Small Luxury

Oct 5 2011

The slender vase

of fresh flowers

is clear glass.

Elegant in its proportions,

with simple unornamented lines.

The table top is also clear glass,

and I see it in a shaft of light

in a crisp transparent autumn.

Tiny bubbles

adhere to the long green stems,

their colour intense

as if magnified.

Flecks of dust

radiant in the sun

move aimlessly above it,

weightless, energized.

I can see the waterline,

the flimsy meniscus

creeping up the side,

the unaccountable attraction

of water and glass.

And a fallen leaf,

held up as if repelled

by the force of the liquid

the unbreakable surface.

The deep red blooms,

succulent, fresh

all bunched together.

Velvet petals

too delicate to touch,

and the heady redolence of rose

as I move in closer.

I sent these to myself,

as I do every week  —

refreshing the vase

completing the room.

The small luxury

of something utterly useless.

Perishable, and delicate

I am reminded how transient this is,

how contingent

the future.

Effervescent water

that ever so gradually

goes turbid

stagnant.

The brief beauty of roses,

the fragility of glass.

Which is also a liquid,

flowing so slowly

I will not live long enough

to notice.

A liquid that contains a liquid

sitting on a clear glass table.

Virtually invisible

were it not for the luminous reds and greens.

Primary colours

that seem to radiate light.

A still life,

that only seems that way.

In this poem, I feel I've gotten tantalizingly close to what I’m almost always trying to attain. All the things I look for:  microcosm …close observation …the intimacy of the first person, without being obtrusive, self-absorbed, confessional (or actually personal!) ...and using the particular to illuminate something universal, yet managing to avoid sounding either pretentious or sentimental. Minimalism …hmmm; maybe not so much!

As usual, not at all autobiographical. What happened was I read an obituary, and in it they said she sent a fresh bouquet to herself every week (with a card that read “from me, to me”) and I thought how vivacious and original and defiant! Then it was just a matter of  painting a picture in words, and seeing where it took me.