We visitors are whispering, withdrawing from each other. We feel too tall, too loud, navigating all this china, imploring children to be careful.
via In Jane Austen’s House: by John Looker — Bonnie McClellan’s Weblog
This was her writing table, this her chair
(‘Please Do Not Sit’); two bijou items placed
here by the window where the light fell square
on her page from the horse-drawn world she faced.
In a cramped corner the public (that’s me
and you) peer through glass at her neat handwriting;
or we squeeze into the bedroom which she
and her sister shared – until she was dying.
We visitors are whispering, withdrawing
from each other. We feel too tall, too loud,
navigating all this china, imploring
children to be careful. We’re quite a crowd.
We open a door (she would have opened it too,
her skirts brushing the frame) and we pass through.
© John Looker 2017
This appears as today’s poem in the International Poetry Month organised by Bonnie McClellan every February. I’m grateful to her for selecting it and I warmly recommend following the daily poems there throughout this month. They have a unifying thread but are the varied work of different writers from many countries.
Very evocative John. I can almost hear her skirt rustle!
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By: gorgeousgael on 13 February, 2017
at 15:23
Thanks Tom – it’s nice to hear from you.
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By: John Looker on 13 February, 2017
at 16:26
Hooray, people still write sonnets. Your rhymes flow naturally, never forced. Wonderful.
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By: Brian Dean Powers on 13 February, 2017
at 16:42
I’ve been busted: my guilty secret (that it’s a sonnet) has been rumbled! Many thanks though Brian!
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By: John Looker on 13 February, 2017
at 17:45
Evocative, John. I shall remember it.
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By: Bonnie Marshall on 13 February, 2017
at 19:12
Thank you very much Bonnie.
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By: John Looker on 13 February, 2017
at 20:09
I feel instantly teleported to that wondrous room. I love it, John!
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By: elainestirling on 13 February, 2017
at 19:43
You’d love it Elaine. And thank you.
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By: John Looker on 13 February, 2017
at 20:10
Just lovely, John.
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By: zdunno03 on 14 February, 2017
at 00:58
Hi Leonard – thank you.
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By: John Looker on 14 February, 2017
at 09:20
You’re welcome, John. It’s always a pleasure reading you.
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By: zdunno03 on 14 February, 2017
at 09:29
I remember this John. It is a magical sonnet and deserving of notice and publication. The sonnet evokes so much, the idea of passing through the artifacts of a life, the awkwardness and seeing what was used in another life for another purpose, but feeling the power of the writing and even beauty in that room, the mystery of time as we pass through, remembering, but also, for a moment, touching on timelessness and the idea that our brief passing through cannot leave a trace on either time or the artifacts preserved to let the too big and tall and crowded see . . .
Sometimes poems evoke more than they say. This sonnet really does that.
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By: Thomas Davis on 14 February, 2017
at 22:13
I do appreciate the close reading you have brought to this sonnet, Tom, and the generosity of your comments. I was fortunate that her house, which was kept almost as though she had walked out only that morning, was such an inspiration. Best wishes.
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By: John Looker on 14 February, 2017
at 22:40
As a script writer, I go with the observation of Mr.Thomas Davis, John
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By: krishna Prasad on 29 July, 2017
at 17:11
That’s very kind Krishna.
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By: John Looker on 29 July, 2017
at 18:09
Nicely done! You move us like a fine film director to experience a series of perspectives of a space, step by step more estranged from ourselves because identifying with the other, until that magical moment that we ARE what we see, or are in the same narrow space– that last brushing of the doorframe by the skirt. I feel I must sat “Excuse me, Jane, this IS YOUR house, you go first.”
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By: Tom D'Evelyn on 16 February, 2017
at 05:31
That’s a delightful observation Tom (“excuse me … … you go first!”). Thank you so much for that. J
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By: John Looker on 17 February, 2017
at 14:51
Delightful and giving a strong sense of her presence in rooms too small to accommodate the gawpers of the future.
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By: hilarycustancegreen on 16 February, 2017
at 21:19
That’s very kind – thank you.
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By: John Looker on 17 February, 2017
at 14:52
Such a good poem, John. You’ve perfectly captured that sense of awe we feel visiting homes such as this, where once the great lived and worked, genius somehow still aquiver in the very air, their living presence seemingly just a heartbeat away, the sheer actuality of their long-ago world as we pause and wonder…
Yes, I like your sonnet very much.
Paul
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By: Paul Beech on 20 February, 2017
at 23:16
That’s very kind of you Paul – thank you.
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By: John Looker on 21 February, 2017
at 10:34
I have tried sonnets and it’s HARD! They can sound stilted and yet this is fluid and alive. I love this- the opening and certain lines strangely evoke the Last Duchess.
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By: Polly on 28 February, 2017
at 22:15
Hello Polly – thank you, it’s very good of you to say that. I remember thinking that I wanted a form of poem that would have been familiar in Jane Austen’s time but that I needed to combine that with a 21st C conversational voice (a bit like Browning, yes, although I would have felt somewhat intimidated had I thought of his example!).
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By: John Looker on 1 March, 2017
at 08:11
I enjoyed this, John – especially those last few lines.
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By: Betty Hayes Albright on 7 March, 2017
at 02:39
Thank you Betty – it’s nice to hear from you.
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By: John Looker on 7 March, 2017
at 07:44
Reblogged this on Site Title.
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By: azuremorn on 9 May, 2017
at 14:01
Wow.
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By: Cynthia Reyes on 25 August, 2023
at 21:46
Thanks so much Cynthia.
This poem has recently been selected by Bennison Books for an anthology they are publishing. They invited me to suggest a few of my poems, but this was one that they particularly wanted. I think it fitted their theme.
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By: John Looker on 26 August, 2023
at 08:55
Excellent. Congrats, John.
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By: Cynthia Reyes on 5 September, 2023
at 00:17