There's a spider in my bathroom.
Gentle existential pondering and a silly poem about Lou, because the much deeper, more thoughtful poem I've been working on still sucks.
My dad’s best friend, Pip, died last month. It was his funeral last week, the best sort of funeral you could wish for, really — the kind that says a lot about the man and his place in the world. Standing room only, with mourners clustered around the door of the church, heads bowed in the vestibule. A tractor and bale wrapper in lieu of a hearse (which he’d joked about for years), friend driving, daughter riding shotgun. A village brought to a standstill by the shimmering stream of cars, queuing from the church to the wake. A final resting place in his own quiet woodland.
A beautiful day — but as his friend Chris kept saying, just twenty years too early.
Ever since, there’s been this poem that’s been rattling about my brain — it’s about loss and inevitability and mortality and all that sort of cheerful stuff. I want it to be uplifting — something that provides a bit of comfort when you feel that cold dread creeping up your elbows (just me?). Because I don’t think this stuff always has to be sad, if we work out how to talk about it instead of hiding those thoughts and feelings in a box, taping it shut, putting that in another box, locking that in a safe, encasing the safe in concrete then hurling it to the bottom of the ocean (again, just me?).
But so far, what I have written is — in fact — a complete downer. I’m heading off to Cornwall tomorrow where I’m hoping to do a lot of writing, and thinking, and walking, and it might take shape there. So instead of that depressing and half-baked WIP, for now here’s something completely different: a silly poem I wrote about a spider living behind my bathroom toilet.
I’ve called him Lou ever since the first four lines popped into my head. He’s one of those tall, spindly, less offensive sorts of spiders that wobble around like they’re drunk, wearing rollerskates, or both. He’s fine and usually stays hidden, so I leave him to his own devices. Though he was pushing it the other night when he escaped his hideout and went skittering around by the sink (“Alex! Lou’s out! He’s got to go!”).
With a little messing about with the syllables (and if I amped up the anti-productivity vibe a bit?) I think it’d be a cute kids’ picture book, actually. For now, though, it’s just a hard-hitting, real-life tale about a spider who — if he knows what’s good for him — will continue to stay out of my way.
Enjoy. Bye! 🕷
Lou’s taking liberties
There’s a spider in the bathroom
and his name is Lou.
If you don’t bother him — well,
he won’t bother you.
He’s minding his own business
and he’s doing nothing wrong,
just teetering ‘round the toilet on
eight legs, all spindly long.
Sometimes he pokes his head out,
takes a ramble ‘cross the room
but he quickly scuttles back again
to hide back in the gloom.
What’s he up to, in his hideout
tucked behind the bend?
Drawing, sculpting, knitting
writing letters to his friends?
Not this, or that, or anything
cosied safe up in his nest —
just floating on his cobweb,
thinking, dreaming — taking rest.
Lou’s just a peaceful spider, living
quiet and carefree.
So don’t you worry ‘bout him
when you go to do a —