Ode to Suburbia
BY EAVAN BOLAND
Six o'clock: the kitchen bulbs which blister
Your dark, your housewives starting to nose
Out each other's day, the claustrophobia
Of your back gardens varicose
With shrubs, make an ugly sister
Of you suburbia.
How long ago did the glass in your windows subtly
Silver into mirrors which again
And again show the same woman
Shriek at a child? Which multiply
A dish, a brush, ash,
The gape of a fish.
In the kitchen, the gape of a child in the cot?
You swelled so that when you tried
The silver slipper on your foot
It pinched your instep and the common
Hurt which touched you made
You human.
No creature of the streets will feel the touch
Of a wand turning the wet sinews
Of fruit suddenly to a coach,
While this rat without leather reins
Or a whip or britches continues
Sliming your drains.
No magic here. Yet you encroach until
The shy countryside, fooled
By your plainness falls, then rises
From your bed changed, schooled
Forever by your skill,
Your compromises.
Midnight and your metamorphosis
Is now complete, although the mind
Which spinstered you might still miss
Your mystery now, might still fail
To see your power defined
By this detail.
By this creature drowsing now in every house—
The same lion who tore stripes
Once off zebras. Who now sleeps,
Small beside the coals. And may,
On a red letter day,
Catch a mouse.
This was what came out for unseen poetry. And is it just me or are the allusions made to Cinderella rather clear? Anyway, I wrote about the suppression of individual freedoms for the sake of posterity and conformity etc. Did not have the time to even skim through unseen prose but I heard that it was a pleasant read.
Chemistry was alright, but I don't want to settle for just mediocrity anymore!
Also, I called Them.
They picked up on the first ring. "Goodafternoonhwachonginstituitioncollegesection,"
"I'm calling to inquire about the DSA results—" I had managed to say, but was cut-off by the voice of a female receptionist who sounded like the efficient, though curt and unfriendly, types that were only mildly uppity and wore armani exchange cardigans to work and received invitations to the mango sale preview in their mailboxes but usually ignored them for fear of appearing like an ageing sheep in a funky, trend-following lamb's clothing.
"TheresultsoftheDSAarenotoutyetbutsuccessfulapplicantswillreceiveacallthisweek," she recites, as if receiving another one of the 20,000 or so DSA calls that come flooding in every hour. On the other end of the line, I thought I heard her pause for a split-second to catch her breath. "Unsuccessfulapplicantswillreceiveacallnextweek."
I am amazed at this semblance to those automated teller machines that I have so often seen incurring the ire of frustrated adults. "Alright, thank you," I say. But before I had a chance to enunciate the final phoneme that was dripping with my utmost gratitude and sincerest appreciation, I heard a click on the other line.
And it still resounds in my mind as I sit here wondering what cookie I will bake next. Will rosemary-thyme cookies work? Or maybe I should bake the butter cookies that I first made for some home econs test a gajillion years ago. Or lemon Milanese biscotti. Hmmm. Will consider running away to Paris as an eccentric but talented baker as a possible reality in the future.
EL paper 2 and E maths tomorrow! \:D/
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