Eric Johnson is a poet living and working in San Diego. He teaches English at Scripps Ranch High School. Eric is a graduate of SDSU. He received his MFA from Warren Wilson College in Ashville, North Carolina. Because Eric is now and has been for many years one of my closest friends, “One Door (An Invitation) is the poem of his that I like best. The poem, the second of two that should be read together, is a perfect blend of the specific and the ambiguous, of individuality and universality, something that isn’t easy to accomplish in a short poem.

ONE WINDOW (NAILED SHUT)
by Eric Johnson

I draw a cabin in the woods,
a place I can be alone. The likelihood
of intruders would be remote
had I not made it impossible.
The terrain’s rugged with thistles and wolves.
Dense foliage hangs overhead.
This place, more like a stronghold,
has one window which is nailed shut
and draped in thatched burlap. I am afraid
i cannot invite you in,
for an invitation would contradict my desire
for introspection. Even at this moment
I betray that purpose--
directing my thoughts to someone
other than myself, the one person
I have come here to understand.
It surprises me you have made it this far,
found the one path I left unmarred.
Forgive me if I erase the cabin door....
picture a ravine between us,
an old rope bridge, an unraveling hitch.

One Door (An Invitation)
Eric Johnson

I want you to know my cabin in the woods
is near, and I’ve cleared a path for you.
For you I slung an axe, hacked back the brush
I once planned to hinder intruders.
Can you believe a hundred snares (or more)
awaited you and the other distractions
who might come with conversations,
questions, jugs of wine? You should know
I tripped those traps I’d set between us.
And now I am rendering a new door,
one whose lock’s unlatched, the wood cracked
slightly from the jamb, craving the unexpected
nudge of your hand. If you cross
the threshold, if you do, walk to the west wall
where, above the hearth, I have hung your portrait,
drawn from memory. Do you see
that small box, the one beside the vase, exploding
with roses? A map is hidden there.
Unfold it and follow the arrows to where
I am composing this poem, imagining
the door, the box, the vase, the map with arrows--
that you would even want to find me.