Blacked Out Face

I came across this poem, by Walter Otton, at Zippysite when idly googling, as one does. So I saved it for a day when a little poetry seemed appropriate. Which is most days, but particularly on a dull rainy Saturday.

Blacked Out Face:

Because I don’t want you to see my features
I’ve blacked out my face
I don’t want you to know my name
Or my school, my family or my dwelling place

My alcoholic dad ain’t around so much and

My mum likes a drink too
They have never taken me on holiday
Anyway, I couldn’t even spell ‘the Algarve’ or ‘Corfu’

Last August my flat burned down
Luckily no-one was hurt
I lost all my clothes and possessions
Every trainer, all my socks, each shirt

I moved into my sisters and stayed on the sofa
I slept on the cushions for thirty six weeks
I had a duvet and a sleeping bag
But I never had any fresh sheets

Older brother number one got a fifteen year old pregnant
Older brother number two is a little mad
He tried jumping out of a top floor window
Doctors sedated him in a cell covered in soft pad

After school, once a week, I pile on the minibus
We go out and about and scream and shout
Barbeques and football and wide games and a bonfire
Laughing, buzzing, getting naturally higher

But the best thing in my life by far
Was our residential trip to South Wales
We went for five days of wicked activities
It kept me from going off the rails

See this picture?
Here I am up near the top of a mountain
After hours of walking up it slowly
Fresh air
No traffic
No smog
Peace
The air in my lungs was like nothing I’d breathed before
Some of the lads moaned saying it was too tough
I loved every minute of it
I pushed through the times when it was a bit rough
By the waterfall
In my waterproofs
I didn’t care about anything
I closed my eyes
And I just listened
To the waterfall
I wanted to take that moment
And take it home
Back to my sofa
With no bed sheets
I wanted to take that moment
And put it in brother numbers twos padded cell
So he could listen to it
I wanted to take that moment
And send it to the baby to be
Made by brother number one
And the sounds of the moment would
Calm the baby it as it grows
Little fingers and tiny toes
Yeah by this waterfall
I was happy to be me
I liked being me
I liked the green grass
And the greener moss
It was soft
And I knew I’d be going back home soon
I wanted to go
And I didn’t want to
I wanted to see me mum
But also, I wanted to stay here
On the moss
By the waterfall
I dug deep in my pocket
And I rolled a cigarette
After I smoked it I put the butt in my pocket
Along with the empty crisp packets
Coz for the first time probably ever
I didn’t drop litter
Because I didn’t want to spoil the mountain for anyone else
I thought about God
And then I got Bex to take a photo of me
By the waterfall
I was tired
Well tired
I wanted to close my eyes
And sleep
The rush of the water replacing
The noise of my house
And the stress of the estate
This feeling I want to keep
And just sleep

17th September 2006. Walter Otton.