Poem
Vahni Capildeo
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At night, you see, there seems to be one lit room. Who is at its exit, in the doorway, back turned? The soft rectangle of human frame widens. Who waits within the metal edging? In this state of nervousness, forearms go cold seconds before hands catch fire, excessive lotuses of flame. Would you – two dark torches loose at your sides – would you walk into the first of the long dark corridors in a building that consists more nearly of corridors than any that should ever have been designed? Each corridor runs like a spill of milk on a black tile reflected in a smoked glass ceiling clapped on the width of one layer of a hotel. These corridors are dark; you would feel them all like paleness? Though there were light I could not name their handcrafted nougat colours, gentler, intentionally washed-out. I walk in the dark, and you feel the walls’ paleness? For we ourselves are luminous. Except we do not give off light.
© 2006, Vahni Capildeo
From: Dark and Unaccustomed Words
Publisher: forthcoming,
From: Dark and Unaccustomed Words
Publisher: forthcoming,
Vahni Capildeo
(Trinidad and Tobago, 1973)
Vahni Capildeo is among the most respected and loved poets writing in the UK today. Opening any of their many volumes will demonstrate why, but no single collection shows the huge breadth of their range – for Capildeo’s reputation is based on ceaseless innovation and exploration. Their first book, No Traveller Returns (Salt Publishing), appeared in 2003 and the latest, Skin Can Hold, will be pu...
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At night, you see, there seems to be one lit room. Who is at its exit, in the doorway, back turned? The soft rectangle of human frame widens. Who waits within the metal edging? In this state of nervousness, forearms go cold seconds before hands catch fire, excessive lotuses of flame. Would you – two dark torches loose at your sides – would you walk into the first of the long dark corridors in a building that consists more nearly of corridors than any that should ever have been designed? Each corridor runs like a spill of milk on a black tile reflected in a smoked glass ceiling clapped on the width of one layer of a hotel. These corridors are dark; you would feel them all like paleness? Though there were light I could not name their handcrafted nougat colours, gentler, intentionally washed-out. I walk in the dark, and you feel the walls’ paleness? For we ourselves are luminous. Except we do not give off light.
From: Dark and Unaccustomed Words
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