Monday, June 06, 2005

Boxed In

I'm living among boxes. I'm sleeping among boxes. I'm dreaming about boxes. I walk around boxes, eat off of boxes, and use boxes as end tables. My cats are hiding in boxes, and my dog is threatening to chew a box apart.

I have just moved into Boston, downsizing from a large house in the suburbs. I love the city. The boxes, not so much.

Are there box fairies that might come and unpack everything overnight? Are they for hire?

I have no poetry books. What posessed me to pack all of my poetry? I have no clue where the poetry is. Did I spell "posessed" correctly?

Anybody know a good poem about boxes, Boston, or moving? Help me out--I got nothin'.


Anonymous Poet said...

I think you should try turning that first paragraph into a poem. It probably wouldn't take much to stylize it up a bit, and/or to extend it a bit (e.g., I drive in a box with wheels).

Eric said...

Just an off the cuff offering...

blooming boxes built
by balding Bostonians
bemused by bubbles

Anonymous said...

Hi Amy,

I'm trying to find a poem "dreaming in color; living in black and white"

The phrase showed for your blog in a search engine, do you happen to know of it and if so where i can get a copy please?

Thanks in advance.

Pete said...

I got nothing about moving, but i know one about moving on....

Pete said...

Sitting alone in a dark room
As a candle slowly burns
I look back on days gone by
When she used to laugh with me,
Days when I used to admire her true unaltered beauty
When I felt her smooth, unbroken skin
The days before she saw her shattered reflection in the mirror

She cried for help
But when I knelt down to pick up the sharp peices
I got cut
My wounds would not heal
Madness slowly infected my veins.
Not knowing what to do I let out a silent scream
A cry for help I wouldn't let anyone hear.
So I suffered through the pain alone.

The wind blows fallen leaves of autumn into the room
I close the window
The clock strikes 12
A new day has come
And the past is even further away

The end for us came just in time
Just before I saw my own shattered reflection.
I'm thankful the end came
For all my broken peices would do is lie there
No one would pick them up
No one would help
I wouldn't let them
No one should ever have tp force a silent scream,
That's not love.

For hours I sit here and watch the candle burn
Thinking about the time I wasted,
The things I should have done,
The friends I should have listened to.

The candle goes out.
I open the window.
Watch the sun rise,
And wait for spring.

Amy said...


Yes, there is poem potential there. I think I need more perspective first though; I'm too stuck in the experience at the moment.

Amy said...

Eric and Pete:

Thanks for you creative contributions!

A note: If a reader feels inspired to write their own poem/prose based on a post, feel free to add it in the comments.

Amy said...


That phrase doesn't ring a bell, sorry. Have you tried or

Robin said...

I think I remember some rather magical poems about boxes by Vasko Popa.