The new Write Out Loud Poem of the Week is ‘The Dresser’ by Jon Darby. He said of the poem: “I started with the item of furniture in mind and by the time the piece was finished I was in tears.” Jon added that he loved Write Out Loud, “and the way that anyone can post, give feedback to others and get helpful comments, advice, and even friendship. It's only through the advice of a member on here for example, that I've started to post a bit more regularly, as I had a bit of a slump in the past couple of years.”  His favourite poem is Philip Larkin’s ‘The Whitsun Weddings’.  

 

 

What got you into writing poetry?

Probably my dad got me into writing poetry. He worked in the pit and used to go around there and at home quoting from I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth. Another he always quoted from constantly was ‘Abou Ben Adhem’ (who in real life was a Muslim mystic) by a poet called Leigh Hunt (about someone finding favour with God by loving his fellow men which was to love God.) The vivid way he used to perform the pieces has always stuck with me, and I think that my fascination with words springs from his influence somewhere along the line.

 

How long have you been writing poetry?

My first poem that I can remember was written for Bonfire night at school, aged eight or thereabouts. It was called A Guy Am I. My dad still has it! I first started writing poetry a bit more seriously when I attended the Tudor House open mic nights in Wigan , probably from about 2010 up until 2014 when the venue closed, but I've always been fascinated by words and language.

 

Do you go to any open mic nights?

This year I've started again to go more regularly to open mic nights after a lengthy break – namely, Working Title, in Lancaster, run by Big Charlie. It's a great venue and there's loads of different poets there. A very accepting evening, run with enthusiasm and passion. I've also recently started to go to Pub Poets in Blackpool, another great night.

 

Your favourite poet/poem?

Even though I'm reading quite a lot of newer poetry these days, my favourite poem has to be ‘The Whitsun Weddings’ by Philip Larkin. The sense of nostalgia, the emotions and its ability to make me feel I'm right there in the thick of the narrative never fails to amaze me.

 

You're cast away on a desert island ... what's your luxury?

My luxury on a desert island would have to be music because I can't function for very long without it - and a hut filled with poetry collections and Alan Bennett's monologues.

 

 

THE DRESSER

by Jon Darby 

 

From the front at least

A beautiful victorian dresser

From behind

The ugly truth

Assembled from wooden orange crates

The company name stamped

Telling of a former

More humble existence

 

Two little drawers

One at each side

Gunmetal latch handles

Age worn

From opening and closing

Hold family secrets

Make up

Lipstick stumps

 

Snaps from Blackpool and Wales

In happy times

Are slotted around the mirror

The wind is behind them

Mum’s perm rendered savage like

 

But still

A huge grin across her’s

And Dad’s faces

Especially in the ones photographed together

Arm in arm

Walking down the seafront promenade

Completely dependent on each other

 

Their bulky frames stretched

Cosetted

By polyester fashion

Mum’s a ruby cardie

Dad’s a beige v- neck jumper

With no nonsense rolled- up arms

 

One of the bigger drawers beneath

Is guardian to documents

More photos in plastic Co op bags

Yellowing christening certificates

Old school reports

A paperback edition of the new testament

 

Given to me Mum

When she began her journey of faith

Searching for peace from panic attacks

Feelings of alienation

Anxiety crippling her mind

Putting up it’s iron bars in front of the doors

 

Keeping her a prisoner

Physically and mentally

With the emphasis I suppose on the hope of personal change

Joan from Church had neatly written inside the front cover of the book

"When someone becomes a Christian He is not the same anymore

 A new life has begun "

"Is your Mum ok John? Give her this will you love?”

She’d said

 

I dropped it in a puddle on the way home

The brown edged watery stain forever afterwards present

A permanent reminder of my carelessness

 

I stare into the oval mirror

Now liver spotted around the edges

Tired of the reflections it has held

She’s draped her red chiffon scarf over it

I can still smell the perfume she used

Getting ready for their weekly night out at the local working men’s club

Her only foray into worldly pleasures

 

Spritzed from the unusually ornate glass scent bottle

Complete with film star style pump atomizer

It could have been used by Elizabeth Taylor

Such was it’s beauty

To me at least

 

“Tha suits owt May..tha’re the same as Marilyn Monroe

Tha could wear a prater (potato) sack and tha’d still look bloody lovely”

Dad’s usual patter when Mum appeared

A good twenty minutes or so after he was ready

Her skin faintly blushing beneath the rouge

Cheeks apple red like the scarf around her neck

“ get out of it you daft bugger” Her usual response

 

They’re all here

The likely suspects guilty of impregnating the fabric with smells of the era

Tweed,Estee Lauder, Panache, Charlie,

A couple of Avon varieties

Most half empty

The fancy glass potion like bottles developing a layer of dust

Aching to be wiped away

 

Through the wooden sash windows I can see the old lady next door

Pegging out

Talking to her slim, grey faced son,

I always imagine he’s a business man

Shirt, tie, grey face

He looks worried

Gesticulating with his hands

She’s often in hospital nowadays

 

I lie back on the bed

Amazed still that they bought it at all (Influenced by me I like to think)

It’s cream metal frame topped off by Gold lacquered finials

Mocking the plain wood elsewhere in the room

I could be anywhere

 

In the South of France

Relaxing in a chateaux

Taking a rest before the evening meal

But this is my Parents bedroom

In their red brick terraced house

 

The first And last House that’s theirs

Held aloft by hard work

Tears

And love

 

To imagine a time when they’d be separated by death seems impossible

Cruel

Their union too strong

Too watertight

Even for the grave

 

Tiny, cramped and musty

A packet of unworn tights on the white painted chair

Talcum powder puff left out of it’s fancy pot

Worn axminster carpet pieced in places

This is where I go to

When life gets too much

 

When my eyes sting tears of inferiority

And low self esteem drags me down

I relax in it’s embrace

Feel it's acceptance

It’s womb like hold

My place of escape