The cottage was long, settled in the grass with a pleasant grunt Everything fit The whole world compressed And gently shaped
We spent a summer there My room was mint green with rocks everywhere And a mirror in a green frame encrusted with cheap, faded rhinestones. My bed was near the window with copper rocks on the white sill dull hay lines running through their sides And the ceiling sloped down towards the other night The living room was downstairs with big windows looking out to glowing tin roof sea The kitchen cupboards were full of labelled jars We loved cinnamon so much the whole cottage smelt of it No one could decide if the smell was sweet or savoury We weighed everything down with sun warmed rocks That's what rocks are for. Books, paper, plates, doors, and folded up clothes. The books in the house were all unknown thrillers and love stories and Reader's Digests and I remember I mocked them We wrote things on the beach with sticks and rocks they wrote 'happy birthday' in the sand And I wrote on paper 'promise me don't cry' After noon when it began to get dark he would get jittery for food stomach cramping sweat breaking We would all twist our wrists Faster & faster & faster & faster till the clicks were not clicks And I cut sandwiches, white and clean, horseradish paste - strangely pink And crispy leaf But we never ate in the dining room A long room with a long oak table shiny and dark and polished With a filigree turquoise lamp hanging overhead. She lay next to the dull, glowing lights of the car green grass and grey tarmac in pale yellow light And breathed in the smoke & smiled her hands stopped roving As if caught momentarily on pale string The steps were so small that only my feet fit We ate Italian sausage and buzzing, static rocket with juice running down our chins The sun fell again in golden olive lines inside an amber dome through tall leafy trees and their rust shade And we went about our business, sneakers crunching on purple gravel. We sat near the window & flies flew in and couldn't fly out And we swatted them for being lost.
I haven’t posted anything new in a while, but this is a fairly long poem I wrote this morning. I’ve been developing it for a few weeks now, and the idea first came to me when I was on a train on a very sunny day.
This was the result of spending a few days in a cottage that we rented somewhere in New York a few years ago, so of course the sea mentioned above
isn’t really a sea, it’s lake Erie. I remember that the cottage was both fresh and musty, and my feelings for it ranged from an overwhelming infatuation to a vague disquiet. The atmosphere of the holiday was electric, to say the least, and the ruralness of the setting was not something everyone was necessarily used to. The quiet was nebulous and threatening, unfamiliar American countryside.
I think I take so long to post things because I am very reluctant about my writing, I don’t think much of it is good, and I struggle to come up with things that I feel will be worthy of sharing with people. That has never happened, I think, and when I do post I post in a quick haze of writerly occasions when I type things right onto the blank screen and click post. And then I think ‘oh God, this is really not very good.’ But I leave it there.
I think the writing is beautiful and unique, you should never fear not being good enough, we’re writers after all, when it flows naturally, great things happen and it is magical. Peace and love, and grew up in NY a short jaunt away from the lake…lots of snow in winter…
LikeLike
Reblogged this on Peace, Love and Patchouli and commented:
I love the flow, almost static like and I hope you enjoy it. Please click on the original to comment on this lovely piece.
LikeLike
What is seemingly random here gives more than enough detail to make one envy the experience.
LikeLiked by 2 people
I like the feeling I get from trusting the reader to derive their own experience from the detail provided, so thanks so much for saying what you said.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This reminds me of my own cottage experience, on Lake Ontario and near Bar Harbor, Maine.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I think this is just beautiful. Your details here are striking, real and colorful. And that opening stanza is wonderful; the cottage settling with “a pleasant grunt”. Well done!
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you so much!
LikeLike
Just write
it was beautiful
Never hold back the pen back
You got a gift with words
Share them
see you on the other side of creativity
The Sheldon Perspective
LikeLiked by 1 person
Swallows fly,
With Sheldon eyes,
And reflect a thousand thankful smiles.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wow
I love it
That’s a keeper
Can I use it
LikeLike
Haha, sure! All I require is a credit 🙂
LikeLike
You got it
See you on the other side of creativity
The Sheldon Perspective
LikeLiked by 1 person
I just wrote a poem
Of what you gave me
I’m sorry but I don’t know your name
Sheldon
LikeLiked by 1 person
That’s all right, just put a link to my blog. Can I read it?
LikeLike
Love this poem, it brings back memories of my own childhood summers spent in seaside cottage. Inspires me to try writing similar subject poem of my own…
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’m glad it did, it’s wonderful to be reminded of something you haven’t thought of in a while.
LikeLike
Love your blog check mine out and follow please Young Journey
https://youngjourneysite.wordpress.com/
LikeLike