Author’s Reflection
House 173 is both an address and an idea. It is the place where solitude and imagination keep company, where a fire’s warmth, a dog’s breath, and the whisper of old wood become instruments of remembrance. In these poems, I wanted to let the ordinary domestic scene - the reading chair, the windowpane, the house itself - take on the gravity of conscience.
The first poem, By Hearth and Horror, listens to the world through art, finding in Shelley’s creature a mirror for human striving and regret. The second, At Window and Whisper, listens through silence, hearing how a house remembers us long after we have gone still. Together they form a small theology of dwelling: that every life, like every structure, carries both its ghosts and its grace, and that being at home is not the end of seeking, but the place from which seeking begins.
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I. By Hearth and Horror
When twilight draped its sable shroud
Upon the boulevard so proud,
I found repose in dining’s grace,
Where time and toil had left their trace.
The chandelier, with softened gleam,
Cast dancing shadows, like a dream;
The hutch restored with patient hand,
Stood sentinel, both proud and grand.
In oaken chair, by hearth aglow,
I opened tales of long ago,
The tome of Frankenstein’s lament,
Where man’s ambition came and went.
Outside, the world in silence lay,
As Bruegger dreamed the night away;
His gentle breaths, a lullaby,
Beneath the amber fire’s eye.
The walls, once touched by tools and care,
Now whispered stories through the air;
Each creak and groan, a testament
To lives and love and time well spent.
And then, the words - those chilling cries,
The Creature’s voice, both dark and wise.
“I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam,
but I am rather the fallen angel…”
Those words did strike me, deep and cold,
A bond forsaken, cruel and bold.
I shuddered there in fire’s glow -
What tale was this, and what was woe?
Yet from the shadows deep and vast,
I heard him cry, “I am wretched, I am vile…”
A heart once full of hope, now torn,
By madness, sorrow, and despair reborn.
For in those words, I saw the cost
Of dreams once pure, but now long lost.
A quest for knowledge, power, might,
That only tore the soul in fight.
As pages turned, the storm arose,
Within the tale, the thunder grows;
Yet in this house, so firm, so true,
The tempest could not pierce me through.
The fire crackled, warm and bright,
Yet in the tale, no end in sight.
The Creature’s cry, “I am alone,”
A tortured plea, a heart of stone.
I felt his pain within my chest...
A soul condemned, no peace, no rest.
So let the Creature’s sorrowed plight
Remind us in the quiet night:
That even in the darkest lore,
There’s solace on this cherished floor.
For here, within these walls so old,
Where memories both warm and cold,
I sit, I read, and in the fire’s light,
I understand his endless night.
And as the Creature’s words resound,
I feel his isolation, bound -
Yet here, within these wooden walls,
A different tale, a gentler call.
So in my chair, beside the flame,
I share with him this bitter shame,
And understand, though cold it be,
That both of us, in some way, are free.
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II. At Window and Whisper
Now silence rules where laughter slept,
And books keep vigil where we wept.
The floorboards breathe, the rafters sigh,
A house becomes its own reply.
The lamp hums softly, keeping time
To thoughts half-mournful, half in rhyme.
Outside, the snow begins its art,
Each flake a ghost with tender heart.
I watch it fall. The room grows thin;
The night folds softly, tucking in.
A teacup cools, a shadow bends...
The hour asks where memory ends.
For here, at window’s frosted seam,
The world feels closer to a dream.
And if a whisper stirs the air,
I like to think that someone’s there -
Perhaps the hands that built this place,
Or those who once filled up its space.
Their echoes linger, faint but near,
Like breath that winter cannot clear.
So I, the keeper of their flame,
Stay up and softly say each name.
The house and I, old friends, aligned -
Two steady hearts, the same in kind.
And though the dark may press its claim,
It finds no fear, it finds no shame.
For peace abides in humble things -
A chair, a hearth, a hound that dreams.
And when the dawn, with gentle art,
Restores the light, renews the heart,
The house will shine, its spirit stirred -
Still speaking love without a word.
GBS jr
2018
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