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Tuesday 30 September 2008

Rain -- by Zephirine

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I like the sounds it makes outside
when I wake up in the night and hear
the drumming
of a million million gnat-sized drummers
or the padding
of innumerable soft invisible paws
or it might be almost nothing
a tiny whispering drizzle on the wind
but sometimes
aha
sometimes a tap has been left full on above my roof
and it’s gushing crashing
and this is not so likeable
and I remember the bit of gutter
which still hasn’t been fixed
that’ll be it
that waterfall
and what the hell
have I left just under my window
on which irregular huge drops are gonging
bang – bang – bang bang ------bang
--------------------BANG
----bangbang----
and now
horribly familiar
a gentle fountain-like splashing
from the little tiny basement yard
which because I didn’t unblock the soakaway
is becoming a pond
that will be in the kitchen before morning
I have to get up
there is no choice
and go out there in the dark
wading in two inches of water by now
(barefoot is quicker than finding the boots)
and feel about in the unwelcome little lake
with the rain thudding onto my back
and the sound of the rain mingles
with me muttering
fuck – fuck – fucking hell –
- wherethefuckinghell is the fucking-
till I find the drain cover
lift it with an effort and a metallic scrunch
the pond swooshes away
the kitchen floor is saved
and I am very wet
and now suddenly
the rain eases up
stops
and there is silence
apart from that drip under the window
as I dry my feet and get back into bed
plop- plopplop ---- ploplop – plop-
plop

plop



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10 comments:

Anonymous said...

I'm glad to say I no longer live in the house described in this poem... but the experiences are etched in my memory...

Anonymous said...

That is some description of rain. Wow. Poetically describing most types.

I love the panicky bit of having to go out and it's easier not finding the boots.

Thank you. Memories rushed back.

offsideintahiti said...

mdr.

Rule N°1: Keep those wellies handy, Zeph.

Anonymous said...

Rule No. 2: do not leave the windows open all night and books sitting on the sill.

I rather love this.

Anonymous said...

memo to self: keep some towels to hand when it lashes it down.
Cats get very wet and it's not nice to be woken by wet fur.

Why do they always do that? A whole staircase to dry paws on but no, magically they can leap onto sofa or bed with soaking wet paws and the immenesly drenched tail.

offsideintahiti said...

And when you live in Ireland in the middle of a dairy farm, that wet cat that hops onto your bed invariably carries a faint scent of... hmmm, cat's paws on cow pats, I'm sure there's a spoonerism in there somewhere. Or a Haiku.

Anonymous said...

Thanks, folks...

Cat's wet paws, well, why should the cat wait to dry its paws on the stairs when your bedding will do the job so much better? Especially if there's a little tang of cowpat that it wants to get rid of.

Anonymous said...

I keep waiting for there to be a Taproom here.

Because it is a sad place to be Behind Blue Eyes.

Hours only lonely, and I'd have thought that Ingrid would be lurking, waiting for us to knock on the door.

Anonymous said...

zeph, this poem has been stored in my mental file for a month as I awaited the beginning of our rainy season (which has just now arrived, much too dramatically, with thunderous torrents)-- always dreaded because that primitive makeshift roof of ours has been begging for repair for so many decades it's now given up begging and simply weeps, weeps, weeps. Wet cats in the dark, leaky roof all night, "and I remember that bit of gutter/ which still hasn't been fixed" (in our case the entire gutter now all but gone)--well, this rings true to what it's consoling to hear may in some places (happily not yours any more!) still be a fairly "universal experience". I like this poem (revealing my age) because it lives up to the prescription of Dr. J. (the critic of life,not the basketball player) for "what oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed." So, belated thanks!

Anonymous said...

You're welcome, BTP!