Room 202 Options

[merle]

Room 202 (Revision)

Every day at half past three,
room 202 now waits for me --
a daughter's mid-life chore.

I count my breaths from one to ten,
smooth my skirt and coward yen
to run back out the door.

It's not the way she's looking up,
but how she pokes the Jell-o cup
with tines of plastic fork.

I cast my eyes to motes of dust
waltzing on the sunbeam's thrust,
to ease my inner torque.

My words are merely token gifts
to calm the waters, when they drift
far from safe lit shores.

At five-o-one I take my leave,
unhook her fingers from my sleeve
and walk wet-freckled floor.

Room 202 (Original)

Every day at half past three
room 202 waits for me
a daughter's mid-life chore.

I count my breaths from one to ten
smooth my skirt and coward yen
to run back out the door.

It's not the way she's looking up
but how she pokes the Jell-o cup
with tines of plastic fork.

I cast my eyes to motes of dust
waltzing on the sunbeam's thrust
to ease the inner torque.

My words are merely token gifts
to calm the waters when they drift
far from safe lit shores.

At five oh one I take my leave
unhook her fingers from my sleeve
and walk wet-freckled floor.

[Sekhmet]

Hi Merle - What a fascinating subject for a poem! The daughter's chore, a visit to her senile mother, (mother-in-law?).
I can't help noticing that, (maybe by coincidence) room 202 is exactly double George Orwell's, 'Room 101' in 1984. The room where every-one's deepest fear is located.
We all have that fear of becoming senile, and dependant upon others for our smallest need - and when one is faced by the incontrovertible facts of old age, we are lost for words - there is no point of contact.
I recognised the truth of the last two verses. The desperate attempt to reach the old person through shared memories; memories that are no longer recalled,or shared; and the clinging hand - showing that you are still wanted, and needed.
A brave subject - well described.
One crit. - I would have been happier with a little more punctuation - but I expect that that is because I was brought up to over-punctuate. Can't shake it off!
Nice work,
Leo

[merle]

Hello Leo -

I don't know who George Orwell is but since you say this is "exactly double" his work, I must google him. I find it difficult to punctuate poety and would be happy for any suggestions you may have.

[Guest_ohsteve_*]

Robin, I really like this, it was very easy to read, like Leo, I kind of would like a little more punctuation. Someone that has not heard of George 'Big Brother is Watching' Orwell, I remember reading that in high school, though a lot of parents thought we shouldn't. My few nits...take or leave. [add] {remove} (change)

Every day at half past three[,]
room 202 waits for me[...]
(a daughter's mid-life) chore{.}
though sometimes it's a chore

I am not sure that visiting ones mother should be a chore, though I suppose there might be days it seems like one.

I count my breath{s};{from} one (to)[through] ten[,]
smooth my skirt[,] {and} (cow(e)r[d][,][and] yen
to run back out the door.

It's not the way she's looking up[,]
but how she pokes the Jell-o cup
with tines of (a) plastic fork. Otherwise it doesn't read right.

At (five oh one) I take my leave[,] [5:01] use the same way you used 202 above.
unhook her fingers from my sleeve[.]
and walk (wet-freckled) floor. I like this but it just doesn't scan right for me...
Maybe: Wet-freckled, I escape her floor.

So that it should read now as follows:

Everyday at half past three,
room 202 waits for me...
Though sometimes it's a chore

I count my breath; one through ten,
smooth my skirt, cower, and yen
to run back out the door.

I cast my eyes to motes of dust
waltzing on the sunbeam's thrust
to ease the inner torque.

My words are merely token gifts
to calm the waters when they drift,
far from safe lit shores.

At 5:01 I take my leave,
unhook her fingers from my sleeve.
Wet-freckled, I escape her floor.

Just some suggestions for you to contemplate.

Steve

[merle]

Hello Steve -

I suppose I'm one of the few who hasn't heard of George Orwell. I did google him and his idea about placing one's fear in a 'room'. However, this writing is about more than fear. It is about the complex nature between mother and daughter although it can be about any child and parent. Any adult-child who has taken care of an ailing parent over a long period of time understands the emotional draining, therefore, I feel the word 'chore' is honest.

I do like your suggestion about the time (5:01). I'm not sure about the rest as I was trying to write in rhythm and feel some of your ideas might throw it off. I'll wait and see what the majority feel works best since it may be me and not you at all.

Thank you for taking the time to review.

[Alan]

Dear Robin,

I read this earlier, and found it very striking, both as poetry and because my mother died last June. She by way of contrast was all there mentally, just at nearly 100 physically past it.

I offer some minor changes below, in order to polish up the facets of this gem, but I have to say, ALL I write is for you to adopt, adapt, OR chuck - this is, and has to remain, YOUR poem. To hell with what "the majority" think, I only care what you as the writer want.

ROOM 202

Every day, at half past three,
room 202 now waits for me;
a daughter's mid-life chore.

I count my breaths from one to ten,
smooth my skirt, and coward, yen
to run back out the door.

It's not the way she's looking up,
but how she pokes the Jell-o cup
with tines of plastic fork.

I cast my eyes to motes of dust
a-waltzing on the sunbeam's thrust
to ease my inner torque.

My words are tokens, merely gifts
to calm the waters when they drift
far from her safe-lit shores.

At five oh one I take my leave,
unhooking fingers from my sleeve;
and walk wet-freckled floor.

Robin DeWalt

(I always feel a poem should have a clear title (if there is one) and a signature - looks more professional, and eye-appeal is important too !)

You had a metrical pattern, almost. I have added sylls or words to make it regular. Always 8-8-6.

I hope you like some of what I offer, but if not, at least you will know your own mind better !

[Eisa]

Hi Robin

I can relate to your feelings here. My mother had Alzheimer's and I loved her dearly - still miss her ... but Alzheimer's changed her from the person she used to be. I can remember walking to her house with knots in my stomach, thinking ... will she take her pills today, without a fuss? It was draining -- even more so because I loved her. This poem brought lots of memories back.

I'll put some punctuation in for you, but I'm no expert -- so use as you wish.

Every day at half past three,
room 202 waits for me --
a daughter's mid-life chore.

I count my breaths from one to ten,
smooth my skirt and coward yen
to run back out the door.

It's not the way she's looking up,
but how she pokes the Jell-o cup
with tines of plastic fork.

I cast my eyes to motes of dust
waltzing on the sunbeam's thrust,
to ease [the] my inner torque.

My words are merely token gifts
to calm the waters, when they drift
far from safe lit shores.

At [five oh one] five-o-one I take my leave,
unhook her fingers from my sleeve
and walk wet-freckled floor.

I hope something might help

Snow

[merle]

Hello Alan -

Thank you for your suggestions. I normally do write in meter but have been trying my hand at writing rhythm poetry. I have a habit of using line breaks as pauses rather than punctuation. I must admit it is a difficult habit to break. I do like the suggestion to change 'the' to 'my' in the line ... to ease the inner torque. Much better. I never thought about adding the title and signature when posting but that's an easy fix and one I like. I also like the word 'now' in the first stanza, it flows.

I was hoping others could relate to this and I am pleased some have. You were fortunate to have your mother around for so many years and even more so because she was mentally alert. Again, thank you for your time and advice.

merle/robin

[merle]

Hi Snow -

I like your suggestions and will be using them in my revision. Thank you.

[Arnfinn]

G'day Robin

Re your poem.

As far as the punctuation goes I agree with Snow.

Every day at half past three,
room 202 waits for me --
a daughter's mid-life chore.

I count my breaths from one to ten,
smooth my skirt and coward yen
to run back out the door.

It's not the way she's looking up,
but how she pokes the Jell-o cup
with tines of plastic fork.

I cast my eyes to motes of dust
waltzing on the sunbeam's thrust,
to ease [the] my inner torque.

My words are merely token gifts
to calm the waters, when they drift
far from safe lit shores.

At [five oh one] five-o-one I take my leave,
unhook her fingers from my sleeve
and walk wet-freckled floor.


I've arrived a tad late.

An emotional poem that describes, very well, personal sadness.


Regards,


John

[merle]

Hi John -

Thank you for showing up and I agree with you. I've been somewhat slow on revising but have done so now.

Cheers,
Robin

[Arnfinn]

Spot on Robin.


Unless there are other views.


Well done.


John

[Sekhmet]

Hi Merle - I have just re-visited your poem - and need to put in a few words about George Orwell's Room 101. In his book, '1984', Room 101 was not a room where one kept ones greatest fears - it was a torture chamber. 'Big Brother' - the non-existent, but highly symbolic leader of the Totalitarian Government of the day, had complete psychological dossiers on all citizens; and, by having CCTV cameras and mikes in every home and public place, were able to watch every one's movements. It was child's play for them to discern any person's greatest fear.
Political Prisoners were threatened with Room 101 if they didn't conform. When we consider that Orwell wrote his book in 1948 - it shows a remarkable grasp of what the future held for mankind. He was just a few years out.
That is why I was so struck by your use of Room 202 - it was a really strong metaphor for a dreaded ordeal.
Leo

[merle]

Hi Leo - Thank you for the lesson. I'm wondering if I should change the title to this poem. I would rather people not connect this writing to Orwell's. Any suggestions?

Robin

[Sekhmet]

Merle - no way should you change the title of your poem.
Any title will have different resonances for every reader. After all, poetry is a two-way street, and each of us drags our own literary baggage to pile up on the sidewalk.
Those of your English readers with any interest at all in English Literature, will have subliminally soaked up bits of Orwell. ( "Big Brother", "Some animals are more equal than others", "Room 101", "Newspeak" ); just as your American readers will have absorbed a fair bit of Mark Twain.
For me, Room 202 had echoes of Orwell 's chamber of terror - I doubt if anyone else would have made the same connection.
Room 202 is your poem, and a good title.
Why change when you are on to a winner?
Leo

[mike in brooklyn]

Dear Merle

Your touching poem says so much with so little - the mark
of a well written work.
I agree with Allan suggestion.

"My words are tokens, merely gifts
to calm the waters when they drift
far from her safe-lit shores."

I also agree with him that ultimately we write for ourselves

I can empathize with your situation - for 6 months I was full time caregiver to
my 88 yr. old father affected with dementia - the hardest and yet most 'real'
thing I've ever done.