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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
INTERIOR, by WILLARD JOHNSON First Line: I wondered if I were a chair myself Last Line: And to be alone . . . | |||
I wondered if I were a chair myself, Or perhaps just a serape Thrown down carelessly Dragging on the floor. I wasn't thinking, only sitting, And there seemed no difference Between me and the table. Except that the table had four legs Browner than my two, And the table's face Reflected the light More vividly than mine. The little carving on the wooden stand Was more beautiful than I am, And the painting on the wall Was more alive, And the book beside me Was more intelligent, And the electric light brighter; And the pillow, and the piano, And the paper-weight, And the flowers in the vase, And the rugs -- Everything was more something. Surely the curtains at the window Can see the moon rise, And an automobile With green eyelids Come up the street, And Mars approaching With a bloody twinkle. Surely the piano can remember The girl with auburn hair Who played the tune she said Was popular in St. Louis. And what chair could forget That a fat man sat upon it Through an evening? Yes, I must be a chair, Or a serape, or a rug. I seem to remember The nail the carpenter used To mend my broken arm; And I can recall the hollow shock Each time the weaver Put his foot upon the pedal Of his loom repairing me. But at the same time I feel the pleasant thrill Of a girl shaking me In the sunlight. And all the while I know That I am nothing in the room But all of it; That I am here not only now But have always been here. I am confused and timeless: Is this a pelado's poor adobe, Or has an artist Remodelled it into a studio? Do I see a barren cot In that corner instead of cushions and a couch? Or is this tomorrow Instead of yesterday? I seem to have sat here a hundred years, Waiting for an explanation of it all. And yet I came in only hour ago To sit quietly And to be alone . . . | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FROM A HOUSE IN NEW ENGLAND (TO A FRIEND IN THE WEST) by WILLARD JOHNSON NAVAJO LEGEND by WILLARD JOHNSON FOR 'THE WINE OF CIRCE' (BY EDWARD BURNE JONES) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI TO A FRIEND WHOSE WORK HAS COME TO NOTHING by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 7. MIDSUMMER by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE EAGLE OF SONG by BACCHYLIDES THE SUN IS DOWN by JOANNA BAILLIE THE LAST MAN: KISSES by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES WHY? by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON |
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