Houses and Homes - hightide poets

Houses and Homes

Houses and Homes was the theme of National Poetry Day for 2010. In response to the opening line ‘I chose this house because…' High Tide Poets wrote an interesting mix of poems.


Joan Waddleton		HOUSES AND HOMES
Nigel Humphreys		HOUSES AND HOMES
Malcolm Taylor		25 PATERSON ROAD
Lydia Fulleylove		THEY CHOSE THAT HOUSE BECAUSE
Robin Ford		THE MANDEVILLE REPORT
Cilla Fairall		MY IDEAL HOUSE
Mark Mordey		THEY CHOSE THIS HOUSE BECAUSE
		EVERY HOUSE HAS A FRONT DOOR
Sandy		I CHOSE THIS HOUSE BECAUSE

HOUSES AND HOMES

I chose this house, believed it to be perfect
I chose this house where I could see the sea
hear it too when gales assailed the cliff.
I chose this house for people always passing
but equally because it had no neighbours
I chose this house because it was a lodge
it fronted eighteen acres not my job to tend

I chose this house for all its self sufficiency –
well, an ice house, a range, a sizeable bread oven
I chose it for more things I thought I wanted
a focal point for several cliff-top walks
or privacy, a sense of isolation
for permanence that followed all those years afloat
for cosiness – a word I came to hate.

I came to change this house – in endless quest for light
built a conservatory, its walls of glass
the barest interruption from the sun outside
built a patio with stunning views
here I could live outdoors, suck in each drop of daylight
sleep between two trees, badgers below my hammock
cut clean adrift from my once cherished house.

Joan Waddleton

HOUSES AND HOMES

The warmth of music oozing from cold metallic radio
gave my heart a tug in the direction of your
radiant smile,
one could only be at home when that happened,
wherever it was.

The warmth spread thick as glorious butter on
crumpets toasted on a log fire,
heavenly in earthly bliss,
flames licking over memory,
and joy.

I wish for that moment,
smile at junk mail,
and fall asleep.

Nigel Humphreys

THEY CHOSE THAT HOUSE BECAUSE

no road coaxed them across rough pasture
only a faint track idled
stone walls sheltered the wild garden
sea-wind soughed in their sleep
ash and sycamore murmured
they could breathe salt air
it was a ruin and still a home
they could re-build it stone by stone
they dreamed a glass roof like a green wave
a woodstove could vanquish cold
the bedroom windows watched the sea
apple trees scattered their sweetness

Lydia Fulleylove

THE MANDEVILLE REPORT

i. Doma

In that land they build their houses
great as fortresses, set on flat green plains
surrounded by plantations of dark, thick pines,
hidden from horizons. Others stand on cliffs
above a ruined shore, looking
on the kingdom of the cold-eyed cod.

Lesser houses hugger-mugger city streets,
good fellowship, perhaps, or anonymity,
they shrink from traffic, scuffles, dust,
yet other dwellings pile into the skies,
forever circled by the sun,
perches for peregrines on watch for prey.
Dwellings may be excavated burrows,
tight, muggy, where broods are raised,
dispatched to take their chances
beneath the marvellous eyes of hawks.

I have found these people choose
as many types of habitation as do we:
caves, ships, prisons; places where crimes
or deeds of healing might equally be possible

Robin Ford

MY IDEAL HOUSE

I have always known this house
It has grown, slowly, as the family grew
The roof repaired, a new window here and there,
A different front door
But still the same, ideal house
The same secure, safely contained welcoming smell as you enter the small hall;
the old raincoats on the same hooks, well-worn clogs and boots; the sou’-westers
embodied with memories of happy days,
windy and wet days
The faded sunhat on the shelf, as always ready for sunny breakfasts on the warm stone steps by the front door, and spiked with a salty scent from numerous sea trips.

The kitchen, bigger now, but with the same cupboards
of different sizes and colours
On opening the one where the old cups and saucers are still stacked the same way,
flashes are falling out
of late night cups of tea and biscuits
after summer night island roaming.

In the living room the floorboards still creak in the same places
The sofa is empty, but you can almost see the impressions of comfortable bodies – and are there still faint echoes of laughter and clinking of glasses?
The pictures on the walls, they were there then, they’ve heard and seen it all but reveal nothing.

In my bedroom the faded bed spread is stretched; the rug at the foot of the bed ready for rainy afternoon reading.
Like my ideal house the books on the shelf cover all my ages.

The same views still come in through the windows, the same light playing with the dust
The sea shells on the windowsills may be different ones
But there were always sea shells on the windowsills in my ideal house.

Cilla Fairall

25 PATERSON ROAD

My mum chose the house;
a ribbon development.
that sprung up with the railway.
A single woman, she had to get married
to qualify for a mortgage.
A fresh bricked semi detached
with metal framed windows.
I cringed when she gave the tour:
parquet flooring in the hallway,
stained glass in the landing windows.
All electric she emphasized.
My job was to count the sacks of coal
when it was delivered.
I was more at home in the three pear trees.
Dad and Pete were there,
always in and out of the loft;
their sanctuary.
siblings, we slid down the banister.
That was good.
The Laughing Cavalier watched us
as we polished the floor
with dusters on our feet.
Were there ducks on the lounge wall?

Malcom Taylor

THEY CHOSE THIS HOUSE BECAUSE

it was halfway between Taunton where Dad worked and Bridgwater where Mum taught
the school buses ran on time and were free as the journey was twelve miles
it had six bedrooms so we each had our own room
it had a walled garden, a paddock and a three car garage
it had an Italian oak, a Monkey puzzle, a bay and a mulberry tree
it was opposite a disused church and graveyard, so no problem with the neighbours
it was cheap to buy as it had a codicil in the deeds that it could not be used for commercial purposes, it being a parsonage
there was a stream at the bottom of the garden, so water could be pumped up in the dry hot summers to keep the vegetables watered
tramps would knock on the door to ask "the vicar" for food or money, they slept in the shed and worked in the garden weeding and riddling the soil for stones
passersby would buy tomatoes, beans and marrows set out on a trestle table by the front gate

an auctioneer came to value the contents
the auctioneer left empty handed
the house clearance man with van took
the grown out of beds, out of fashion children’s' clothes
well thumbed broken backed books
three limbed teddies and wheel-less Dinky cars and Hornby trains
torn Donny Osmond and BSA motorbike posters
worn out linen, chipped utility furniture

man with van (and a smile)
took the Tri-ang fairy cycles, broken two wheeled tricycles
pedal-less pedal cars, wheel less prams and four wheeled soap boxes
boxes of a 1957 Lambretta, 1955 BSA Bantam and the trusty, rusty 1959 Morris Mini
we learned to skid and crash safely in the paddock
we learned engine stripping down but not how to put back together properly

close the gate behind me with a tear-filled backward glance
walk through the graveyard past the neglected church wall
"To the memory of Ezekial Nathanial Rouse, Vicar of this parish 1838 to 1875"
I read that twice a day going to and coming back from school all those years ago
when my home was the house once lived in by the Vicars of Othery
one of whom Ezekial Nathanial Rouse is remembered by an unread plaque on a church
in 1964 I planted a sapling now a thirty foot high birch

Mark Mordey

EVERY HOUSE HAS A FRONT DOOR