It is wild, isn’t it, how the thermostat and the fridge magnets end up holding more truth than the grand declarations. I keep thinking about all the unsaid bits that pile up quietly. Do you find they make their way into your writing too? Also, I am claiming your “hopefully first this time” as a toast to surviving life’s tiny ambushes.
The thermostat, the fridge magnet - the things that never speak but always keep score.
And yes, they slip into my writing. Not as decoration, but as pressure points.
Tiny domestic details are where emotional friction hides best - the place where identity cracks first, long before the big moments ever arrive.
I find that the unsaid bits become the architecture of everything I write - the invisible patterns, the small resistances, the quiet ambushes that shape us more than any grand event.
What you wrote makes me wonder:
When you write, do you start from the moment… or the meaning underneath it?
Cheers to surviving - and noticing - the small ambushes.
Ahh, the disagreements that bind us. The long title convention reminds me of Ted Hughes, who also tended to merge titles into the content of his poems. It's cleverly done here.
Ah yes, the long title as a small rebellion. I love that you brought up Hughes. He always felt like he was smuggling a second poem inside the title itself.
I smiled wildly when reading this. In recognition. I have been married (2 marriages) for altogether 62 years. Oh boy, what a journey! In Sweden (where I came from) they have a saying: A small turf can upturn a large wagon. Seems like some small turfs appeared in your life. Maria
Thank you, Ettie. The long title felt like a way to make the poem admit it had more to say than it could reasonably hold. I am experimenting with them more lately. Have you ever written one that tried to steal the whole spotlight?
I’m actually doing a (quick) poem a day for December, so you inspired me to write yesterday’s with a long title. Appreciated the inspiration, thank you. It’s not quite as spotlight stealing as yours but I love the way it plays with the poem content.
Excellent little poem capturing what may have once seemed something insignificant but actually now looks to be somewhat of a microcosm of a whole relationship.
It’s wild how a whole relationship can hide inside small domestic moments - the fridge, the AC setting, the silence between two sentences.
This poem proves it’s never the big things that break us, but the tiny ones we don’t speak out loud.
-Double ID
Hopefully first this time 🥂
It is wild, isn’t it, how the thermostat and the fridge magnets end up holding more truth than the grand declarations. I keep thinking about all the unsaid bits that pile up quietly. Do you find they make their way into your writing too? Also, I am claiming your “hopefully first this time” as a toast to surviving life’s tiny ambushes.
It’s always the quiet objects, isn’t it?
The thermostat, the fridge magnet - the things that never speak but always keep score.
And yes, they slip into my writing. Not as decoration, but as pressure points.
Tiny domestic details are where emotional friction hides best - the place where identity cracks first, long before the big moments ever arrive.
I find that the unsaid bits become the architecture of everything I write - the invisible patterns, the small resistances, the quiet ambushes that shape us more than any grand event.
What you wrote makes me wonder:
When you write, do you start from the moment… or the meaning underneath it?
Cheers to surviving - and noticing - the small ambushes.
-Double ID
Ahh, the disagreements that bind us. The long title convention reminds me of Ted Hughes, who also tended to merge titles into the content of his poems. It's cleverly done here.
Ah yes, the long title as a small rebellion. I love that you brought up Hughes. He always felt like he was smuggling a second poem inside the title itself.
Smuggling is a great term for it. Like he was breaking the forth wall of our expectations about when a poem starts or ends.
I smiled wildly when reading this. In recognition. I have been married (2 marriages) for altogether 62 years. Oh boy, what a journey! In Sweden (where I came from) they have a saying: A small turf can upturn a large wagon. Seems like some small turfs appeared in your life. Maria
I love that Swedish saying. Small turfs can absolutely upturn the wagon. I suspect a few of mine sprouted overnight.
And I love that turn of events: "I suspect a few of mine sprouted overnight"!
These are the small, quiet moments that define relationships. Superb.
Thank you, Genie. I sometimes think the quiet moments are the entire relationship, only disguised as chores and half sentences.
Ride the dinosaur you're given
If you want to keep on liven'
A proper couplet to brighten the day. If I ever release a pamphlet of dinosaur themed domestic poetry, I will come knocking for a full stanza.
I like this a lot. I love the idea of the long title.
Thank you, Ettie. The long title felt like a way to make the poem admit it had more to say than it could reasonably hold. I am experimenting with them more lately. Have you ever written one that tried to steal the whole spotlight?
I love this idea, of forcing the poem to admit its own inadequacy
I’m actually doing a (quick) poem a day for December, so you inspired me to write yesterday’s with a long title. Appreciated the inspiration, thank you. It’s not quite as spotlight stealing as yours but I love the way it plays with the poem content.
Here if you’re interested: https://open.substack.com/pub/ettieholland/p/when-you-try-to-tell-me-whats-important?r=3xxus&utm_medium=ios
Excellent little poem capturing what may have once seemed something insignificant but actually now looks to be somewhat of a microcosm of a whole relationship.
A short poem but it packs a lot in.
Thank you, Gary. Funny how what looks small when you are in it suddenly becomes the entire weather system once you step outside of it.
It does indeed. Took me back somewhat to my second marriage.
Mmm, sorrow, acknowledgment, I empathize with someone else, who might relate to this sweet short piece.
Your poem gave me a chuckle, and I couldn’t resist composing a related poem:
Ancient bones
enjoy the evening chill.
He devours juicy bones;
I won’t look at or touch meat.
What if I knew that when we met?