The table that carried the day
after Edip CanseverA young girl all bunches and scraped knees
comes home
Her yellow reading bag drops onto the kitchen table
The treasures of her pockets she put there too
She put on the table the coin she found
which she will present to her father just before
they reach the sweet shop on their walk home tomorrow
Some string. This morning’s snapped elastic hair band
She gently placed on the table the disappointment of the day
Her teacher’s dismissal of her correct spelling list
Her wish of playing jazz piano
Her friend who always copied her
The big girl knocking her over on the playground
Two hundred and five minus six is one hundred and ninety nine
That went on the table too
You need flour, eggs and milk to make cakes
The taste of a batter-laden spoon she put on the table
Her fairy wings. The smell of her unicorn. The glimpse of a crystal palace
There was still room on the table.
Shake it off. Shake it off. The school disco and a floaty black dress
crashed onto the table
Her socks, soggy from puddles. She mopped the day’s rain on the table
She pulled all the clouds from the sky, leaving only blue,
And crammed them onto the table
The table was nearly full. Just enough room for a small spoon and a little yoghurt
The table was strong.
It had been her mother’s grandmother’s table
It had carried such weights before.
comes home
Her yellow reading bag drops onto the kitchen table
The treasures of her pockets she put there too
She put on the table the coin she found
which she will present to her father just before
they reach the sweet shop on their walk home tomorrow
Some string. This morning’s snapped elastic hair band
She gently placed on the table the disappointment of the day
Her teacher’s dismissal of her correct spelling list
Her wish of playing jazz piano
Her friend who always copied her
The big girl knocking her over on the playground
Two hundred and five minus six is one hundred and ninety nine
That went on the table too
You need flour, eggs and milk to make cakes
The taste of a batter-laden spoon she put on the table
Her fairy wings. The smell of her unicorn. The glimpse of a crystal palace
There was still room on the table.
Shake it off. Shake it off. The school disco and a floaty black dress
crashed onto the table
Her socks, soggy from puddles. She mopped the day’s rain on the table
She pulled all the clouds from the sky, leaving only blue,
And crammed them onto the table
The table was nearly full. Just enough room for a small spoon and a little yoghurt
The table was strong.
It had been her mother’s grandmother’s table
It had carried such weights before.
with thanks to Kate Clanchy
This poem is copyright (©) James Brownsell 2024
About the Writer
James Brownsell
A journalist and occasional funk DJ for two decades, James has lived and worked in many interesting places, reporting on politics, business and culture from across Europe, the Middle East and East Africa. He lives in a draughty old farmhouse in North Wales with his wife and two daughters, and a cat named Kalimar.
