HT John Keats for the inspo |
Author's Note ▼ Ode to a Cluttered Room Thou still unbroken stretch of backwood Unconquered though thou be mine, Sentient history, a text that can thus record Nuances more thoroughly than time: What long-forgotten love note haunts the space At thy core, or thy surface, or both? In linens, or in sheathes of past-due bills? What decay do these contain? What growth? What frenzied lust? What adolescent race? What healthful craving? What imminent ills? What are these boxes under bed? By what hand was this black ink label writ? Smudged and indiscernable, now unread, A puzzle unsolvable by any wit? What knowing being, by herself or with another, Or perhaps hurried by the ticking clock Buried such small packing under sleeping cot? And little box, what would choose to smother Such as thee? and your contents choose to mock Importance, and leave you here to rot? Ah happy, happy clothes! that cannot suspend Upon rods, nor ever fold and rest on shelf; And, happy ceiling fan, that will always upend Things below, confident in thysef; More happy mess! more happy, happy mess! Forever heaped and still to be explored, Forever swelling, and for ever obscure; All human habit to assemble and obsess, That leaves not thy hand unoccupied, nor mind bored, Nor heart so unprovoked it must struggle to endure. Found treasures are gratifying, but those unearthed More pleasing; therefore ye bulging mound, grow on; Not to be mined outright, but left unbirthed, Grow 'til those that cringe are gone: Fair maids, those that knock at my entry, Thy brooms, nor thy knocking fist can enter here; Bold cleaners, never, never canst thou scour, Though just outside the door – yet do not grieve; It cannot shine, but loses luster by the hour, But it is fixed, and you remain there! Line Count: 40 lines |