At home in public houses

Poem 2 from my 'Home Soil' workshop with poet Olivia Douglass last week, was produced in response to an exercise which asked us to recall 3 phrases that reminded us of where we come from, and use them as the starting point for each stanza. 


My mind took me to a dark place, but I went with it and read this to the group, feeling brave. So, as I share it with you now please note it comes with a trigger warning - alcohol/abuse. Please scroll on if you are affected by these issues.


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At home in public houses


"Let's pop in 'ere for one" Dad says, familiarly,

To the car-load, our family, behind him.

I watch the pub sign swaying to and fro

Like something from a Western, or a drunk,

Ominously threatening my sanity,

A repetition of too many weekends out on Exmoor

Gone before.


"Where be to?" Dad gestures to go inside,

So-called 'Adults', parents and grandparents, 

'guardians' leading the way -

To bar-stools and bar snacks,

smoke-filled rooms of

pub-games: darts, and pool, 

fruit-machines,

juke boxes

And underage drinking.


We sit in the back-bar and I babysit my younger sister and brother;

the table fills up with emptied glass coke bottles,

As we suck up pub culture through plastic straws.


Reluctantly accepting the inevitable, 

I drink the proffered Martinis, while my brother crunches on pork scratchings,

Throws darts at the wall,

He's too small,

He doesn't mean to wreck the place.


"She's coming on" my Grandfather leers, 

passing drunken comment on my budding adolescent figure 

across a roomful of inappropriate eyes and ears.

"It's not funny!", I think, but say nothing,

Keep smiling,

Tell myself it will be over soon.


Until next week.


A Wensley 

1.09.2024

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Reworked version: (She/He)

----------------------------


At home in public houses

 

"Let's pop in 'ere for one" her Father says, familiarly

To the car-load of 3 generations behind him on the back seat.

Her heart rate increases.

She watches the pub sign swaying to and fro

Like something from a Western (or a drunk),

Ominously threatening her sanity;

A repetition of too many weekends out on Exmoor

Gone before.

 

"Where be to?"  her Father gestures to go inside,

So-called 'Adults', parents, uncles and grandparents,

'guardians' leading the way -

To bar-stools and bar-snacks,

smoke-filled rooms of

pub-games: darts, and pool 

fruit-machines,

juke boxes

And underage drinking.

 

They assume her position at their usual table in The Royal Oak,

babysitting her younger Sister and Brother in the ‘back-bar’.

The table fills up with emptied crisp packets and glass coke bottles;

assaulting their senses, they sit there numb,

her Sister twirling her hair

as she sucks up pub culture through a stripey plastic straw.

 

 

Reluctantly accepting the inevitable, 

She sips the proffered Martinis, “good girl”,

while her Brother crunches on pork scratchings,

Throws darts at the wall,

He's too small,

He doesn't mean to wreck the place.

Not that they notice.

 

"She's coming on" a local leers lasciviously, 

passing slurred comment on her budding adolescent figure 

across a roomful of inappropriate eyes and ears.

"It's not funny!", she thinks, but says nothing,

“Cheer up, might never 'appen!”

Fake smile through gritted teeth,

it'll be over soon.

 

Until next week.

 

A Wensley 

26.09.2024


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