The Still of The Night

"Rooms" - (2011) Brian Henry

"There are rooms that know you, rooms you know
& can name, rooms that rise & stutter
into view if you stare long enough.
Rooms where nothing happened
but in your head, where the world went on
apart from you, you trying to rise to it.
Rooms with walls of white blocks,
one window, the only sound the bang
bang banging of the headboard
against the wall, your bed still.
The room where the bed fell on you,
the room where the hand going down
was not your own, the groping tongue
the proof. The room you talked your way
out of, four men of monosyllables,
thick arms & necks flushed pink,
closing in, emptying the air between.
The room where you were walked in on,
the room where you were the walker,
both times the last time in that room.
The room with no door, a woman
across the threshold, you crawling to her,
over her to the bathroom to press your cheek
against the white, your name
an indictment among the stalls.
The room the sun never touched,
the sound of cars dropping you to sleep,
your pupils large & hungry for light."


While cruising the electronic byways of poetryfoundation.org, I came across this little gem. It struck me straight away as being indicative of the human experience. It was subtly reminiscent of the illusion of reality, memory, and the falsehood of imaginative processes. I momentarily hesitated to share this poem, due to its violent accuracy with which it portrays a wandering and wanton mind. After some quick research into the author, however, I decided it would be appropriate. Apparently, Brian Henry lives in Richmond, Virginia of all places, and teaches at the University of Richmond no less. He's a translator, professor, poet, and critic whose work has been published internationally. I find the fact that he currently works at a university central to this poem, especially a university in Richmond. Published in 2011, this poem seems to draw inspiration from the contagious environment of student life and the Richmond area. There is a palpable, urban quality to this poem, that would seem to relate to the Richmond area. The cold and salacious sexual allusions, the “walls of white blocks,” with “one window,” the “indictment among the stalls,” “the room the sun never touched,” “the sound of cars,” all seem evocative of a certain industrial and indifferent setting. I frequently find myself writing work that is very similar in style while located in Richmond. There is a unique disconnection and disunity of man and nature within city limits. There is a sort of Kafkaesque ambience in the poem, and also in Richmond. Many of the same themes are brought up in “Rooms” as are in “The Metamorphosis.” Isolation and apathy seem to go hand in hand with the fast-paced, career-oriented lifestyles of cities. There is a kind of population paradox that occurs, where the more people who live in a limited space, the less intimate and inclusive human relations become. The incessant contact with the obscene, the absurd, and the tragic also seems to dominate the content of artists enclosed in such cities. Writing can often serve as an outlet to identify and examine the psychological impact of living in such urban decay, and that's why I chose not to shy away from this poem. I think it is something that is identifiable and cathartic to all people who live in such tight quarters, and is, therefore, invaluable as a work of art.