Poetry is music, but the reverse is also true.
Listen to this, and it will make your Thursday better.
The musty suitcase smell of indoor summers
Fills up whole corridors of memory.
Wallpapered halls with floors warping
So a marble would travel unhindered
To certain corners
Which you well know.
The warp-wood doors each opening,
Disclosing the secret lives of each year of youth,
Distinct personalities of each summer.
The peach-painted room,
Quiet rumpled bedclothes and wilted sunflowers,
Sand filling the chinks between floorboards,
A small cotton dress hung on the wall to air
That you can’t remember wearing.
The room of windows and nothing else,
Full up with empty light,
The bare floors nonetheless inviting,
There for the stretching out upon,
Nothing of care or grace,
Simple and wooden,
The bare elegance of artless repose.
The room of grey,
Perfect-made bed and ordered desk,
Papers stacked trimly aside an ink-black typewriter.
Clean paper, waiting for the words,
The worn-out shoes kicked against the baseboard
After long walks full of thoughts
And no speaking.
The room you haven’t seen yet,
The door at the far end of the hall.
A light shines from the thin gap beneath the door,
And sometimes you lay flat-out,
Your shoulders pressed into the floor dust,
Your neck craned like a heron
To get a glimpse.
The shadows of something are visible,
Variegated patterns that shift and alter
Like trees mottling grass
Or stars spilled onto dark velvet
Or marbles wobbling down a dim hallway.
Hanneke Cassel’s “Ides of March”