deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Box
A rattle; a shudder.
I turn and face... nothing.
For a fleeting moment,
Confusion reigns.
I pause, then pick up
The threads of today.
A life - infused with colour,
Discourse, demands and distractions -
Drowns out what I know deep down is real.
Later, in the stillness,
It beckons me again,
Only this time in silence.
A presence rather than a sound
Draws me back towards the box.
It's been a while;
I'd almost dared to hope
Its grip on me had vanished;
That the power within had died.
When those weary days were done,
I placed them all inside the box.
Their minutes spent; their hours full -
Too full to hold inside one mind;
Too intense for a mortal to contain
Their colours rich and dark
As images swirled and merged and pooled like blood.
Summer scenes of countryside and friends
Turned ghoulish on the pages
As the ink spread out to reveal
The images of nightmares.
I picked them up and folded them together,
Their burnished edges catching at my fingers
Even as I gently folded the pages,
Stroking them closed
As though to calm the horrors within.
I placed them in the box
With plenty of space to breathe.
I sealed the box with steely threads
Fashioned from Determination and Will,
Then tucked it away on top of a cupboard
Where it would now remain
Quite pacified; no longer volatile.
And then, with time,
It grew silent, still.
The pages' fractious energy was spent -
Burnt out -
And life could once again resume.
I stand, and pace the room
Face upturned to survey the box.
Its contents draw me inexorably:
They will not rest
Until I reach inside
And view them once again
In the fresh light of today.
I tremble now, unsure what I will find.
Have the colours mellowed with age;
The images composed themselves
With the benefit of hindsight?
Or will those pages once again unleash
The horrors they once held?
One thing I know for sure:
I will crack open the box
And peek through cautious fingers at the pages within
Before they burst their shackles
And explode from the box all by themselves.
So this is how it goes:
All that is left to do is be courageous
And to open it.
I turn and face... nothing.
For a fleeting moment,
Confusion reigns.
I pause, then pick up
The threads of today.
A life - infused with colour,
Discourse, demands and distractions -
Drowns out what I know deep down is real.
Later, in the stillness,
It beckons me again,
Only this time in silence.
A presence rather than a sound
Draws me back towards the box.
It's been a while;
I'd almost dared to hope
Its grip on me had vanished;
That the power within had died.
When those weary days were done,
I placed them all inside the box.
Their minutes spent; their hours full -
Too full to hold inside one mind;
Too intense for a mortal to contain
Their colours rich and dark
As images swirled and merged and pooled like blood.
Summer scenes of countryside and friends
Turned ghoulish on the pages
As the ink spread out to reveal
The images of nightmares.
I picked them up and folded them together,
Their burnished edges catching at my fingers
Even as I gently folded the pages,
Stroking them closed
As though to calm the horrors within.
I placed them in the box
With plenty of space to breathe.
I sealed the box with steely threads
Fashioned from Determination and Will,
Then tucked it away on top of a cupboard
Where it would now remain
Quite pacified; no longer volatile.
And then, with time,
It grew silent, still.
The pages' fractious energy was spent -
Burnt out -
And life could once again resume.
I stand, and pace the room
Face upturned to survey the box.
Its contents draw me inexorably:
They will not rest
Until I reach inside
And view them once again
In the fresh light of today.
I tremble now, unsure what I will find.
Have the colours mellowed with age;
The images composed themselves
With the benefit of hindsight?
Or will those pages once again unleash
The horrors they once held?
One thing I know for sure:
I will crack open the box
And peek through cautious fingers at the pages within
Before they burst their shackles
And explode from the box all by themselves.
So this is how it goes:
All that is left to do is be courageous
And to open it.
Published 1st Aug 2021
| Edited 2nd Aug 2022
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 6
reading list entries 3
comments 9
reads 558
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
1st Aug 2021 10:10pm
But I stood & paced the room again...
Can't help but think this is a better lead into that 4th stanza.
Instantly loved the line:
'I pause, then pick up
The threads of today' however. 😊
Can't help but think this is a better lead into that 4th stanza.
Instantly loved the line:
'I pause, then pick up
The threads of today' however. 😊
1st Aug 2021 10:11pm
1st Aug 2021 10:25pm
I wrote a diary containing something very personal and tragic. I could never bring myself to look inside, so I sealed it tight with masking tape. Eventually I decided to discard it altogether. Some things are better left unopened.
Intriguing poem which can be interpreted in many ways.
Intriguing poem which can be interpreted in many ways.
1st Aug 2021 10:27pm
So far, I have largely avoided opening the box, but its contents are coming out in my dreams and at bizarre moments. It seems best to move on, while acknowledging what happened... maybe when I feel more ready to.
2nd Aug 2021 1:20am
Anonymous
30th Aug 2021 9:42pm
Wafflenose, there's much I enjoy here. It does a lot of things very well, and I've tried to point those out below, as well as talk a bit about how I'd improve it, if it were mine.
What I like about this:
the use of a precise situation / occasion, which is the author, in the present, tormented by this object she made, a kind of reliquary of words, which is the box;
the box as a kind of Poe-esque Tell-tale heart, calling out to the speaker in the present;
the 3 discrete movements of the poem: the present in the 1st stanza; the flashback in the 2nd; then back to the present;
the lyrical confessional mode, competently executed in iambs; reminiscent of others like Sexton, Plath; some good rhymes;
the ritualized, fetishistic making of the Box, like one would imagine Dickinson hand-crafting her folios, but with an edge--folds, cuts, metallic thread;
Points where I struggled: the opening of the 2nd stanza--"Those days"? Reading it, the 1st stanza wasn't "those days," in the past, in the present, so I couldn't situate myself in relation to what I'm reading. This points to a deeper problem, in the 1st stanza: there's a lack of grounding in the situation--where am I? In the present...OK...but what's going on? Is the speaker at home? In the afternoon? In bed in the middle of the night? What's going on? "Threads of today" is a nice image, but it's not literal, and my interest is in the literal situation of this speaker, and there's nothing there for me in that regard, so I can't get a fix on what's going on. So when I go to the 2nd stanza, to the flashback, the present ground from which I'm flashing-back isn't terra firma, which causes the reader doubt / hesitancy / lack of confidence in what I've read. There's a bit of this type of stuff in the 3rd stanza, but it's a case of too little, too late.
What I'd do in revision: create a more concrete, actual present in the beginning, as well as the end, to anchor the reader in the dramatic situation of the poem; continue to focus on the ritualized making of the box, as there's a lot of creative energy there. These are the 2 creative poles in the poem: the dramatic tension of the speaker in her present; and the energy contained both in & as the box.
What I like about this:
the use of a precise situation / occasion, which is the author, in the present, tormented by this object she made, a kind of reliquary of words, which is the box;
the box as a kind of Poe-esque Tell-tale heart, calling out to the speaker in the present;
the 3 discrete movements of the poem: the present in the 1st stanza; the flashback in the 2nd; then back to the present;
the lyrical confessional mode, competently executed in iambs; reminiscent of others like Sexton, Plath; some good rhymes;
the ritualized, fetishistic making of the Box, like one would imagine Dickinson hand-crafting her folios, but with an edge--folds, cuts, metallic thread;
Points where I struggled: the opening of the 2nd stanza--"Those days"? Reading it, the 1st stanza wasn't "those days," in the past, in the present, so I couldn't situate myself in relation to what I'm reading. This points to a deeper problem, in the 1st stanza: there's a lack of grounding in the situation--where am I? In the present...OK...but what's going on? Is the speaker at home? In the afternoon? In bed in the middle of the night? What's going on? "Threads of today" is a nice image, but it's not literal, and my interest is in the literal situation of this speaker, and there's nothing there for me in that regard, so I can't get a fix on what's going on. So when I go to the 2nd stanza, to the flashback, the present ground from which I'm flashing-back isn't terra firma, which causes the reader doubt / hesitancy / lack of confidence in what I've read. There's a bit of this type of stuff in the 3rd stanza, but it's a case of too little, too late.
What I'd do in revision: create a more concrete, actual present in the beginning, as well as the end, to anchor the reader in the dramatic situation of the poem; continue to focus on the ritualized making of the box, as there's a lot of creative energy there. These are the 2 creative poles in the poem: the dramatic tension of the speaker in her present; and the energy contained both in & as the box.
30th Aug 2021 9:50pm
Thank you so much for your intelligent, helpful and carefully considered response. I'm glad that there are lots of good things about it. There are always going to be things to work on. I was interested to hear your opinion because this was a 15-minute brain dump which felt so good, said what I needed it to, and seemed to work well as an extended metaphor. I totally agree with you about anchoring the reader more firmly in the present, although clearly you managed to work it out. I honestly don't know if I'll revise it. I might do, when I've improved some more and have the skills and confidence to do a good job.
I really, really value your opinion. I'm a music teacher/ professional musician who has returned to writing after an auspicious start at school back in the dark ages (well, last century). As you might be able to tell, I am serious about it and determined to progress... probably faster than is realistic!
I really, really value your opinion. I'm a music teacher/ professional musician who has returned to writing after an auspicious start at school back in the dark ages (well, last century). As you might be able to tell, I am serious about it and determined to progress... probably faster than is realistic!
2nd Aug 2022 10:16pm
29th Feb 2024 1:59am
Well crafted piece Waffle. It is a thought process that helps deal with the stress of life.
Superb work.
Superb work.
