If I were a painter, I would paint portraits of paperclips,
pencils, eyeglasses, keys, and all manner of minutiae--
take them and blow them up to the scale of a Rivera mural,
epic and sinister, so you are confronted by the legions of details
that pass and will pass again through your hands:
The amarillo landscape of number-two pencils,
the guillotine edge of a sharpener,
shavings scalloped and fan-shaped,
smelling of carpenters.
I would paint the flat pink gum of their eraser tops and
profiles of eyeglasses, black-and-white like old century cameos,
all flutes and wings. I would detail the dentata of keys
and let your imagination fill in their companion locks
with their curves and openings.
I would scoop subjects from file drawers and antique shop corners
and forgotten dusty top-shelf cabinets, rusty doorknobs, rubber bands,
all things trusty and handy, sticky tack, glue,
pill bottles with just two or three pills left inside them
or else those troublesome cotton wads. Metal washers,
spools, pins, rattling loose under papers. Odds.
Ends. Knicks. Knacks.
From hands to landfill they pass.
Bric. Brac.
Grown. Sewn. All these things that we’ve made,
assembled by someone. Manufactured, labeled,
brought, bought, possibly patched--
by themselves, all perfectly innocuous,
insubstantial as a tuft of grass,
even natural, the way these things clutter and accumulate,
the angle of repose. Correction fluid, tape.
Buttons and brooches.
Bobby pins, safety pins, whistles, jars.
Teabags and teapots. Crystal balls, cards.
Pistols and pocket watches. They only have weight
when you lift them. In jumbles like this,
they become junkyards of words, flea markets
of meaning. A wick, a brick. A fuse, refuse.
A candlestick, a pixie stick,
dishes and spoons and running shoes.
Calendars hung on walls or flat on desktops,
carefully X out the past, line up the future in squares.
Every day is boxing day. Due dates and deadlines
scold in red ink like Gideon Jesus remarks.
Late payments, penalties, sweetness even
parceled out in cubes or rectangular
brightly colored packets, but loosed in jolly cascades.
We live for the momentary riot of crystals,
the trails of creamer, the stir.
We couldn’t do without,
and yet—
This is the scarf that held back your hair,
and I do not find a single overwhelming question,
but hundreds, whispering as they fill my cupped hands.
My cupped hands are not enough for the weight
of these revelations. So I open my arms.
I get my back into it. I lift.
I haul these fragments in by the purseload and dump them out
for you to peruse. If you’re seeking common ground,
this is it: prayer beads, seed beads, anal beads, condoms.
Beads of sweat. A string of pearls.
Pearls of wisdom. Pearly gates.
This is the thread, and these
are the delicate knots
that catch in your teeth.
How many times a day do I say the words, “Thank you,”
as I am passed something?
How many times have I felt gratitude?
In passing, I open my hands.
I surrender. I share.
Your fingers brush mine,
and this
is the stuff
I leave behind:
Skin. Bone. Fillings. Stone.
Author notes
Complete overhaul of an old poem.
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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This is fantastic. You have a very strong voice.I love your use of words and imagery.
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hey, I really like this. it is really good.
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deceptively articulate
"In jumbles like this, they become junkyards of words, flea markets of meaning."
Well, you certainly got to the meaning at the end!!
I liked the rushing vibrancy, the impelling, complelling way it forced one to read on. And then smack! right between the eyes.
"....so you are confronted by the legions of details
that pass and will pass again through your hands..."
Indeed, you accomplished this, and set the reader up for the ending.
[? Does the form and layout of the poem reflect the way you speak aloud? If not, perhaps a different formatting of the lines would give even more emphasis. But that is my prejudice.]
language: 3, rhythm: 2, subject: 5, tone: 3, form: 2.
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Wow.
I can't even start on how amazing this is... -
Fabulous.
Packing up one's stuff and moving is an emotional time that brings to bear that dichotomy so achingly yet necessarily drawn between trash and treasure. When moving, or rifling through heaps of stored stuff I often feel like burning it all and going to live in a tent in the woods. At such times I remember the advice of Jesus to the rich man: "if thou wouldst be perfect, sell all that thou hast, distribute it to the poor, and come follow me."
I reflect on this passage at such times because I believe we all-too-often become slaves to our stuff, categorizing and shuffling and storing and holding on tightly to things that we think define us, things that we think make us who we are because the world says that we are quantified by what we have; that prestige is measured in money and recognition and possessions. And it's true, such is the treasure of this world; but it won't last forever. Who we are and how we have lived our lives will. The only lasting impression left in this life is written on the "fleshy tables of the heart"s of those we love and serve, or don't. And I think this becomes crystal clear when we pack up our stuff and move. What will remain of us? As you so aptly put: skin, bone, filllings,(of the deceased body) stone(the headstone above). Such is the only material thing that remains of us, proper, on this earth. This post-mortem matter is of little worth but to remind all of the life lived that it represents, for good or bad. If we're lucky, we leave behind other "matter", versions of ourselves to carry on with what we've striven so hard to become, (hopefully a positive aspiration).
This was fantastic, pie. I think I got that this, in short, is about the reflective state that befalls each of us as we pack our lives into boxes to move. We see who we have been, who we are, and are reminded of who we should strive to be. I felt like I was inside your head as you cleared out your stuff and packed up.
al
language: 5, rhythm: 5, subject: 5, tone: 5, form: 5.
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Gosh. Well this poem opened my eyes to so many different things. I love the almost reverse circularity of it, going from the inflation of tiny objects to the degradation of a human soul to so many raw materials. Fascinating. The joy of the simple things, and the comparatively enormous joy of the exciting things. Hidden importance under our eyes. This poem is a smorgasbord, if you will, of ideas.
Beautiful language, Wonderful old-style images, and a unique voice. There is one single critique that I feel I can offer, and that is a simple matter of organization. It may be entirely your intent, but I found my mind racing throughout the poem, trying to work out how each stanza related to the last? The poem as a whole is stunning, but I think the constituent parts could connect better if you made clearer transitions between them?
Again, though, you clearly know what you are doing.
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