Mister loved his leather chair.
Sink and walls knew
they'd never amount
in his mind,
though they did try.
He bounced his little son on that chair,
knees like anything but
trampolines
to the naked eye.
He sat and laughed for hours at the table,
with his son, so sure
so sure
he knew his young flesh and blood.
He whispered Love’s name to his son,
and the listening wall at night,
and shared with them
a secret smile.
He sang to the sink every morning,
a sunny song
thanking the day
for being.
The sink sang, too,
silently.
The son couldn't come home
to his father’s old leather chair.
He became acquainted
with new walls, a different kind of chair.
For what? (The sink doesn’t know.)
The chairs, they’ve spoken often of it,
though,
never when Mister's around.
The sink remembers.
The walls, the chairs,
they can all attest.
Now Mister grips the chair’s strong arm
like a failing, falling handshake.
The chair catches him,
just in time.
He competes, staring, with the wall
for hours (but he
is defeated,
in the end.)
He tries to write the note,
hands trembling, fingertips
recording his seismic
waves.
And, shaken well, he sets
down the pen,
unused,
ink left to foam and lather.
The pens,
they remember.
The sink collects
his blood samples,
wondering where the song is,
hoping it’s all just a game.
The sink will remember this.
The pens, they already know.
The walls will wish for mouths
To unhinge and let go.
And they will move on.
But the sink,
the sink will remember this.
Things will live on without him.
And so, somehow, do we.
And look, here the sun
presses warm nose to
nostalgic window
pane.
Funny, how it does that.
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140,752 Literary Works • 673,686 Reviews
Hello!
I haven't read the other part of this, but this was a really cool poem. I love personification. Especially to inanimate objects. I think I like that more than personifying sunsets and animals and emotions and colors and words and actions. I don't know why. It's a breath of fresh air.
I will act as if this is a stand-alone poem, so forgive me if something I cover is in the other poems.
It sounds like something tragic happened to the son, but I didn't build up enough connection with him before it happened to really feel the grief that everything seemed to be feeling. It was enough to understand, but I personally don't feel much. Actually, I did feel a bit at the end with the sink remembering and the blood samples and the thing with the sun's nose was absolutely terrific.
I'm also wondering at the significance of the sink, and also if it's a kitchen sink or a bathroom sink, and why mister sings to it. Those things are probably all in the other poems, I'm sorry.
I like Mister's name, I like the thing with the pens. I like so much about this. I don't think I have anything really constructive to say. Your rhythm and flow was really nice too, in my opinion.
Aaand I just read Dreamwalker's review and I agree with everything, so I think I will just stop now.
Keep writing! I really enjoyed this!
First, I would just like to say I really enjoyed your poem, so thank you.
I really liked how the meaning of the poem, at first glance, isn't obvious. It remains cryptic and beautiful in its mystery, and the way you played this to your advantage worked in your favour.
I loved the imagery you provided about the chair and the symbolism in:
He sang to the sink every morning,
a sunny song
thanking the day
for being.
The sink sang, too,
silently.
I found it really opened up the poem and made it a lot more enjoyable to read. so well done.
However, I found that your poem often lacked a real rhythm. Whether this was intentional or not, I do not know, but I kind of found your poem hard to read, if you get what I'm saying.
Anyhow... That's all!
~Kazey
This is, by far, your best imagery and the best poem I've read from you yet.
If your other poems were salads, this poem was more meat and potatoes (unless you're a vegetarian than tofu and potatoes?). It has substance and impact and metaphor. The imagery plays on something that is so unique and the personification was so well played. Really the only way I can describe it is by saying that this was something I could really sink my teeth into.
And the best part of this is now we can start dissecting a little bit. The substance is good. Now it's about polish and shine.
So lets first talk about redundancy:
Repetition can be powerful as we discussed before, but it can edge into redundancy if done ineffectually. In this particular case, the use of the word chair twice in such a close proximity right at the beginning of the poem takes away from the natural flow. It sets up a bad precedent for the rest of the poem, so I would consider changing up the word choice there.
Elaborating on word choice a bit further:
The reason I pull this quote is because of the use of the words 'one day'. It, like the second use of the word chair, takes away from the natural flow. You have something very poetic in the works above it but you sort of take away from that by making the topic obvious. Sort of letting the reader in on the fact that this is about growing old, leaving behind, losing that lustre. This is not something you have to make obvious.
In this particular case, due to the content I would suggest a rewording of the entire two lines only because removing said words would only confuse this a bit.
Now, a bit on content:
I love the concept of the wall willing itself to have a mouth so it could unhinge. Let out that big sigh of worry. What I don't get is the mind imagery. These items remember. They are imprinted by everything that passes them and yet the walls can not understand? I feel like, if anything, the walls would. They hold photographs in picture frames and scuffs along the floorboards where a kid might get a bit too close. I feel like the walls would have the sense enough to mourn, if such a personification were actual.
This, of course, is total conjecture.
Now, the big overview critique.
One of the main things I noticed as I read this was that I, oftentimes, lost track of which 'he' you were speaking of. Whether it was the young son who one day found a home of his own, or the father who grew old among his own materials. This befuddled the imagery and lead to a few assumptions as to which on my own part. After the third reread it was a little more apparent but not enough to be absolutely certain so I suggest making that distinction a little more known.
Now that thats been covered, I want to go back to compliments.
This poem is heartfelt and it's deep. The kind of poem that gives such a warm aesthetic for such a sad, poignant topic. Which is exactly what poetry should do. We romanticize the pains and the woes and the things we cant control because it helps us empathize and deal in our own way. Thats what this piece did for me, and I am very much impressed.
I'm gonna leave this off in noting my favourite section:
Much better work, m'dear. Much, much better.
~ Walker
Oh my goodness, I am so honored!! Thank you so much for your review, this really took me by surprise. I've made some changes along the same lines, but the spacing got messed up on the new stanza I used to space out the repetition of chair, so it looks a little strange. The confusion of the pronouns was somewhat intentional, but I clarified since it didn't achieve the right effect. I didn't even think of the walls and minds issue, so I took out that second half of the line altogether and replaced with "and let go," as in (hopefully) to let loose a scream. I hope those edits help, and thank you again for your incredible dedication to my improvement. I couldn't have done this without you, thank you so much!!