Wednesday September 30th, 2009

The exercise:

Today at work we had a "purge day" to clean up the office - it's really amazing how much junk some people manage to keep at their desks.

So let us bring September to an end with this starter: the purge.


I ruled a kingdom, not so long ago;
My whims were made law, my bed made of dough.
One hundred slaves were at my beck and call,
My wives were like perfect porcelain dolls...
Oh, how I do miss those days so!

You see, mass discontent began to surge -
Backlash against serving my every urge!
One day I woke with a terrible shock,
To find all my worldly goods had been hocked,
And a note that read: "You've been purged."


Greg said...

My desk isnt covered with junk, it's just filing that hasn't happened yet. It will, sometime in the next... decade....

Jaunty little poem this morning, and I quite like the limerick structure you've give both stanzas. There's a delicious hint of surrealism running through it as well which strongly appeals to me.

I have one niggle, which is that the last line of the verse doesn't feel quite right. I think it's having both "do" and "so" in there, which are essentially serving the same purpose but the line isn't strong enough to take the extra emphasis. Could the "do" be changed for a short adjective before days perhaps?

The purge

Long shadows fall through the house,
Cast by the afternoon sun,
Looking out of the window
Is like looking through fog
And if I squint just right
I can tell myself that you're still out there,
Bent over, tending to the flowers
And harvesting the weeds for compost.

I sigh, and fetch a bucket,
Fill it with hot water and add the soap,
A crystal-green liquid
That forms helices as it falls.
Bubbles surge to the surface as I stir
And I dip in my cloth and begin to clean.

With every stroke against the glass
Something in my heart flutters again,
And finally lifts itself from the ground.
The window shines, as clean as a new pin,
And I can see clearly once more,
Whatever way I look.

The house is next, years of neglect,
Picked up, cast away,
A purge of all that should have been forgotten.
I'm not forgetting you, never that,
But it's time I remembered someone else
And learned to live my life anew.

g2 (la pianista irlandesa) said...

She stood, he hands authoritatively on her hips, and surveyed her metaphorical battleground. It was a gargantuon task, but one she felt confident she would overcome. Her woven adversaries leered at her, daring her to try and conquer, only to inevitably fail.
She smiled cunningly; she knew better than to cave to their mind games. With great furvor she dove into the closet, beginning her yearly closet purge.
- - - - -
Eh, not too bad. Not great, mind you, but it's not bad, given the fact that I'm beat and feeling icky.

Marc said...

Greg - I wasn't thrilled about the 'do' either; it wasn't in there originally and then I couldn't think of anything else to make it fit.

That's a beautiful poem you've written, love the sentiment. Very powerful ending too.

g2 - heh, my closet could use a purge too. Perhaps not such a dramatic one, but still :)