Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.



You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!
Get Your Premium Membership


Bored

by
 All those times I was bored
out of my mind.
Holding the log while he sawed it.
Holding the string while he measured, boards, distances between things, or pounded stakes into the ground for rows and rows of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored) weeded.
Or sat in the back of the car, or sat still in boats, sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel he drove, steered, paddled.
It wasn't even boredom, it was looking, looking hard and up close at the small details.
Myopia.
The worn gunwales, the intricate twill of the seat cover.
The acid crumbs of loam, the granular pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes I would.
The boring rhythm of doing things over and over, carrying the wood, drying the dishes.
Such minutiae.
It's what the animals spend most of their time at, ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels, shuffling the leaves in their burrows.
He pointed such things out, and I would look at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under the nail.
Why do I remember it as sunnier all the time then, although it more often rained, and more birdsong? I could hardly wait to get the hell out of there to anywhere else.
Perhaps though boredom is happier.
It is for dogs or groundhogs.
Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - BoredEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...


Top Margaret Atwood Poems

Analysis and Comments on Bored

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Bored here.