A Simple
Gold Band
Nov 9 2013
A simple gold band
on the ring finger
of the left hand.
I'm not a fan of ostentation.
In fact, this is all I've ever worn,
something sure of itself
unadorned.
Like all the classics,
understated
immune from fashion
sure to last.
We become more comfortable, with age;
softer in the middle, settled in,
A simple gold band
on the ring finger
of the left hand.
I'm not a fan of ostentation.
In fact, this is all I've ever worn,
something sure of itself
unadorned.
Like all the classics,
understated
immune from fashion
sure to last.
We become more comfortable, with age;
softer in the middle, settled in,
ambition, giving way
to complacency.
And even fingers thicken;
the modest ring
20 years on
fixed,
as permanent as the digit itself.
While the solemn vow
it consecrates
is irrevocably gone.
If only the feeling of loss
would go, as well;
this amputation,
with its phantom limb
and hollow pain.
~~~
And when the ring
was finally pried-off
the naked finger remained,
leaving a deep pale impression;
a circle, completed
a journey
an end.
In only a day
the finger was smooth, virgin
unfettered.
As if a jeweller
buzzing into soft malleable metal
could expunge 2 decades
of life together
promise revoked.
As if 24 carats
in a bureau drawer
was only worth
its weight in gold.
Another poem that has nothing of autobiography. I've never been married. Never engaged, or even co-habited. And I wear no jewellery, not even a watch.
In fact, this piece came from a Stuart McLean story (of CBC Vinyl Cafe fame): the one where he gets his tight wedding ring re-sized, it slips off, he thinks it's been eaten by a duck, and hilarity and hijinks ensue. The poem has a diametrically different tone, of course. But what stuck with me was the image of the bare finger with its impression of the freshly removed band; and, even more, its priceless value. (Especially since any ring I've ever tried to wear gets immediately and irrevocably stuck. I have thick proximal inter-phalangeal joints (knuckle joints) that act like one-way valves: rings go on easily enough, but don't come off.)
I very much prefer the plain gold band. I find beauty in simplicity: the unornamented and unadorned. I like the symbolism and reciprocity of this elementary act: the exchange of identical rings; both partners quietly proclaiming to the world their lifelong allegiance. I like the idea of a concrete symbol of something spiritual, and of its 24 hour-a-day constancy. So while weddings may have become horrendously overdone, the custom of the ring still feels true.
Other than that, this is a plain-speaking poem that needs no elaboration. I almost always aspire to the prose poem and its easy conversational tone. Which is essentially a free-standing paragraph of unerring cadence, and word perfect -- no excess, nothing left out. Yet does so without the constraints of formality, depending purely on the writer's ear. This is hardly that; but at least closer than usual.
And even fingers thicken;
the modest ring
20 years on
fixed,
as permanent as the digit itself.
While the solemn vow
it consecrates
is irrevocably gone.
If only the feeling of loss
would go, as well;
this amputation,
with its phantom limb
and hollow pain.
~~~
And when the ring
was finally pried-off
the naked finger remained,
leaving a deep pale impression;
a circle, completed
a journey
an end.
In only a day
the finger was smooth, virgin
unfettered.
As if a jeweller
buzzing into soft malleable metal
could expunge 2 decades
of life together
promise revoked.
As if 24 carats
in a bureau drawer
was only worth
its weight in gold.
Another poem that has nothing of autobiography. I've never been married. Never engaged, or even co-habited. And I wear no jewellery, not even a watch.
In fact, this piece came from a Stuart McLean story (of CBC Vinyl Cafe fame): the one where he gets his tight wedding ring re-sized, it slips off, he thinks it's been eaten by a duck, and hilarity and hijinks ensue. The poem has a diametrically different tone, of course. But what stuck with me was the image of the bare finger with its impression of the freshly removed band; and, even more, its priceless value. (Especially since any ring I've ever tried to wear gets immediately and irrevocably stuck. I have thick proximal inter-phalangeal joints (knuckle joints) that act like one-way valves: rings go on easily enough, but don't come off.)
I very much prefer the plain gold band. I find beauty in simplicity: the unornamented and unadorned. I like the symbolism and reciprocity of this elementary act: the exchange of identical rings; both partners quietly proclaiming to the world their lifelong allegiance. I like the idea of a concrete symbol of something spiritual, and of its 24 hour-a-day constancy. So while weddings may have become horrendously overdone, the custom of the ring still feels true.
Other than that, this is a plain-speaking poem that needs no elaboration. I almost always aspire to the prose poem and its easy conversational tone. Which is essentially a free-standing paragraph of unerring cadence, and word perfect -- no excess, nothing left out. Yet does so without the constraints of formality, depending purely on the writer's ear. This is hardly that; but at least closer than usual.
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