My Study At Night Poem by Diana van den Berg

The day’s tattered, shattered nerves
bathe their wounds in the stillness.
This haven - book-impregnated -
Stimulates my mind,
Soothes my spirit
And I again become my friend.

The cheap prints above me cannot mask
The serenity of the Dutch and Flemish masterpieces.
Vague shapes on another wall
Sail into seas of blue-grey mystery.
Brown and ochre soften white
In the autumn of the day.

My clock, wood-carved and old,
Slowly ticks away each pregnant minute.
At quarter hours, I hold my breath
And listen to the mellow notes
Soft-echoed soon by other clocks in other rooms.
Age and time and grace
Are mingled into one,
In this, my sanctuary à moi.

My massive, hand-built, yellow-wooded desk
Bears marks of character
And stains of use
Dealt by hands unknown to me.

My music is
Now symphony of passionate wind and sighing trees,
Now tenor-voiced crickets penetrating
The depth of night in poignant song,
Now haunting oboes creaking odes to Rain,
Now Rain herself, whispering at my window-pane
Or thundering on the roof and gurgling in the gutters.

My friends are all around,
Bound
In leather, cloth and paperback,
Free
To speak
And speak again.

Brown canine eyes look into mine
And we delight in our mutual understanding.

Psychiatrists say there is no communication
And acquaintances ask why I work so late.

(±1976)