The only pleasure I ever got from
my parent’s old conservatory,
was taking a lump hammer to its
dour walls. Demolishing them
brick by wretched brick.
Crack. Bricks splinter as I
remember my hated violin lessons
within conservatory walls.
I’d mangle scales, sending my sister
scrambling to turn the telly up.
Whack. Dust rises as I strike a blow
for all the times I was held hostage
by the rain. I would be there waiting,
my wellies willing the skies to clear. So I
could escape and lose myself in puddles.
Crash. Glass splinters as conservatory
windows fragment. I think back to
when I would press my face against them.
Ignoring my homework,I dreamed of
practicing daring stunts on my bike.
Silence. I stand among the rubble,
breathless but triumphant. Then I
dance on the debris enjoying its whimper
like crunch. I halt to pop my blisters, smiling
as my memories like their pain starts to fade.
Quick story. I joined the Birmingham Stanza poetry group last month and this poem is the result of a workshop that was held there. The workshop gave each poet a room in a house and an emotion and we had to work them into a poem, my emotion was joy and my room the conservatory. Stanza is a great way to get to know poets in your area and expand your poetic powers click here to see if there is one in the UK near you, or if there isn’t see how to start your own.
Oh and I never really knocked down a conservatory, it’s still standing at my parents house.