Poetry in motion

Poetry in motion by Joan Maguire

There’s something quite magnificent about a clothes line sagging under the weight of freshly laundered garments. Don’t you agree?

Personally I love just looking out my kitchen window to the backyard and simply admiring the whites, the blues, the greens and yellows blowing gently in the breeze.

It’s not something I readily admit to though. Not since my friend Anne-Marie looked at me with a scathing expression when I divulged this secret pleasure.

 “You really need to get out more” she quipped sarcastically.

Who could possibly enjoy doing the laundry? Our conditioning tells us it’s a chore, a task, not an enjoyable activity. I don’t enjoy the lead up either, the foreplay, if you will.

 Looking at dirty items on the bedroom floor is not something I aspire to. Nor is carrying a clothes hamper down the stairs an activity I relish. Sometimes the odour is quite pungent particularly dirty socks or sports clothing. The smell of stale sweat can have an unsteadying effect on the nerves.

The art of separation can be quite daunting too. A stray red sock can wreak havoc on the entire contents of the washing machine. After many years I’ve mastered the art to a large degree but sometimes the odd mishap occurs.

So what part of the process appeals to me?

Once I’ve loaded the machine with the offending items and inserted the correct amount of washing powder I start to climb the first rung on the arc of satisfaction. Selecting the correct programme on my very advanced machine is quite empowering. Turning the dial to the ON position is stage two on the journey.

Cleansing is quite good for the soul. It’s also the idea that you’re doing something important for others which is uplifting.

I greet the ping ping of the machine, as it declares that it has completed its task, with anticipation.

I open the door with enthusiasm as I survey the results of my and my trusty machine’s endeavours. The aroma of freshly laundered clothes greet me.

 My nostrils bask in the now scented contents.

I start to pull them out of the machine with renewed vigour. The occasional garment, a tee-shirt or a sweater, is drawn intimately to my face in a bid to appreciate the results of my labour. A white shirt is admired for the dazzling spectacle it is.

All are bundled lovingly into my laundry basket and carried purposefully into the back yard. Each garment is selected and pinned to the line. Each item has to hang a particular way to ensure maximum drying.

The real climax is reached once I’m back inside my house.

 I go to the kitchen window. I look out and enjoy the Piece de resistance. My family’s clothes dancing in the breeze.

 Perhaps not quite Wordsworthian

.A differen kind of poetry  inspired and fashioned from the mundane.