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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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House of Solitude A crooked chimney for its straight smoke
in the willful style of a mellow mortal,
singing a siren's song with promises;
some solar panels to capture the light,
casting faint shadows on a desolate lawn:
a tinted cottage, frail, in earthly sight.
I sit in its shade and make fun of the sun
until clouds cover it out of mercy.
Its bay windows keep people at bay,
threatening with the confines of a cage
and the clatter of shutters.
For the price paid for self-induced exile,
this house stays stranded by design,
imagination's graffiti on clapboard sides,
creaky floorboards echoing the hours
given foolishly away.
Cowering in cobwebbed corners, a piece of me
through a madness of sorts,
in blank papers astray
scrubbing my insides for dreams, poetry,
or for slippery consolation.
At the end of a spiral staircase, a closed vault:
my literary atelier, my space,
gifts of poetry and time
to be crumbled and thrown into trash
after I'm gone,
and ruffling hard stone façade
of my inner rooms,
thoughts of futility.
Artless arms embracing lofty prayers,
an open book cuddled in my lap,
I nestle in my no-man's land.
Wherever I dwell, I'm alone.
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© Copyright 2002 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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