Nicholas Olah has self-published three poetry collections, Where Light Separates from Dark, Which Way is North and Seasons. Nicholas’s work has been published in Humana Obscura, Free Verse Revolution, Querencia Press, Duck Head Journal, Resurrection Magazine and Wild Roof Journal. Check out more of his work on Instagram at @nick.olah.poetry or visit his Etsy shop at https://www.etsy.com/shop/nickolahpoetry.

He can be found on Threads and Instagram.

The blinds are closed 
but there’s a red-orange glow 
coloring the wall that faces my bed.

I’m a kid on Christmas: 
wide-eyed and curious at how ripe 
the morning is with possibility.

I could peek outside and swallow 
the sky’s full scope, take its picture 
and call it pretty—

or lie here, letting it be 
as I imagine it in the eye 
of my mind.

How ceremonious: 
the curtains of the world’s stage lifting 
to a new day.

Welcome to the second issue of Subtext! Today, I’m doing a deep dive into a wonderful poem by Nicholas Olah. As you can see from this poem and his other work, Nick is an excellent poet. I came across this poem that he shared on Threads and it just drew me in. It’s a delightful look at a sunrise and waking up to the morning. If you look at this poem on Threads, you’ll see the picture that inspired this piece.

The blinds are closed 
but there’s a red-orange glow 
coloring the wall that faces my bed.

This poem begins with the very concrete image of the colors of the sunrise bleeding through the closed blinds. Because light always finds the cracks and squeezes its way in. Oftentimes whether we wanted it to or not. But it’s a relatable image; I can feel the morning heat on my eyelids as the color seeps into the room. I can see the light on my eyelids, and that momentary blindness when you try to blink yourself awake. But the brightness can make you want to keep your eyes closed. But how do you tell the sun, “Five more minutes?”

But it’s still fun to think about what else that “red-orange glow” could be. And what about a reading without the photo? Does the poem contain enough within itself to provide the reader with enough information that this poem is about a sunrise? I think the obvious answer is, “yes.” Especially as we move into the next stanza. But we’ll get there in a minute. This just shows how much meaning and subtext (see what I did there?) can exist within so few words and so few lines. And how language, and what we say can be changed or informed by what we don’t say. Omission is just as vital in poetry. And often, what we don’t say can have a larger influence on what meaning the reader pulls from the poem. And really, this idea of being closed off and then being invaded bleeds into the next stanza as well.

I’m a kid on Christmas: 
wide-eyed and curious at how ripe 
the morning is with possibility.

Here, we are immediately greeted with eagerness and enthusiasm. An invasion doesn’t have to be a negative thing. It can be welcome. And this stanza immediately changes the tone to something joyous and fun. The invasion of the sun through the closed blind is a welcomed one. The speaker is a “kid on Christmas: / wide-eyed and curious at how ripe / the morning is with possibility.” I love that. “How ripe / the morning is.” It even ties back into the “red-orange.” That fruit-based imagery is wonderful, and it ties together in a really neat way. You get the image of a ripe orange. The tang of the citrus flavor and juice. The pleasantness of biting into the fruit and the juice dripping. That is the type of possibility the morning has. Possibility that you can bite into, with that burst of flavor and juice that explodes into your mouth. This is a wonderful image, and it really evokes that feeling of being excited for the day and what it may bring.

From there, the poem moves on.

I could peek outside and swallow 
the sky’s full scope, take its picture 
and call it pretty—

or lie here, letting it be 
as I imagine it in the eye 
of my mind.

The speaker begins to explore the options he has for the morning. To observe it and view it as a thing of beauty. Or to stay where he is and imagine what it could be. Both options presented here are interesting. Neither one of them really capture forth any action when you dig into it. “I could peak outside … take its picture / and call it pretty.” This stanza acknowledges the morning. But notice the blinds aren’t opened. The speaker peeks through them, peeks outside. Taking a picture and calling it pretty. It’s a memory. A keepsake. Like a trophy or a trinket that you would capture and then magnet to your fridge or set on the mantle. Notice it in passing. Observe it. But when you capture it like that, you aren’t participating, are you? You don’t engage. You keep it at a distance and simply acknowledge that it exists and has beauty.

The active language in that stanza is in juxtaposition to each other. “Swallow / the sky’s full scope, take its picture / and call it pretty.” That first bit is so active and so engaged. The speaker is so enthralled by the idea and beauty of the morning they want to consume it, devour it, and own it. The idea of swallowing evokes wanting to consume the whole of it. To take all the sky has to offer and to bring it into themselves. This is in contrast to the following line of taking a picture. Which, you may notice, I addressed out of order. On purpose. Because, at least to me, it seems that the poem glosses over the first option quite quickly. It seems like less attention is provided to the concept of swallowing the sky. The poem ruminates on the inaction more than the action. At keeping the day outside instead of bringing it in. The next stanza is entirely dedicated to that idea: “lie here, letting it be.” Here, the speaker takes no action. He doesn’t swallow the sky, nor does he take a picture. There is no peeking. Instead, “I imagine it in the eye / of my mind.” The speaker is content to stay in bed, to stay still, to stay in action, and simply imagine what the day could be.

But, this all shifts in the last stanza:

How ceremonious: 
the curtains of the world’s stage lifting 
to a new day.

Up until this point, all of the imagery and description and possibilities centered around one thing: the blinds remaining closed. Now that all changes. “The curtains of the world’s stage lifting / to a new day.” Symbolic or not, the curtains, the blinds have opened, fully allowing the sun to enter the room. To fully embrace and accept the day and its possibilities, its action. And there is a kind of ceremony to this, to the acceptance of a new day. Regardless of whether we turn off an alarm and roll out of bed and into the shower, hit snooze several times, or take our time with a cup of coffee, we all kind of have our own ceremony.

That grand unveiling of a new day can be magical. It can be filled with all the possibility and excitement of a child waking up Christmas morning. In a manner of speaking, this is a grander metaphor that each day is a gift. And isn’t it? Regardless of how we choose to greet the day (or not) and spend it, it is a new day, ripe with possibility and wonder. Nick’s poem is a wonderful ode to the sunrise and to the day. I really enjoyed reading through how he described it, and the movement throughout the poem. It begins with closed blinds and the sun peeking through. And it ends with throwing the blinds open and welcoming the day with open arms: the stage of the world.

Nick, this was such a wonderful poem. I really enjoyed spending my time in it and exploring. You have a lot of fantastic images here and I love the conceit of comparing the sunrise to fruit (even if that’s a connection I made and it wasn’t intentional) and comparing the sunrise to the curtains of a stage. Your movement throughout this piece is wonderful and it really takes some time to digest each stanza. And I can totally envision someone laying in bed, watching the sunrise shining through the gaps in the blinds and wondering about the day and what it brings. This was a delightful poem and I’m really honored you let me feature it an issue of Subtext.