A story is a room

A story is a room, with windows that let the outside in, with
corners in which to hide, with a place for the past, even for

seven variations of the present — time splitting into rainbow
hues, each coloured arch bending towards a different end.

But love cannot fit in a room the way it can in a poem. A
poem is a shining eye. A small object. A distant star. A cup

of tea. A raindrop sliding off a leaf. A single drumbeat.
Everything I have to say is held in its tiny fist. There is no

breadth, no depth, no curve to tell you why or when. No
space for reasons, for questions. I see your room, rich with

pronouns trimmed in brocade and velour. I know that kind
of love that has Persian carpets and antique lamps from the

souk. I bring only a blue marble. A swatch of sky. My poem is
a little box of wood. How many are already lost in your room?

 

 

For Poets United Midweek Prompt: “Writing Prose”

44 thoughts on “A story is a room

  1. An amazing poem! I’ll take your little box of wood over the room crammed with treasures any day.

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  2. Wow! You make me understand why I am a poet. Of course! Whereas I have both two eye-windows and two hand-fists, I’m near-sighted and night blind. It’s with the hands that I reach even into the darkest space. Wow. I’ve never read a more vivid comparison of the two!

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  3. So many beautiful ‘a poem is’ here that I can’t quote just one. Just when I think you’ve come up with the ultimate, you give me a new one. Whew!

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  4. Ooh, what a wondrous write! I am still navigating through this room with its windows and coloured ends while mapping the image of that distant star or the raindrop sliding off the leaf. This is perfectly said: “Everything I have to say is held in its tiny fist. There is no/breadth, no depth, no curve to tell you why or when.”
    Such a rich and evocative verse. I am definitely going to come back and observe this “little box of wood” again. 🙂

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  5. Poetry is all of that. I hate to think how many are lost in a box, under a bed, in the back of a cluttered mind, in the four walls of my writing room.

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  6. People who read and love poetry however will bring their own tea, brewed from their own perspective, to fill that cup. Depending on the reader that cup may have a blend of exotic pasts, presents, and futures as nuanced as every object in the room.

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  7. Your poem really hit the spot, Rajani! I especially like windows that let the outside in and corners in which to hide – that’s how writing is to me at the moment. I love the lines:

    ‘But love cannot fit in a room the way it can in a poem. A
    poem is a shining eye. A small object. A distant star. A cup

    of tea. A raindrop sliding off a leaf. A single drumbeat.’

    Like

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