One Week, One Span of Human Life, Paul Ings
Alien Buddha Press, £8.87 2022
Doorways
These poems are doorways to those doors that may or may not have to be gone through and thresholds that may or may not have to be crossed in a relationship. Each of the poems is a door into a specific period during one week of Paul Ing’s life. Each poem is allocated a time-slot and some actually take place in literal doorways or on thresholds.
On Monday morning, after an argument with him, Paul’s daughter is sitting on the threshold of their home
on the front porch steps
in defeat
hunched over knees
that are capped by the chin
as deflated children
and dogs do.
[‘Over’]
Paul literally has to step over her to get past. Then
I click clack
my way along the path
of [her] direct line of sight
till I’ve shrunk enough
to fit into the doorway
of the car.
[‘Over’]
On Tuesday, late in the afternoon, Paul watches his daughter asleep on his bed. The door in this poem waits patiently. It does not intrude but it will.
The door in its darkness was patient,
soon to insert time, shape, function.
[‘On This Occasion’]
And on Friday morning, again there's darkness but this time, there’s no direct mention of the door, just of how you should knock — if you do.
If you knock, then barely knock.
When you enter, do so as if not.
Today she is still in the dark.
[‘Reluctance’]
Reading these poems has reminded me to look out for the doors I might not be noticing and, once alerted to them, decide whether I should knock and wait for instructions or just open them (albeit carefully) without giving any warning.
And I find I'm more willing to ask myself if I should go through — either on tiptoe or boldly — and if I do, whether I should leave the doors slightly ajar or shut them firmly behind me. What is literal can be metaphorical, and what is metaphorical may be real.