Next Door
Through this door,
another room
and another door.
Another room
through it, more
doors. Assume
every hole is a door,
each space a room.
The gaps in the floor
stand open for you.
You start to look for
the final room,
the exit, the porch,
even a solid broom
closet that can’t pour
you into a new room.
You meet others, for
whom endless rooms
are exhilarating, or
others who assume
that the architecture
knows best, the rooms
are a benevolent force
offering to us new
finishes and textures.
But neither plaster, nor
marble, nor stucco rooms
end your search for
the end of the rooms
or a roomless door.
Cinematic in a Dark City kind of way - the metaphysical architect and her impossible clients.
ReplyDeleteEngaging! You used the artwork as wonderful inspiration. This poem can be interpreted in so many different ways, and it creates instant visuals, reminding me of a townhouse I once was in that had a long third floor hallway, entirely lined with doors into tiny rooms. The design was awful. The idea of "a roomless door" is so provocative.
ReplyDeleteI like the first half fine, and I'm pretty sure it's necessary to set up the second half. But for me things really pick up with the image of being POURED. Then I love that . . . ?motif? . . . of others who trust the rooms, the architecture, the "maps," while the speaker is much less certain of a "benevolent" force and outcome--such an important idea. How is everyone else so certain and therefore in trusting love with each step in the journey, the process?
ReplyDeleteWhat a creepy thought!
ReplyDelete