Open Houses Poem by Nick Burbridge

To Harry, the annual bloom of open houses
in the hotbed city is a dream come true.
He leaves his bags of materials
at the church centre and goes armed
with a toothbrush like a votive candle,
settles himself in a new-bought sofa,
absorbs the ambience, and explains
an unharmonious presence
in the manner of Kaspar Hauser:
I am an Art Lover.

His eye is immaculate,
his taste informed but catholic,
attention to detail unparalleled.
He likes bathroom interiors, toilet seats and brushes,
various kinds of tile and grout;
traditional and avant-garde,
he appreciates all two or three-dimensional artefacts,
puzzled only why some bear price-tags and some not.
Interrupted in his state of trance
he will come back with a variant: I love Works of Art.

Sometimes he spends several hours;
made uncomfortable by savage voices
no one hears or visions that don't sit easy
among watercolours of the garden
or Cubist portraits of the children
he takes a breather on the street.
There is always another haven within reach;
somewhere to overhear his hosts explain
inspiration and technique in intimate surroundings
where the void with no art is shut out.

It's hard on Harry
when festivities are over,
doors and windows close,
and each shangrila returns to anonymity.
He demands entry on his own terms,
expresses disappointment creatively;
impromptu performances
with a cast of professionals
as doctors, do-gooders, law officers,
and a violent exit from a disturbed set.

Harry is not impressed
by the anaesthetics of the closed ward.
The composition is clinical,
material and treatment, to his mind,
soporific, and the overall effect, drab.
But Harry harbours his exuberance.
Next Spring he will be back at large,
the streets festooned, as bar and theatre thrum,
and for an art lover like himself,
so many places to call home.