Corner Poem by Frank Avon

All of us should have a corner,
our very own, ours alone,
an offshore island
in the Sea of Dizziness.

First, choose your place:
a corner of your room,
in your study, if you're so lucky,
in an attic or basement,
isolated,
no where near a television set,
a telephone with a silencer
(or none at all) ,
cozy warm,
out of the public eye
so you can be as harum-scarum
as you choose.

Next, light:
a window and/or a lamp.
I'm doubly fortunate:
my bay window
looks out on my rosebed,
on the trees down our street,
three hand-hewn crosses
in the broad, respectful
lawn of a church a block away,
its steeple
against the sky,
the belling tolling its hour
solemnly,
melodiously;

and two (two!) lamps,
a reading lamp to my left,
with an adjustable swing arm,
and a table lamp to my right,
with a three-way bulb,
dusky, dim, and bright.

Then, your chair:
a Lincoln rocker, maybe,
a Laz-y-boy recliner,
a swivel office chair,
preferably worn and comfy,
an easy chair upholstered
in black leather
or a wingback
in plush corduroy
with an ottoman,
a chaise lounge,
if you have room
and the inclination to recline.
I've been fortunate enough
at one time or another
to have all of the above -
except the chaise lounge,
which is not my style.

One other major decision:
you can be as neatly organized
as you choose -
a pocket for this, a file for that,
crannies for everything else,
color-coded,
daily dusted and swept,
books on a shelf
for browsing, reference,
a magazine rack,
a reading / writing desk
with carefully selected bookends,
a colorful lap blanket,
some comfortable scuffs
to slip you feet into.

Or, if you like,
you can be as messy
as your teenage son,
as cluttered and klutzy,
with stacks of books,
magazines, manuscripts,
files, memorabilia,
artifacts that attract you,
pens, pencils, scissors,
stapler, jelly bellies
(oh, yes, plenty of those) ,
paper clips, potato chips,
volumes you promised to review
and haven't got to yet,
laptops, back scratchers,
coasters for sodas
or coffee from Starbucks
(or something stronger -
I recommend against
Jack Daniels or Jim Beam) ,
wastebaskets, recyclables,
floormats, a variety of shoes
(sandals, flip-flops,
foot warmers, loafers, boots) ,
a dictionary, crosswords,
cards for solitaire,
and a collection of paper-weights
(mine are animals: I have
a zooful of them, but I choose
a half dozsen or so
to keep me company)
and a sleeping pad
for your rat terrier
(or, if you insist,
your Siamese cat) .

I think you might guess
from the copious details
which style I choose.
Neat, to me, is picayune,
a bowing to authority,
and I choose never to stoop.

Everybody needs a corner,
a place to call your own.
a place that you choose,
a space you can use,
furnished to your delight,
accessible day and night,
a place to get lost in
and NOT to be bossed in,
a desert island
or a Scottish highland
in your imagination,
a niche for meditation,
not demanding or taxing
but simply relaxing,
a peak to aspire to
or a cave to retire to,
just the place you need
to read and write and read,
a place to let off steam
or just to sit an dream,
to escape to every day,
to cogitate or pray,
a lair for thinking deep
or just to sit and sleep.

A very private center
no one else can enter.

But let me remind you,
the way I've defined it,
if you happen not to own one,
your corner can be

a poem.