There is a bard in my woodstove.
There is a bard in my woodstove.
Well, not in the stove— that’s where I thought he was, but when I parted the doors, willing to brave shit and feathers, hoping to save a tiny life, when I parted the doors, I found nothing but ash. I left the stove open, but the scribbler kept beating the same desperate lines. The bard is in the stovepipe, flapping out poems about the things we are willing to do— and about the things we aren’t— about the comfort of familiar darkness and the terror of brand new light. For years, I chose a dull ache over fresh, sharp freedom. For years, I held to fear as if it would keep me safe. For years, I tried to fly in every direction but one— away. Away, sweet bard! Spurn the darkness through which you have fallen! Fly for the bright unknown! I cannot force you from your dark tunnel, but the windows are all open here and the front door, too.
Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash
The Prompt
In case you’re wondering, the bird bard is unfortunately still in the stovepipe. After I’m done writing this, I plan to crate Jeff the dog (whose love of birds is different than mine) and open the stove again, as well all the doors and windows (again) in hopes of luring little Shakespeare toward the light. If you have any other brilliant rescue ideas, please do share!
I live in an old-ish farmhouse, and so there always seems to be some interesting new guest or some inconvenient breakdown of this or that thing. If you are fortunate enough to be housed, then you almost certainly have your own list of house-related troubles—rising rent, leaky pipes, broken appliances, horribly outmoded tiles that someone thought would make a great covering for an entire wall.
Notice what home-related gripes, complaints, or inconveniences are coming up for you today. What woes have you experienced in the past? Notice which among these carries with it the most emotion or the richest imagery or the most intriguing metaphors. Let that be the starting place for your poem.
It’s worth noting that your poem does not need to be a lament! It certainly can be, but noticing and allowing yourself to sit with something that bothers you could take you in any number of directions, and lamentation is only one. I look forward to seeing where you all land!
We heard 'em.
Squeek.chirp.scratch.
Bats.
Dozens of them.
Down the chimney &
Jammed into the flue.
Nuts to butts if bats have nuts,
Following the leader like lemmings,
or those demon possessed swine in the bible,
they piled in.
Ugh.
Bats.
Sqeek chirp scratch scratch chirp.
I remember one somehow breaking thru and indignantly waddlehopping into the living room,
wings outstretched,
with a wide eyed
"what the heck, man, little help, please?" look on his face,
he hands me a phone number scrawled on a post-it, and waddles off
Got charile of "Charlie Carter Cleans Chimneys" on the very first ring.
The rat in the Crockpot
.
Our old house is our darling, the beloved bygone
so even a little criticism is met with yells of
"It had a better yard! I miss the old house!"
.
But it can’t be denied that we had a problem
with rats creeping though mid-century holes
gnawed by the mid-century rats, no doubt
.
who loved the little house like we did
wanting to eat it up like the monsters
in “Where the Wild Things Are” (but I digress).
.
The holes were there and the rats used them
coming in when it was rainy or even when it was sunny
leaving their fluffs of fur and fecal offerings.
.
One day, firmly in my Crockpot stage of life
when I was sure that if I could do it just right
it wouldn’t be a beige pile of goo at the end
.
I went to take the appliance out of our crawl space.
Inside the pot, a dead rat reposed, asking
if his final form could be the centerpiece
.
for a hash that I would force myself to eat
because food was expensive and we couldn’t waste.