhh, scratch that, I’m thinking I need to revisit some other home spaces before this column gets censored…)
I never get to ascend to my attic,
It’s pretty disgusting – dusty, webby and asthmatic,
However, I went to investigate a noise,
And found a box filled with my toys,
Hey, here’s my trombone and my bagpipes!
I think my wife accidentally stored my musical devices?
(Based on my failing rhymes, this seems as good a time as any to wrap things up – and I think it might be best to leave this train of thought wrapped up as well.)