The Room

(first moment)

There was a white door

Lurking the other end of the corridor

Entrance to a room tacked on

To the end of the colonial house

That was his room and locked

He was in Hong Kong he said

And in the soft summer

And lazy Zambian heat

It tempted. So I reached for it.

It swung slightly ajar

The lock slipping open

And drew me in.

There was no light save a single shaft

Pouring in from the one window

The other four were shuttered

With plans and drawings tacked on

The dust swam circles in the light pillar

Shelves stacked with books

Piles of paper leaning against the wall

Pens in glasses and ink on everything

Chaos was ordered if you looked

Jumbles had names and numbers

Set into rough readiness

Marked “Powder”, “Artillery”

I snuck out my short self

A little wiser about those hours

He would spend in there.

I would later call it Alchemy



By Ali.A.Naqvi


NOTE This is the end of a cycle of twelve poems written that explore the relationship I had with my father. I call this cycle the Twelve Moments. This may be personal but please comment. Also, the order is going to be chronologically backwards on the blog. So the last poem to the first. The aim is to walk back through my life to the first moment from the most recent. If you're reading this, you're at the end of the cycle.