The Annexe

written by: Mike Bell

@MikeBellWrites

It was in the cloakroom,
aged five, where I cried,
not wanting to be there,
tearful in that mote-strung light.

We were surrounded by the shed skins
of other children, labelled,
those hook-hung anoraks,
pegged emptied

into registered obedience,
unto the vast common hall,
beam-vaulted, a Victorian school,
I now know this hind-sighted as I am.

It was almost a prayer-free church,
with a never-trod office
stuck high in the wall, accessed,
it appeared, by God’s stairway.

And off that open space
high window-fitted doors
invited shy glances into classes,
but were beyond my height.

Did I hold Dad’s hand as he walked
with me through low furniture?
It made him an even bigger giant
in my small space.

We were shown past crate-piled milk,
bottled, to be expertly straw-poked,
unless as I later learned,
the birds got there first:

Sun-warmed, a gloop of cream on top,
the sure-indicator but never off,
that first lesson
in my infant education.

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Mike Bell

I needed a ritual to my writing, these poems are the result. My inspiration comes from the daily events, connections, interactions, and small things, which all seem to demand bigger attention from me. These poems form a narrative to my life, politically and emotionally, which I hope find engagement with other individuals whom are also just trying to get by, with, or without any diagnosis:

It is not what I am paid to do
It requires a daily commitment
I cannot complete a crossword, but I will attempt to complete verse complexities
My children will need something to fill the vacuum we all create
These words help me to cry out, cry, and work out why
If I make someone respond, then I will have lived a life worthy of a life.