light reveals
empty chairs in an abandoned room,
half-filled glasses left;
and candles have long burned down
-- It is over now.
To practice communicating emotion through concrete images, Mr. Sweeney asked participants to write a short poem combining an abstract feeling (e.g. hate, fear, happiness) with a particular room (such as attic, bathroom, pantry). No choice allowed!: Every "workshopper" was given two slips of paper randomly, one with an emotion written on it, the other with a room. Here are a few of the results:
"Cellar of Bliss"
as I walked down the stairs
I could hear little children
play their favourite game
I could hear songs that can
only be sung by the
most innocent of all
as I approached the well-lit room
wallpapered with the most colourful
of all wallpapers
I could eventually see them dance
around a well with water so clear
its sparkling reflected in their eyes
down here
Grabbing the dirty old sponge
and filling up the blue bucket
with warm water and a drop of
lemon-fresh soap
I start off downstairs.
others may get a couple of bucks or so
for doing this
from their loving parents -
but not me.
scrubbing the windshield sweat
comes running down my locked-up face
while outside other kids are playing
"naughty" by the pool
One cold morning in spring
I restlessly went upstairs.
When I opened the wooden door
a different world lay in front of me, wrapped in darkness.
The small window was dirty so I cleaned it
with my sleeve. Now I could make out
what was actually around me:
souvenirs of the past, used toys, furniture, ragged carpets,
all of them telling their own wonderful story--
reminding me of the time I had spent with them.
Suddenly I went back to those days, my thoughts
overflowed with happy childhood memories. I was little,
innocent, playful - a completely different person.
I was myself again.
"Wardrobe of Love"
Fumbling for the key
With shaky hands
I brush off the snow
from paralysed gloves
and sighing dive into
the moaning lifeless cage
where she once left me stunned.
Stroking the sleeve
of the jacket she'd loved best
I slowly drop into
forgetfulness
light reveals
empty chairs in an abandoned room,
half-filled glasses left;
and candles have long burned down
-- It is over now.