Thursday, September 27, 2012

THE TEAPOT


It’s old, that’s for sure. Old silver.
I don’t know how old and where it comes from.
Maybe it belonged to your mother or grandmother
who are now no more. And you are no more.
It stands on the kitchen table, in the sea jumble of it
like a lighthouse on its rock in a sea storm.
I unearthed it one day when my small one broke,
I unearthed it from down under in that huge
cabin of a cupboard, the hoard house you left me.
It looks regal to me, a silver acorn on the lid top
in its rind like a pedestal, like those on gravel paths
in the mountains among pine needles and dirt,
like one of the many thoughts scattered in the world
we keep treading on.
 
My morning tea.
I like brewing in it.
I love starting my day with it,
as if feeling the swaddle of history,
at once bathed in my memory of you.
Oh, the handle. It gets so hot
I always need something to cover it,
a napkin, my own sweater even,
not to get scalded when I pour.
 
I am gazing at it now and breakfast is over,
it looks alone and great, undefeated I dare say.
I gaze at the darker spots on its metal, a sky
that will outlive me.
Nothing really can be grasped of the soul
but it sings, silently, like on this silver
and sits, while we just pass, on its own sea.

4 comments:

Jinksy said...

the swaddle of history

What a great phrase...

Dave King said...

Lovely this: I was impressed with the lines

It stands on the kitchen table, in the sea jumble of it
like a lighthouse on its rock in a sea storm.

but the whole poem resonated with me. It is a story well imagined and beautifully told.

Tommaso Gervasutti said...

Thank you Jinksy and Dave, actually I would like to try to put a photo of the teapot in the blog...even if last time I tried to publish a photo it took me ages to be able to do that.

Crafty Green Poet said...

I'd love to see a photo of the teapot, though your words really do make it seem very real without a picture...