I have loved this poem since I discovered it at the beginning of high school. It was actually written by my Uncle. I love the relatable humour, the fact that almost everyone has experienced the act of the disappearing single sock in the washing machine. However, when you look closer, it becomes clear that this poem is also about loss, death and heaven.
I think this message can be transferred to patients in a medical setting too. It is easy to take things at face-value, and simply go with what you see from the outset. However, it is so important to delve deeper, look closer, find out more. Patients often come to the GP with one problem, but actually, that was just a facade and they actually wanted to ask something much more personal than the initial presentation. However, a doctor would not find this out unless they look beyond the obvious.
On a different note, I recorded this poem as a spoken word set to music in a creative attempt to show how music can affect the meaning and feeling of a poem.
The place where socks go
There's a place where socks go
when the washing is done,
when the driers have dried
and the spinners have spun,
when it's past eight o'clock
and there's no one about
and the launderette's locked—
then the odd socks come out.
There is hosiery here
of each pattern and hue,
some plain, striped or spotted,
some black, red or blue,
some worn only once,
some so old they have formed
to exactly the shape
of the foot they once warmed.
Some were brought back from Sock Shops
in airports in France,
some were hideous presents
from matronly aunts,
but in all their variety
one thing is shared—
to the place where socks go
they will not go pre-paired.
Then the odd socks remaining
are placed in the chest
(they must turn up sometime—
now where was that vest?)
and new socks come at Christmas
and birthdays bring more
and the old lie, alone,
at the back of the drawer.
And maybe, one evening
when memory is low,
they too slip away
to the place where socks go
and in silent reunion,
each one with its pair,
they join in the dance
with the other things there—
the letters unanswered,
the calls not returned,
the promises broken,
the lessons not learned,
the lost afternoons,
the appointments unmade,
the best of intentions,
the debts never paid,
and the friends not kept up
and the others let down—
in the ragbag of conscience
they waltz sadly round,
beyond the respite
of the washing machine,
no amount of detergent
can now get them clean
till that day when all laundry
is washed white as snow,
and everyone's tumbled
and soft soap must go,
when nothing is hidden
but all is revealed
and socks shall be holy
and souls shall be healed.
-Godfrey Rust-