Edited and Introduced by Wesley McNair, Maine poet laureate.
Lewis Turco, who lives in Dresden Mills, is author of numerous poetry collections and The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, called “the poets’ Bible” since 1968. In today’s intriguing poem he offers the description of a house – or is it something more than a house?
By Lewis Turco
There is no way out.
Now the windows have begun
to cloud over: cobwebs, dust.
The stairs and floors are unstable –
the hours nibble the foundations.
In the bedrooms, sheets
have begun to yellow, spreads
to fray. Coverlets have worn
to the colors of late autumn,
thin as a draft sifting at the sill.
On the kitchen floor
crumbs and rinds lie recalling
the old feasts. In the larder
preserves rust among speckled jars;
the bins yawn; shadow sates the cupboards.
The fire has been damped
at the hearth: its bed of ash
sinks in pit-holes over brick.
The ceiling snows on the carpet –
Rejoice! Rejoice! The house is failing!