I've tried countless times to upload a video tour of my writing desk. Those attempts being fruitless, I thought to myself, "Hey dummy--this blog exists primarily for writing, does it not? And this desk is also, potentially, designed to be written on, yes? So, why not write a poem, or some such thing, about my writing desk?" I bet you all wish you'd thought of it. But you didn't. Or maybe you did, and were too lazy; or maybe you actually wrote a piece, but determined that it was mediocre and, in defiance of Kim's impetus to share everything, kept it yourself; or maybe you simply decided that such self-indulgent behavior was frivolous and not worth anyone's time. Well, the first describes my delay; the second, a road (evidently) not taken; and the third--well, that one never occurred to me in the slightest. So, here it is.
The Desk: An Arrangement of Wood and Metal, or the Crux of All Man's Creative Endeavors? (Probably Somewhere in the Middle.)
This room--this one, right here--
Used to be wallpapered
In typical juvenile fashion
Germane to a time of fluff
And the deeply unsettling knowledge
That there is something wrong
First with pink and blue toy soldiers
Expressions: vacant
Mouths: nonexistent
Then with athletes and non-sequiturs
(RUN! STRIKE! HIT!)
Outlines: Indistinct
Logos: Unfamiliar
But how rude of me
The desk is what concerns us
I guess the afore(was)mentioned
Because that's how things used to be
But not how they are
No NOW
The walls are khaki
The comforter: also
And the desk: black as two coats
of semigloss can get
Except where daylight comes through
On chipped corners, worn edges
The things that call it home
(Now this is where it gets mundane
But also enlightening
That's what I hear this poetry bunk
Is about, after all)
Are as follows
An unpredicated list
Of objects collected and acquired
(That's what I hear this poetry bunk
Is about, after all)
A cork board
(Well it isn't made of cork
But you get my meaning)
Supporting a framed facsimile
The good ol' family crest, Ryan
The silvery disembodied heads
Of three griffins
Malo mori quam foedari
A motto suited
For my pelt-clad ancestors
Though more of a novelty to me
A calendar, free
In some anonymous issue
Of a not-quite-girlie mag
Some hardworking latina miss
Or maybe just pretty
In elaborate stilettos
I'm not sure how she's helping here
(But hey, want is want, m'I right?)
And, obeying gravity
The device on which I "write"
A tool of versatility
Both in use and in cause
Of headache
An IKEA lamp
Adjustable angle and brightness
A necessary evil
Or perhaps just inescapable
And, ah, the cup of pens
With a souvenir letter opener
From Toledo, where Spaniards once went
For all their decapitating needs
And pencils, let's not forget them
After all, there was a time
When we were encouraged
To say what we felt
Until we said what we meant
(That's what I hear this poetry bunk
Is about, after all
[Hey, it works here too])
To our right, a stack of yearbooks
Taking care of nostalgia and regret
Seventh grade timid and pencil-necked
Eighth grade bolder
Though with even less fashion sense
Ninth's an odd one
Snapped hastily in front of a white wall
And apparently none too excited
(But I won't bore you
Suffice it to say
I grow handsomer and handsomer)
There are other books, too:
Man's Search For Meaning
Outdated travel guides
Novels by Vonnegut and some guy
Who went to Princeton
And here's one I don't recognize
101 Best Cover Letters
A pinch, a prod
From my mother
Who wants the best for me
But is still lousy at subtlety
There's stuff in the drawers, too--
But that's another poem, people
Did I mention my desk talks?
If not I should have
He says and I quote
In an acidic baritone
(Perhaps unbefitting its appearance
But what do I know about that)
"My name is Colin's workspace, desk of desks!
Look on my hard, flat surface, and despair!"
He's not very original, you see
With any luck
I can help him with that
Though you'll forgive me
For being skeptical
-Colin Ryan
