This is the room
where I birthed my son, down on all fours in animal pain, as the sire scrolled his Reddit feed, and the midwife shook a spider from her skirt. This is the room that I painted orange, where I curl and dream of desert canyons, then wake to walls that feel like friends. Between these walls, I finally knew that he would never see me— and that I’ve never needed him to. Still, this is the room where we thought I would die, and he crept back in to check my breathing, and his fear felt like a kind of love. This is the room where I signed the papers, then wrote vows to myself, it is the room where I am writing this poem, almost like another vow. When the air gets cold, spiders return, and I must make my peace with them again and again and again— but I can insist they stay far from my bed.
Photo by Jaeson Kim on Unsplash
The Prompt
This poem is an ode of sorts to my bedroom. After writing it, I realized that I’ve probably spent more of my life in this little room than in any other single place. I’ve lived in this house for almost seventeen years now—far longer than anywhere else—and I do both my sleeping and my writing between these orange walls. That’s a lot of hours of my life.
Is there a room that shapes your day? Or that has shaped who you’ve become? Is there a room that you have shaped, altering it into an expression of yourself? For today’s prompt, pick a room—any room that feels noteworthy to you. If you can physically be in that room while writing a poem, great! If not, also great! Travel there in your mind’s eye. Recall it or take it in with all of your senses. Feel the stories held in this room. What poem is kicking around inside of all of that, waiting for you to set it free?
I am so excited to read what you share! I’ll see you in the comments thread.
P.S. Hey, you! Yeah, you. The one who has been wanting to share a poem in the comments but feeling nervous. I get it. Sharing never feels entirely comfortable for me either, and sometimes it’s downright terrifying. But the prevailing rule of this space is kindness, and we will be so grateful to receive whatever you have to offer. No pressure, and no rush. But whenever you’re ready to share, we are ready to wrap your poem in a hug.
I love that your “centering sanctuary” includes so many clues to your life, interests, and loves! This is lovely, Larry. And oh my can I ever relate to this bit - “the books we piled floor to wall, the illusion that we would ever read them all”!
I write this in a short interlude between things this evening, for this room we called the Renaissance Room in our home, which has tended to be a bit of everything along the way. I never expected a rhyming poem to emerge, but here we go.
Room of many faces,
the calmest of places
except when the wild things roam
in this space they called home.
Space of many colors,
crumbs from crackers and crullers,
library, drum studio, play room
even a spot for a long lost loom.
These walls have witnessed our dances
the sparks from our ignited romances,
the books we piled floor to wall,
the illusion that we would ever read them all.
The years have been kinder to your song,
this centering sanctuary where we always belong;
Here we learned the mystery of the grey
that seeped into our lives, day by day.
Seasons come and seasons go,
the changes we visioned have come too slow,
still they come to bring us breathless at last,
the sacred circles of the dreamers’ past.