My Messy Room — Summary

reedjoseph7May 9, 2010Cheerful

How quickly my mind returns to chaos The thoughts in my head jumbling for position My papers like maps scattered here and there My table a mass of settled layers of confusion My laundry muffles the rumbling thud of precision denied, defied, retried, and undermined Shoes here A hat there And my guitar sings amongst them all Calling for me to dance with her some more Wait, wait my child Says my motherly instinct Must clean your space first Hold fast my little one Says the father in me Hold still until things are all clear Clearly I have no clear idea about these proceedings The only children I've ever had were not my own And the only mess I've had to clean Has always returned in a day or so So chaos theory Fractals and all Seems to reign supreme Even in this small, small room With no windows and only one door to escape through I am not alarmed For the pen is mighty And with her slender glide across this present map I am able to chart new courses I am able to illuminate a small path I am able to unblock a stream And the polluted ponds and lakes Gradually churn and spin into rivers and springs And soon there is fresh water To refresh my soul And soon I can arise with new intention And I can slay the monstrous dragons That have been oppressing me The ones I couldn't see until momentarily And I can jump up and sing And my guitar with me And we dance until the space is free And the clutter is pressed back and tucked away Away until another day when papers will once again fall like leaves and leave their crumpled stains upon my music stands and grands and tables and chairs and onto the floors in piles among the shoes hats and dirty long sleeved button up shirts and the tie from the last gig that was tossed down in exhaustion. All this for the next tomorrow Spring summer fall and chill Don't worry, the winds will blow again

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A messy room becomes a picture of a messy mind in this poem. The speaker describes papers like scattered maps, shoes and hats on the floor, and a guitar waiting to be played. Torn between a "motherly" and a "fatherly" voice telling him to clean first, he admits he has no real idea how to handle the situation, and he says chaos theory seems to rule even this tiny, windowless room.

Yet he isn't alarmed. Writing is his remedy: the pen charts "new courses," unblocks a stream, and turns polluted ponds into fresh water. Once his thoughts clear, he can face the "dragons" that were weighing on him, then dance with his guitar as the clutter gets tucked away. The mood shifts from restless and overwhelmed to hopeful and playful. The ending is calm and accepting, though. The mess will return like falling leaves, the way seasons turn, and the speaker seems to take that cycle in stride.

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