Sunday Afternoon
Lying in the living room with a booster jab headache,
It’s total darkness but for the Christmas tree behind me,
Cycling through its settings, according to the silhouettes,
And for the lights from the LED icicles on the front of the house,
With the glow of 5Live on the telly, Spurs-Liverpool, contributing also.
My arm hurts and I’m knackered, I’m waiting for Luci to get back from the JR,
And as I start typing poetry on my phone, each previous line is obscured
By the pinging of Whatsapp notifications speculating on lockdown,
The commentary on the telly isn’t bringing much festive cheer either,
But as I lie here, waiting to know what I’m writing, I’m finding comfort
In the warmth of the lights against the evening’s encroaching darkness.
With apologies to Small Faces, although I wasn’t really lazing so much as laying, and I’d had a relatively productive morning, in my defence. “Taking stock”, as Luci calls it, working out the last few lines on the Christmas Shopping list, and generally pottering about the house doing a semi-decent job of making it look semi-tidy.
I think subconsciously this was an attempt to emulate Billy Collins, one of my favourite poets although unfortunately no relation. If you’ve had a hard couple of weeks, buy yourself a Billy Collins poetry book as a Christmas present to yourself – he’s at once mystical and totally ordinary, and as a result his poetry is rooted in the everyday mundanity while being somehow being a sort-of portal to a higher plain of consciousness. Or that’s how I’d put it, anyway, feel free to disagree. But give him a go.
On the back of that praise, I realise today’s Door probably isn’t anything like Billy Collins after all, but I wanted to write something that, despite everything, offered some sort of peacefulness, a sense of serenity in opposition to that lingering dread that I mentioned last night.
Also, something really lovely that happened today that I want to tell you about: I wrote on this blog a few days ago about the poem I scrawled on the side of Welbeck Street Car Park before it was demolished, as a guerrilla elegy-cum-epitaph for this fantastic building. Well, today I had a conversation with the son of Michael Blampied, the architect who designed Welbeck Street, and he told me that Michael had died several weeks ago, but that his family had read my poem at his funeral service. I was simultaneously taken aback, speechless, and beyond honoured, and I’m so grateful and touched that those words meant enough to the Blampied family to be used on that occasion.
So here’s to Michael Blampied and his family; and here’s to Emma Raducanu, who’s been named BBC Sports Personality of the Year since I started typing this blog – it’s sort of tradition for me to mention it on here; and here’s to all the sources of light that are shining on us as we creep towards the shortest day.
Shine on. Six days to go…
Owen x
The Poetry Advent Calendar 