I’ve had a good run with Poetry Friday, but I’ve lost some steam recently. It’s hard to scrounge up poetry, no matter the source, and the last few weeks at work have taken enough out of me that I haven’t been ready with anything, each Friday. Today, realizing I’d come to yet another Friday without a poem, and not having the energy to try and unearth something from the year of my current novel, I’ve bailed out to what I’ve always considered my last resort: a poem of my own. I’ve intentionally chosen something I’ve never done at any reading (that I can recall), something that I’d be open to tinkering with, and something that may well not be very good (we’ll see how you take it). Maybe more importantly, it’s something that I think might provoke a little discussion—what do you think it’s about? What am I saying? Because I won’t tell you what I think of this one…not until you comment and we have a conversation to engage in. (I thought about adding commentary, but posting your own poem unasked-for, and then, on top of that, your literary analysis of your own poem really sounds too self-indulgent even for me, and I’m a literary blogger who only reads award-winners.)
So, here it is, a brief and untitled work—I hope it’s a nice addition to your weekend, and that if you have thoughts or questions about it, you share them:
The fireplace has a square little door to the left of it
in the lamp-lit living room
of my parents’ house.
Winter evenings, I’d huddle cozied
there by the flames
and wonder what rich rooms, what worlds
awaited me if I opened the door
and followed the path behind it.
I never opened that door.