Well we have reached another Friday, it really doesn’t feel like a Friday but I do have some teaching over Skype this morning to keep me busy.
The sun has been shining here over the last few days and I will be honest I have been enjoying the odd glass of something nice, so this week’s poem reflects that. It also reflects my OCD with regarding washing up, everything has to be washed in a certain order and only one item in the bowl at a time. Anybody else also have this issue with washing up? It drives my family and friends crazy, hence why most things go in the dishwasher in our house.
Wine glasses must be washed first
in water hot as hands can bear, untainted
by the everyday of cutlery and plates.
Rub out the deep red lines, invert them,
stems-up to stand like potters’ kilns.
I think I had forgotten what a poem was
till you reminded me how the world can be made
to scintillate on a single wavelength.
Now I hold the glass up to the light.
The taut brittle arc of its bowl is faith
in the impossible. I rub a moist finger round the rim,
hear a kind of gathering, a resonance that’s neither
glass nor air, but a new place between.
Its high sound fills the kitchen like a prayer bell.