By John Grey
Room Without Company
A room without company is as lonely as a blank sheet of paper. But then I start to write something on that paper. The words don’t just appear – they join me. When someone enters, the paradigm takes a shift from within me to without. I set aside the paper. An other must be dealt with. For a time I’m returned to the world that people inhabit. We make conversation but, more than that, I acknowledge someone else’s solitude and how they deal with it differently from me. Then the person leaves and I take a glance at what I’d written before they came. It’s banal and boring. I squish it up and toss it in the trash. A room without company is as lonely as a poem that doesn’t work.
When It’s Time To Go Back
When we’re almost eye to eye with clouds yellowed by falling sun, and the last tree, once conspicuously at our feet, is as dark as the rocks that surround it, and our breaths draw less air, and shadows begin to fill in the trails, and we haven’t seen or heard a bird in the past half hour, and the first light flickers on from the campground below, and we look more and more at our watches, less and less at how far it still is to the top - when you realize that all the talk in the world won’t convince the woman to stay with you – at least, when it feels something like that.
Desiree, the Garden Nymph
Desiree, the name of a species of love, of feelings that begin in nature study, in whose sprouting the petals first open, whose white bracts entice. A kind of mullein often grows in such places, sedge, hardhack, climbing the fences, my endearing fretwork of tiny white spikes, the fledgling heart, the green candelabra of spring. Desiree, a face always uncovered even as I reach below for moisture and food, a fragrance stepping up in time, while I lie low in obedience. Someday, maybe, I’ll invade you, a five-lobed calyx, a knock-kneed stamen – if you want me – if you let me – wooly and bitter but also pearly and everlasting.
If you don’t want to leave the house, say you fear the virus. It’s the great invisible Godzilla. It’s the Mummy, unwrapped, un-everything. And Frankenstein’s monster. Only this time, Frankenstein is a bat. Maybe someone calls and says “Come over.” But you’ve no wish to see this person. Even in Covid-free times, they were someone you could really catch the worst from, who could strangle your breathing, implode whatever taste you have. You want no Godzilla bragging. No Mummy gossiping through its bandages. No Frankenstein offering tepid tea and stale baked goods. You’ll jut sit out on your porch, sip wine, watch the sunset. You’re suffering from a good excuse and you just adore the symptoms.
The sound of a plane overhead speaks of another day shut in; no sky for me, merely transit from one room to the next, lit by the streaks of light left over from the brilliance of going someplace. I step outside but I’m still no farther. I haul logs for the fire, the chill in my bones like travel in reverse.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
2 thoughts on “Room Without Company and Other Poems”
Room without company such a beautiful poem. But I am happy with my poem . Because for them sometimes you receive such compliment which change everything, which makes you happy and your smiles can be seen with blushes.
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Reblogged this on Aesthetic Dreams.
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