A Poet's Workshop

[miyako73]

Before I step in to enter,
Stubborn still doorknobs,
Broken hasps and staples,
Bolts, hinges, and latches,
Rust on the wooden door.

Stench of sweat and ink
Welcome and comfort me,
Leading my excited hands
To touch old stained pages
And to wipe off their dust.

The empty walls and ceiling,
As brown as my Winter skin,
Look pale against red blots,
Lines and splashes of blue
All black in the bulbless dark.

My world is minute and simple
With the bare unpainted table
My crafty father nailed together
And the feather-cushioned chair,
My throne, my bed, my cozy jail.

Under the table hides the drawer,
Where I bury and dig dead words,
Put my thoughts, my secrets,
Keep the scissors and cut letters
From newspapers and magazines.

Nearby, the tall bamboo basket
My mother split and wove
With copper coils and electric wires
Idly stands to catch my dirt,
My crumpled waste, my lost desire.

The cherry-lacquered floor
Still glows shimmer underneath
The dried muddy foot marks,
The cigarette ashes and burns
From long blocks and restless walks.

In this windowless room,
Where I measure life and angst,
Lay down thoughts and words,
Build suns, moons, and seasons,
Poetry, to a slave, is a manual labor.

[Delta40]

I love this poem Miyako. I've been reading some of your other work but I really relate to this and I like the personal touch it has throughout along with beautiful description. One starts to feel the plight of the writer as his past rises to meet him each time he steps into the room.

[miyako73]

Thanks, Delta. I'm a chef who finds poetry more laborious than culinary. This is the poem that subtly and indirectly questions the futile and slavish nature of what I love to do.

[Delta40]

I have 60,000 words of poetry Miyako and I too wonder....

[cogs]

"my crumpled waste, my lost desire" is excellent. you inspire me to write emotionally. it's interesting how, with the old materials, you show how laborious your writing may be, despite the modern computer. it's almost like creating is noisy.