Rooms
Rooms
Day 28: describe a bedroom from your past. I've written a few poems about my childhood recently so I decided to leap forward a few years and write about the room I was assigned for my first year at Lancaster University.
1975
And my six by fifteen foot room
In the Halls of Residence
In the northernmost tip of campus
In that chosen, northern university
Became my first slice of independence,
A refuge from the strangeness outside.
My room sat facing inwards
Its scenic view the central oak tree;
Its practical view the porter's lodge
Affording me a few minutes warning, of visitors
In search of tea and toast and conversation.
In this long corridor of hidden strangers
Each dark stained plywood door was quickly decorated,
Emblazoned with self proclaiming individuality:
Comic postcards, artwork, political posters -
This is my name, this is who I am.
Inside, the narrow single bed, desk and chair
Could be moved, within limits
To transform the padded window seat into a bed
Wide enough for student passions.
My walls were a cut-price art gallery
Blu-tacked Pre-Raphaelites, Van Gogh, Modigliani,
Whatever posters were in the bargain bin
If there was grant money to spare at each end of term.
The bookcase housed my records, deck and speakers
Beside the recommended texts,
The wardrobe shelves given up to food -
Not trusted to the anarchy of the communal kitchen -
My jeans and jumpers hung over desert boots,
Squashed up against the warm winter duffle
And Doctor Who scarf.
This tiny room was home for a year
While I began to find my feet,
Until I married (way too soon)
Moved out and lost my residential friends.
If I could go back now, I'd do it all the same,
Except perhaps for the Socialist Worker posters.
© Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Day 28: describe a bedroom from your past. I've written a few poems about my childhood recently so I decided to leap forward a few years and write about the room I was assigned for my first year at Lancaster University.
1975
And my six by fifteen foot room
In the Halls of Residence
In the northernmost tip of campus
In that chosen, northern university
Became my first slice of independence,
A refuge from the strangeness outside.
My room sat facing inwards
Its scenic view the central oak tree;
Its practical view the porter's lodge
Affording me a few minutes warning, of visitors
In search of tea and toast and conversation.
In this long corridor of hidden strangers
Each dark stained plywood door was quickly decorated,
Emblazoned with self proclaiming individuality:
Comic postcards, artwork, political posters -
This is my name, this is who I am.
Inside, the narrow single bed, desk and chair
Could be moved, within limits
To transform the padded window seat into a bed
Wide enough for student passions.
My walls were a cut-price art gallery
Blu-tacked Pre-Raphaelites, Van Gogh, Modigliani,
Whatever posters were in the bargain bin
If there was grant money to spare at each end of term.
The bookcase housed my records, deck and speakers
Beside the recommended texts,
The wardrobe shelves given up to food -
Not trusted to the anarchy of the communal kitchen -
My jeans and jumpers hung over desert boots,
Squashed up against the warm winter duffle
And Doctor Who scarf.
This tiny room was home for a year
While I began to find my feet,
Until I married (way too soon)
Moved out and lost my residential friends.
If I could go back now, I'd do it all the same,
Except perhaps for the Socialist Worker posters.
© Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Comments
Post a Comment