Could I but keep these little rooms,
adorn them forever with delicate furnishings,
hang the rest of my life on these walls,
and sit the rest of my days on these thick,
plaid chairs,
I could be happy.
Had I the time to fix
every broken frame, so that no more people would fall out,
the lifeless clock that has run out of time,
the flowers gently wilting,
enjoying their last,
I would fix all I could
and be happy.
Were I alone the solitary owner,
the solitary dreamer, and duster
and companion to these plush bedfellows,
I could plant my plastic flowers
throughout this den
and be happy.
But the regal dust on my security blanket
suffocates me--
These rooms of antiquated wood and lace
need no master,
and surely I will find
myself here again.
But the water in the little glass kettle
boils its simple hymn
and the tiny ticks of the round, white clock
propel me forward,
and I must go.
Very nice. And the lines “Had I the time to fix every broken frame, so that no more people would fall out,” and “But the water in the little glass kettle boils its simple hymn” are almost poems in and of themselves.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much!
ReplyDeleteIt's funny how I find all kind of poems and poets on blogger who are better than many published one.
ReplyDeleteA riveting poem with very perceivable images; it's the kind of poem I try to do myself. I don't know why, but I came to think of when I lived in England when I read it. Perhaps its the contrast between the neat interiors and the speaker's need to get out which leads me on.
Thanks! I'm glad you could relate to the images.
ReplyDelete