WEBVTT

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In that poem it speaks of the
way that the steps live in me.

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And this poem written I
suppose about a year later also

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speaks of a place in
one's feeling life,

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in the life of the imagination.

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This poem is dedicated to
two very dear friends of mine

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in London--

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David Mitchell and David Hass.

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And it's called "Room."

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"Shelf of worn,
chipped, exquisite China

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oddments for daily use.

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Baskets for fruit,
potatoes, shopping;

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stove with grill where David
makes such good brown toast.

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Left of the sink above the
counter, Mary Wollstonecraft,

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fair face, dark shadows, energy.

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Slightly unsteady,
the small table.

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Notes to each other.

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And soon when David and David
come home, strong cups of tea.

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It's the kitchen,
its window viewless

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and not the handsome
calm of the living room

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I find myself in, at
peace, though the presence

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across the whole of that room
too is part of being here.

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The threadbare gracious
carpet, surreal romances

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of the Victorian
decoupage screen, poplars

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and oaks and sunsets the
large windows look to.

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Afternoon, an ample easy quiet.

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But it breaks
sharply, the Davids

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have moved, all
the objects stand

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at new angles, a
kitchen I've never seen,

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light from another
compass point.

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This room my refuge is nowhere
but in my mind, more blurred

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for them than for me,
their memories too

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many to sift and focus.

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Peace of the invisible, take
this nectar, transform it,

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internalize it.

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If I lose the
knowledge of this place

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my soul shall be diminished.

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There is a song in all humankind
that rooms, houses, parks,

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streets, fields, and particular
corners of fields, rivers,

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and certain eye-span
reaches of rivers

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are notes in, as people are.

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Give me the power to sound
this note, that disappeared

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as if torn down but clear cool
tranquil kitchen on Downside

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Crescent present in
me, a place to be in.

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Not pretending-- no
tears were shed in it,

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no hard words ever
shouted, no gray mornings

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ever caught in the small
mirror over the sink.

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But seeing despite that,
precisely because of that,

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grief not being turned
away a place made for grief

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to be, one could be there
and breathe easy, uncrowded.

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A note or chord of
notes sustained,

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hushing, recurrent in
the stream of the song."

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[APPLAUSE]

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