Scheherazade’s Treasure
Open your eyes, listen
It isn’t just me
The clamour is visible
Waving hello
Look there in the corner
Precious post-war toy,
Open your eyes, listen
It isn’t just me
The clamour is visible
Waving hello
Look there in the corner
Precious post-war toy,
One loving owner, careful
The butterfly stitched
By our son when a boy
The photos in albums, capturing the day
Child with a gap where her milk teeth had been
Chunk of her hair cropped
Remember, with scissors she found
The cushion embroidered
Tells of your mother, Derbyshire girl
Picking the wild flowers, here stitched with care
Or there, pride of place
The table’s a storyboard
Polished French oak
For gathering random, strangers and friends
And daily creating
Encounters and tales
Clicked in a photo
Painted in oils
Words in the guest book
See here, baby teeth
Stored in a box
Tooth fairy plunder
Twenty years old
Artefacts, relics, history’s clues
Tangible visible oral passed on
Scheherazade’s treasure
For thousands of nights
A subtext a chorus for backdrop for bliss
Everyday everywhere
Stories to tell
By our son when a boy
The photos in albums, capturing the day
Child with a gap where her milk teeth had been
Chunk of her hair cropped
Remember, with scissors she found
The cushion embroidered
Tells of your mother, Derbyshire girl
Picking the wild flowers, here stitched with care
Or there, pride of place
The table’s a storyboard
Polished French oak
For gathering random, strangers and friends
And daily creating
Encounters and tales
Clicked in a photo
Painted in oils
Words in the guest book
See here, baby teeth
Stored in a box
Tooth fairy plunder
Twenty years old
Artefacts, relics, history’s clues
Tangible visible oral passed on
Scheherazade’s treasure
For thousands of nights
A subtext a chorus for backdrop for bliss
Everyday everywhere
Stories to tell
10th September 2009, Hounoux
I have just remembered opening an old leather suitcase in an auction room and finding a random selection of personal belongings inside. Old post cards, a ration book, keys etc. I stood for ages looking into the life of a complete stranger, now a lot in an auction. I found myself wanting to piece together his story. It must be one of the wonderful things about being an archeologist. I wonder how much oral history is changing? I remember listening to my Nan's stories about her childhood- does this still go on?
ReplyDeleteIt is part of what makes it hard to clear out a loved one's home too, I think, ie what to do with the stuff that was precious to them. It has been good for us to be able to incorporate some of the treasures from our parents' homes into our own life. So Rosie was able to hear gran's clock on skype and tell Luca that was his great gran's. I didn't have a nan to tell me stories but I do tell my grandchildren about my childhood and about their parents. I love stories and was suddenly taken with the silent multitude of them in my own surroundings, waiting to be brought forward for telling! And you and I were oral story-telling for over an hour tonight Jude, so no danger of the demise of the oral tradition!!!Next story, the Ghost-friend in the attic....
ReplyDeleteMy paternal granma used to tell me stories over and over again of my Dad and his brother growing up, I loved them and remember them with a great fondness - oh how I loved me Nan.
ReplyDeleteOn the other hand Sally, this poem would make a wonderful still life!!!!
Wow Gill- you are so right!
ReplyDelete