Room to Let

[TrevorConway]

Coffee spoons?
No.
I’ve measured my life
in walls, fridges, questionable habits,
houses shared like simmering saucepans
of belief and ritual.

One guy I lived with,
Jean-Marc,
observed the custom
of washing dishes once a week.
It took me a while,
but I did something to change his mind,
something you might think extreme.

Over months and years,
I’ve gained friends and habits.
I’ve swum in the solitude of various bedrooms,
each with its own personality
of space,
smell
and view.
I’ve always fancied the words I wrote
were swayed by those rooms.

I’ve learned from others, too,
expanding my repertoire
of dinners speckled with rice and spices.
I’ve learned that some people
cook spaghetti Bolognese five nights a week,
others too tired to cook at all.
Some of their weariness has settled on me,
like a rogue waft of cigarette smoke
from a neighbouring room.

Lately, I’ve been using the word “mortgage”,
so maybe I’ll need a new means
of measuring my years.
Jean-Marc, wherever he is now,
measured his week in sinkfuls.
A pity for him
it wasn’t the odd plate or spoon:
he wouldn’t have had to share his bed
with a medley of rice
and broken dishes.

[indar]

This was a fun and satisfying read for the most part. However, I have a couple of problems with it:

A pity for him
it wasn’t the odd plate or spoon:
he wouldn’t have had to share his bed
with a medley of rice
and broken dishes.

So, I need to know: did it work? Did he start doing his dishes regularly or did he have to move out?

like a rogue waft of cigarette smoke

The sonics are great here: rogue/smoke but isn't all cigarette smoke rogue?

I really enjoyed this one: easy-going language dealing with life's annoyances with humor and, after all is said and done, a great attitude toward human foibles.

 

[Dave]

If this were a play, I would say it fell into the category of 'well-written play'. It is well written and carefully composed but perhaps too well- composed so that  it appears too deliberate - the writing shows too much. The teaser concerning the withholding of the 'extreme' action to the end, for example. I wanted to know immediately and was disappointed when I got there. This although in terms of dramturgy it made sense.

One can also debate I guess the fact that the poem is directed to a reader. On the one hand, it draws the reader in, makes them familar and complicit and, on the other hand, puts the reader in an awkward position: the writer is telling the reader what the reader will probably think. It feels a bit smug to me. It is the kind of thing I don't like to be told even in real life.

This IMO is reinforced by the ending which seems to suggest that Jean-Marc brought the 'extreme' action upon himself. There is not enough humour in the poem for this to be funny, unless I read the poem wrongly, which wouldn't be the first time. The action bothered me les than the attitude years later.

I also wondered whether the insights built up over the years couldn't be a little more insightful: some people eat spag bol five days a week or don't cook at all are a tad bland when compared to the careful choice of language in the poem. The problem is not the examples on their own but that the deliberate choice of interesting words to describe them stands in awkward contrast: 'swum in the solitude of various bedrooms' is an interesting phrase but sounds like poetry when in effect it is just telling us the person was alone in the bedrooms. I am not sure if I can explain it without sounding a)too critical and/or b) clearly. I guess I mean: how can you 'swim' in solitude when in a bedroom except in a poem?
Dave
 

[Matty11]

hi Trev

I like the Eliot ref opening, but who is Jean-Marc? Either way was definitely drawn into the read. Perhaps the weariness needs some edge, some diction danger for more dynamic?

best

Phil

Coffee spoons?
No.
I’ve measured my life
in walls, fridges, questionable habits,
houses shared like simmering saucepans
of belief and ritual.

One guy I lived with,
Jean-Marc,
observed the custom
of washing dishes once a week.
It took me a while,
but I did something to change his mind,
something you might think perverse.

Over months and years,
I’ve gained friends and habits.
I’ve swum in the solitude of various bedrooms,
each with its own personality
of space,
stink
and blindness.
I’ve always fancied the poisons I wrote
were infected by those rooms.

I’ve learned from others, too,
expanding my repertoire
of dinners speckled with rice and spices.
I’ve learned that some people
trough onspaghetti Bolognese five nights a week,
others too tired to cook at all.
Some of their ennui has settled on me,
like a rogue waft of cigarette smoke...............I guess smoking not allowed
from a neighbouring room.

Lately, I’ve been using the word “mortgage”,
so maybe I’ll need a new metric
for measuring my years.
Jean-Marc, wherever he is now,
measured his week in sinkfuls.
Tragic for him
it wasn’t the odd plate or spoon.
he wouldn’t have had to share his bed
with a medley of rice
and broken dishes.

 

[Mark]

I enjoyed the read, it's a good piece of writing. I like the sepia tone.
I don't think its the cigarette smoke itself that's necessarily rogue but the waft of it.
The foregoing comments are mostly valid and I'm not seeing a problem with poetic writing in a poem but my question is when was it the narrator's turn to do the dishes if it was only happening once a week with Jean-Marc?
Presumably the cycle was then shortened with less crockery available.   

[TrevorConway]

Indar, Dave, Phil and Mark,

Thanks for all the comments on this. Ye seem to be very interested in what happened next   Ye might be disappointed to hear I never actually threw dishes on someone's bed, though I did write a whole novel (unpublished) based on house sharing. I think it's a topic almost everyone can relate to (and get pretty invested in, based on their frustrating experiences).

Thanks again,

T