Potpurrie and paint

[Keith]

Edit 1

Yes it’s true that materials play their part,
bricks and mortar, wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Maple burn its brightest,
but they are all just pieces of a collective,
It’s formed in layers not specific places.

It’s the wet nose of a dog that comes
to greet you at the front door,
a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,
a coffee mug and its coaster rings
that briefly fog the glass from the windowsill.

Sits beside us all for family TV,
stretches out when someone leaves the settee,
It's kisses in the kitchen waiting for the kettle
and echoes round a Sunday table leaving
laughter on dried up peas and gravy drips.
You can see it breathe as curtains lift,
Its heart is found on the mantel piece,
tracking life in time-checked glances.

It’s in that box with all the bits
the drawer with batteries and paper clips
the photographs with aging styles
the turning pages that make you smile
the garage cobwebs and fluorescent light
the tins of screws and moths at night
it’s under the sink at the back of a cupboard
a vessel of life to be discovered.


Original
Yes it’s true that materials play their part,
bricks and mortar wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Acer burn its brightest,
but they are all just a pieces of a collective.

It’s formed in layers not specific places
or any given lock and key.
It’s the wet nose of a dog that comes
to greet you at the front door,
a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,
a coffee mug and its coaster rings
that briefly fog the glass from the windowsill.

It’s that left behind warm spot on the settee
you put your face to when the adverts come on.
It opens with each new novel in the threadbare
chair you can’t throw away, quiet in the corner
under the skylight as the rain runs its rhythm.
It kisses in the kitchen waiting for the kettle
and echoes round a Sunday table leaving
laughter on dried up peas and gravy drips.

You can see it breathe as curtains lift
moving air from front to back
Its heart is found on the mantel piece,
tracking life in time-checked glances,
hair and hats fixed in the hall mirror.

It’s in that box with all the bits
the drawer with batteries and paper clips
the photographs with aging styles
the turning pages that make you smile
the garage cobwebs and fluorescent light
the tins of screws and moths at night
it’s under the sink at the back of a cupboard
a vessel for life to be discovered.

They all exits in layers
that form the essence of a home
and are only truly gone when
the last person that remembers
them has passed.

[rayheinrich]

What a wonderful, unapologetically nostalgic reminisce.
What makes it work, tempers the sentimentallity, is the detailed,
concrete (just a slight pun intended) list.

But not just a good list, an array of dear objects fixed at just
the right points in a collage. So sensible, irrefutable:  
"The Fact of a Doorframe" as Adrienne Rich said.

Nits:

"Pot-plants" will just get billy over-excited as "pot" is slang for "marijuana" in a lot
of places ; I'd change it to "potted plants" or "dried-up peas" or something else in the home.

"Acer" is so easy to misinterpret, maybe "Maple"?

Comma after "layers".

"It’s that left behind warm spot on the settee"
should maybe be:
"It’s that warm spot left behind on the settee"
or use dashes:  left-behind warm-spot

"a vessel for life to be discovered."
should maybe be"
"a vessel of life to be discovered."

Typo: "Exits"


Especially liked:

"a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,"

"tracking life in time-checked glances,"


"leaving laughter on dried up peas"

"You can see it breathe as curtains lift"

[just mercedes]

Nicely done. Simple things, that make a life. Your poem made me think of my own places.

[ellajam]

This is luscious. The breaks are beautiful throughout, strong image after image and a consistant emotional tone. I love that the list is a little mini-poem with its almost rhymes.

I've put a few notes below, rather than litter the lines with Love! you can assume that anything I don't nitpick I find perfect.

Yes it’s true that materials play their part,
bricks and mortar wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Acer burn its brightest,
but they are all just a pieces of a collective.

On Acer: I thought laptop, then maybe it's a British furnace, stupid American didn't realize maple until Ray mentioned it, then I fell in love with the lines. So, maple for me, but a regional choice.

I think you could trust the reader a bit more:
More than bricks and mortar wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Acer burn its brightest.

I don't think you need the rest, oh, and I like pot plants in the title, it's a grabber and adds a generational tone.


It’s formed in layers not specific places
or any given lock and key.
It’s the wet nose of a dog that comes
to greet you at the front door, A bit cliche but so tactile I wouldn't want you to lose it.
a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,
a coffee mug and its coaster rings
that briefly fog the glass from the windowsill.

It’s that left behind warm spot on the settee
you put your face to when the adverts come on.
It opens with each new novel in the threadbare
chair you can’t throw away, quiet in the corner
under the skylight as the rain runs its rhythm.
It kisses in the kitchen waiting for the kettle
and echoes round a Sunday table leaving
laughter on dried up peas and gravy drips.

You can see it breathe as curtains lift
moving air from front to back
Its heart is found on the mantel piece,
tracking life in time-checked glances,
hair and hats fixed in the hall mirror.

It’s in that box with all the bits
the drawer with batteries and paper clips
the photographs with aging styles
the turning pages that make you smile
the garage cobwebs and fluorescent light
the tins of screws and moths at night
it’s under the sink at the back of a cupboard
a vessel for life to be discovered.

They all exits in layers
that form the essence of a home I think you can lose this line, again, trust your reader.
and are only truly gone when
the last person that remembers
them has passed. I think you can lose "them"

So, everything else is love, love, love it. Thanks for posting it, an inspiring read.

[Keith]

What a wonderful, unapologetically nostalgic reminisce.
What makes it work, tempers the sentimentallity, is the detailed,
concrete (just a slight pun intended) list.

But not just a good list, an array of dear objects fixed at just
the right points in a collage. So sensible, irrefutable:  
"The Fact of a Doorframe" as Adrienne Rich said.

Nits:

"Pot-plants" will just get billy over-excited as "pot" is slang for "marijuana" in a lot
of places ; I'd change it to "potted plants" or "dried-up peas" or something else in the home.

"Acer" is so easy to misinterpret, maybe "Maple"?

Comma after "layers".

"It’s that left behind warm spot on the settee"
should maybe be:
"It’s that warm spot left behind on the settee"
or use dashes:  left-behind warm-spot

"a vessel for life to be discovered."
should maybe be"
"a vessel of life to be discovered."

Typo: "Exits"


Especially liked:

"a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,"

"tracking life in time-checked glances,"


"leaving laughter on dried up peas"

"You can see it breathe as curtains lift"

Hey Ray so sorry to be this late getting back, only just getting to the edit and having re-read it needs a hard cut so thanks for the advice and help. Best Keith

---

Nicely done. Simple things, that make a life. Your poem made me think of my own places.

Thank you JM i'm glad the poem works that way sorry so late with my reply, no excuse. Best Keith

---

This is luscious. The breaks are beautiful throughout, strong image after image and a consistant emotional tone. I love that the list is a little mini-poem with its almost rhymes.

I've put a few notes below, rather than litter the lines with Love! you can assume that anything I don't nitpick I find perfect.

Yes it’s true that materials play their part,
bricks and mortar wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Acer burn its brightest,
but they are all just a pieces of a collective.

On Acer: I thought laptop, then maybe it's a British furnace, stupid American didn't realize maple until Ray mentioned it, then I fell in love with the lines. So, maple for me, but a regional choice.

I think you could trust the reader a bit more:
More than bricks and mortar wood and glass,
a colour you found for the front door
that makes the Acer burn its brightest.

I don't think you need the rest, oh, and I like pot plants in the title, it's a grabber and adds a generational tone.


It’s formed in layers not specific places
or any given lock and key.
It’s the wet nose of a dog that comes
to greet you at the front door, A bit cliche but so tactile I wouldn't want you to lose it.
a strip of morning sunlight that makes
the dust dance and finds the cat curled,
a coffee mug and its coaster rings
that briefly fog the glass from the windowsill.

It’s that left behind warm spot on the settee
you put your face to when the adverts come on.
It opens with each new novel in the threadbare
chair you can’t throw away, quiet in the corner
under the skylight as the rain runs its rhythm.
It kisses in the kitchen waiting for the kettle
and echoes round a Sunday table leaving
laughter on dried up peas and gravy drips.

You can see it breathe as curtains lift
moving air from front to back
Its heart is found on the mantel piece,
tracking life in time-checked glances,
hair and hats fixed in the hall mirror.

It’s in that box with all the bits
the drawer with batteries and paper clips
the photographs with aging styles
the turning pages that make you smile
the garage cobwebs and fluorescent light
the tins of screws and moths at night
it’s under the sink at the back of a cupboard
a vessel for life to be discovered.

They all exits in layers
that form the essence of a home I think you can lose this line, again, trust your reader.
and are only truly gone when
the last person that remembers
them has passed. I think you can lose "them"

So, everything else is love, love, love it. Thanks for posting it, an inspiring read.

Thanks for the help ella only just getting to the edit and I may well lose that last stanza, sorry so late with my reply. Best Keith

[rayheinrich]

You've fully addressed all my concerns.

DAMN! Just beautiful.

Ray

P.S. There's a singular/plural typo/decision to be unmade/made on line 5.

[Keith]

You've fully addressed all my concerns.

DAMN! Just beautiful.

Ray

P.S. There's a singular/plural typo/decision to be unmade/made on line 5.

Thank you Ray for the help and this nit, fixed now best Keith