Come in for a bit…
Sit here in the silence of my parlor.
Observe how the light filters through
the room as it bounces from the chandelier
crystals and mirrors.
See how the books dance off the shelf
in a flutter of chatter,
some dark and brooding, others incanting;
some in rhyme or resplendent with the fantastic colour
of journeys undertaken.
Feel the softness of feather stuffed cushions embrace you.
Sturdily carved sitting furniture, lion-headed armrests peering out,
gargoyles and claw-footed forms alive from decades of use,
supporting those that came to the room in reprieve,
away from the ever moving world just outside.
There is a coffin-grand piano in the corner,
its ivory and ebony keys all shut-up,
soundless;
no longer able to be played.
It is now an altar for other things to shine.
Once it was the centerpiece,
glorious, tuned and oiled;
perfectly pitched notes filled the room,
halls,
house.
Its stately legs of rolled wood, stout enough
to lay out the dead, an altar for a corpse
in the parlor on the square grand piano.
The windows and mirrors would be
covered and the great instrument silenced,
as it is now.
There is a fire flickering and crackling
off-casting an orange hue,
the heat and scent of
apple-wood wafting about.
The parlor is warm as an oven.
All pieces are newly crafted and posted shortly after in adherence to the rules of the challenge. All the photos are mine unless otherwise stated.
Entry for Day 41 of 100 Days of Poetry Challenge by @d-pend.
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For those who don't know Niish well enough, she is a fan of the experiences we pick up in life, in how they layer us, in the scratches and dents they leave in us, which we then bring out in our art. Her name for all these things is "patina," and that knowledge sets the tone for the piece that follows - it is a piece about things that linger, not always pleasant, but are now an aroma that wafts about, and you make use of it.
And that fits this piece that is very much about death and memory.
The first couplet immediately evokes in my mind the image of "Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly." This is about taking the mayfly, the energetic and silly one, and introducing it to silence, and stillness, and to death.
And to taking its energy, the life it lived, and finding new life in it, now that one is more thoughtful, slower, more deliberate.
And look at this bit:
Even if it were not followed by calling on lions, gargoyles, and claws, then the image I have here is of one that is trapped by the chair. This can be tied into how in "Without" and other pieces besides you speak of those who seek comfort, and comfort as death. Here it is death that comes in the guise of comfort.
It is so easy to fall into inertia.
But also the comfort of death, rather than the death inherent in comfort.
This whole piece speaks of sound and movement, but in the past. If I had to describe in what word what imagery this piece evokes within my mind, it'd be a "wake," as in, a wake for one who just departed.
This house, this parlor, these books. All speak to what was. All sit and wait quietly, with bated breath almost. This is peace, but it is not peaceful, it feels full of nervous energy.
And then comes the final line:
This is not "warm like sitting next to an oven." This calls to mind the Holocaust, and Sylvia Plath's death (as you are a fan of hers), and the witch from Hensel and Gretel.
Everything that was is burning up. Going in flame.
Aren't you happy you are sitting in that comfy chair, now?
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You really paint a beautiful picture with your words. I felt as if I were in your parlor, embraced by the cushions, warmed by the fire, and going on an adventure with a leathery book. Well done.
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It is lovely how some rooms can contain a sense of magic. Loved this write. I truly felt I was there:)
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Wow. This one really hit home with me.
The parlor you described is exactly what I remember as a child, when we visited my dad's favorite teacher, Miss Lydia, who was one of his music instructors at the USC School of Music. And her parlor was always quite warm.
Although in her parlor was a massive treadle-operated organ, that was still in perfect working condition, and when we were lucky, she would gift us with one of her amazingly expert performances.
It also hit home because, still strapped to its moving pallet, my father's 1890 Steinway piano sits in what will eventually become our music studio, unplayed. Which is a crime.
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Do or do not. There is no try.
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