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Array
(
[sid] => 158740
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Cursed Heirloom
[time] => 2010-04-08 00:21:08
[hometext] => This poem is about a piece of furniture that connects the deaths of my mother, father and sister and is also somewhat eery.
[bodytext] => The Cursed Heirloom I stare at the chair that I’d rescued from the rain Take in the fabric with the horrible tobacco stain They’d left it outside as they emptied the house But I could not just leave it like an unloved spouse There were too many memories, of happiness and pain. It sits here now in my own little room This insignificant object, ultimately a tomb To the man who was my father, who died in that chair His presence, so eerily still fills the air But not with harmony just sadness and doom. When mother had died he had sat in that chair, So silent, so motionless, so full of despair. At the wake they surrounded him offering sympathy Yet none but his siblings could experience empathy. He looked so old that day and beyond mental repair. It was all so tragic when Christine followed my mother Leaving one younger sister and an even younger brother. Once more in the lounge the chair took centre stage Embracing my father with high-winged arms wearing with age. The furniture appeared to reach around him as if to smother. We found him that day asleep in the chair His eyes were open but he was no longer there. The sleep we realised was the sleep of the dead And as I stared at the scene my sister turned and fled To be away from that place without caring where. So they came in the morning and they emptied the flat I could not assist but just smoked and I sat Watching the contents of a life disappear into a van, Objects and memories of an emotionally broken man. Then the chair appeared and I was forced to interact. It sits near the window by a small bonsai tree. I know not whether I look at the chair, or it at me. Above on the shelf are my father’s and sister’s ashes And the three together provide me with regular flashes Of times past when it was mum, dad and us three. I choose not to share in its unkempt embrace Just dust it occasionally, replacing some lace. To sit in it now could become a macabre dare An insinuation that my sister was no longer there. So we wait, chair and I for someone to take their place. Alistair Muir 07/04/2010 [comments] => 2 [counter] => 160 [topic] => 31 [informant] => aliopterix [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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