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War Stories

Posted by Doeslittle on July 3, 2008 - 16:54

I’ll tell you what I think our lives
Are meshed together with and woven by:
Our exchanges of quicksand lies
And excuses we roll out like Turkish
Carpet salesmen with iced tea smiles,
It’s not hard for me to understand then,
(Though it’s not easy to admit)
How it took four days for memory to
Punch its way drunk from the dregs
Of my mind to tell me that I hadn’t seen her –
Not for days in fact, though it was me
Anyway, anyway it was me who called
The police, I was alerted, at least,
To her absence eventually as I noticed
I hadn’t been bothered by the deliberate,
Lonely perch chat from her doorway,
That she accosted me with every day,
Where I rued, even though I bought
Her Dairy Milk bars and papers
On Sundays, that I had to be the one
Who lived next door to an old lady
Who wanted to talk all the time,
Who was practically senile,
Who mostly needed me to explain
Why she couldn’t get another cat,
I was kinder than her son in Kent
Who visited once a month,
Who never stayed for long,
Who had an unruly beard like shag pile,
Who always grinned with sad eyes,
Who mostly needed to explain
Why he was too busy to come over.
When they broke the door down
I imagined her dunking a custard
Cream as she watched the snooker
And knocking her cup and saucer
Flying as the coppers bull ran in
With their battering ram, so I stood
Nervously to one side until the cliché
Wafts of cabbage and old, rolled
Newspapers met me in the hall,
I wasn’t banking on the drift of silence
Or the news that she was lying dead
In her bed and that she’d been there
For days undiscovered; perhaps death
Is the loneliest kind of alone, I want
To say that I listened to all her war stories
Because I have none of my own,
I know all about how the Luftwaffe
Glazed the night sky and powdered egg,
And I want to say to the policeman
That here, the thing is, no one is home,
That’s the thing, it wasn’t intentional
Forsaking and I need forgiving;
This block of flats is haunted,
Less by the dead, more by the living.

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Comments

Caldwell | July 3, 2008 - 20:02

Top notch, I wasn't expecting all that from the 1st nine lines. I thought you were going to go on a political rant about government lies and conspiracies regarding the current wars.

This is much more rewarding. It's very real, and the fact you (your character) need forgiving - even though you were probably the nicest and closest to her.

Good conceit - places are haunted more by the living than the dead. I imagine that's especially true in commercial areas of cities where when the shops and businesses close down for the evening it becomes a ghost town.

Doeslittle | July 3, 2008 - 21:32

Thanks...I think now that I look at it again it's more about making excuses for not doing more or feeling obliged rather than really wanting to do something and then lying to ourselves about it...or something like that. Some of it's true - I did know an old lady who lived down the road from me who used to sit in her doorway so that she could talk to people and I used to get her a Daily Mail (of all papers) and a Dairy Milk from the corner shop. She always wanted to discuss getting a new cat with me, but social services said she couldn't have one or something. Anyway, like many, she was always on her own which strikes me as sad to live a full life and end up almost abandoned to old age.

Dynamaso | July 4, 2008 - 01:08

There are some cracking lines in this

'excuses we roll out like Turkish
Carpet salesmen with iced tea smiles'

'How it took four days for memory to
Punch its way drunk from the dregs
Of my mind'

'I know all about how the Luftwaffe
Glazed the night sky'

But it is the last two lines that really sold me on this. Very well done.

Like you, I find it particualrly sad to think of so many old folk who end their lives lonely and sad. This piece only serves to remind me of how little most of care for the aged. Working in a hospital as I do, I see constant reminders of this.

jennifer | July 9, 2008 - 10:58

I miss the old lady that I used to live a few doors down from. She used to stand in the front garden, watching the world go by from her front gate. She was lonely, her son only came occasionally.

I hope I'm not alone when I'm old!

Loved this:

'perhaps death
Is the loneliest kind of alone'

Yes, perhaps it is, but not more so than living alone when very old...

Foster | July 10, 2008 - 13:24

I love the way you isolated an emotion and then exposed it raw, relentless, never giving even a second to consider anything other than the poem itself.

Nicely done.

...Saucer/Flying... was very clever.

Doeslittle | July 10, 2008 - 17:16

I liked using Luftwaffe in a poem. It has a nice sound to it like cotton wool - pretty ironic really.

I was wondering if anyone would pick up on the saucer / flying thing, I couldn't resist.

Mick Hanson | July 27, 2008 - 10:15

I ran errands for Mrs Emmet next door when I was a lad. She was elderly. She hated conscientious objectors. She knew of several in the area. Her husband was killed along with many others at Flanders, and now poppies grow there row on row. Perhaps death is the loneliest kind of alone.I know of nobody who knows, nor am I likely to.