He stood at the altar
a high priest engaged in ritual.
One delicate light
fizzled overhead.
He surveyed the jars
in precise sequence.
Canopic ruins
containing the viscera
of all that was important
to him.
His eyes flickered
calculating the next
stage of the performance.
He opened a jar
and splashed its contents
onto the altar.
Selecting one item
of correct size and shape
he swept the rest back home.
Old hands pretending to be
young and quick.
He replaced the jar
amongst the others
and continued his work.
4 comments:
I think I officially beat away my writer's block. This can be worked on a little more, especially the last stanza, but I wanted to run with it. This'll be my Wednesday post I s'pose.
I left a comment for you and now it's not here. It's in the margin though... let me know if you do not receive it.
After reading your comment on The Things That Mattered, I was thinking about how poetic your comment itself was, and how the image of the altar and the canopic relics would fit into the poem. I tried to figure out where it could fit, but couldn't quite put my finger on it, so I'm glad you found space for it in this poem. The religious metaphor really works here: the moment is holy, and I can feel the spirituality, the otherworldliness, in this moment of work.
This and your previous posting make really nice companion pieces.
To me, both poems are very visual: I can picture the scenes in my head.
And, I really dig the metaphor of the altar and ritual in this poem.
I bet that, living in your grandfather's house, you come across all sorts of interesting and insightful relics.
I am inspired by your inspiration.
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