Poem Hunter
White Room
HC (29 January 1947 / New York, NY)

White Room

Poem By Hugh Cobb

Pain's layered like an onion.
Peel it away, skin by skin,
always finding deeper,
more central wounds
'till at last you reach core:
pain most primal & profound -
separation from that specific divinity
which is our own.

Deepest ache:
a longing
to connect:
to joy to Self to Source.
We sense flashes of that bliss
as we move through life:
sometimes through art, beauty,
peak experiences
(& even great sex...)

but all are hollow,
& leave behind only memories
& a taste of ashes...

all to be forgotten;
all dying with each brain cell
all vanishing
returning to a state of blankness
- tabula rasa -
as if none of it had happened at all:

no joy, no pain,
no remembrance of things past,
no present
the white, white room.

(Copyright Hugh Cobb 1/21/05

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Comments (2)

I find the whole creative process a peeling through layers, bordering on insanity some moments, so the premise of this piece is thoroughly understandable. Unable to ascertain, no matter how many philosophers studied, any sufficient reasonings for our existence on this particular plane, and just maybe there aren't any. A koan of seemingly vast proportions, that can be argued ad nauseum, with the end result balancing equally, each side of the equation. And that goes no matter if you are considering one as silly as the 'if a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound.' Greg
Hugh, you give me such food for though with each poem. I get so frustrated by the incessant dumbing down of art and I love you for refusing to do that. I know you consider yourself a metaphysical poet, and although I agree with that, I also think you are a great philosopher. Keep them coming. Big hugs Anna xxx