Unexpected Palindromes

February 17, 2015

Goodness me, it’s been ages again hasn’t it? and especially since I’ve used this blog as the ‘virtual workspace’ of it’s initial (and sometimes still) purpose. This evening I’ve been scratching out a new session on an old theme, abstract concretes – in advance of a workshop I’ll be facilitating tomorrow morning with the wonderful Bradgate Writers. One of the exercises I’ll be using was initially just around creating a new piece of writing with a list of words, generated by each participant – two parts noun to one part abstract. Working it out I did it myself, as I often try to do in the sessions themselves – in this pre-session instance to check how it worked. In the process the arising piece morphed into a palindrome and so happily we’ll be exploring these tomorrow too. To return to my opening sentence…here’s the poem, just written, still untitled (though in it’s way, after Roger McGough’s ‘Everything Touches’- here italicised) and thick with it’s ink and brash, rash bolshiness…

*
*
*

The chair stands in an empty room, lit by the light of a lampshade
the shape of a tree, one of those conical conifers, apple green
throwing it’s light like a potter. Meanwhile the chair,
bone white and with the grace of an egg – replies,
a philosophy of shadows. The room is empty
and would have that drama that in certain moods
might stimulate fear – were it not for the flowers
in the vase, thick and velvety and touching
the glass of the window. It is dark outside –
but here, the light touches everything
and everything touches; the chair…
the vase, the window, the shade
and the can, placed like a statement
on top of a cupboard –
that rests in the corner,
like a sigh, a suitcase
packed for a long journey,
the first page
of a new chapter;
the contents
could be
anything.

Anything
could be
the contents
of a new chapter;
the first page
packed for a long journey
like a sigh, a suitcase
that rests in the corner
on top of a cupboard –
and the can, placed like a statement,
the vase, the window – the shade
that everything touches, the chair…
but here, the light touches everything,
the glass of the window. It is dark outside –
in the vase, thick and velvety and touching
might stimulate fear – were it not for the flowers
and would have that drama that in certain moods,
a philosophy of shadows. The room is empty
bone white and with the grace of an egg – replies
throwing it’s light like a potter. Meanwhile the chair
the shape of a tree, one of those conical conifers, apple green
the chair stands in an empty room, lit by the light of a lampshade.

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