Looking for a Quiet Poem
I was looking for a still life poem, something I thought I'd read. I seemed to remember it was near the beginning of a book. I seemed to remember dog-earing it. The poem, I remember, made me feel calm. It made me slow down. There was light in it, a radiant light. Maybe it felt like transcendence. The objects described could have been anything. An apple, a tomato can filled with what someone might describe as weeds. It was a quiet poem and I'm sure it talked about silence. The emptiness of the room, the sturdiness of the table.
Surely the poem spoke of possibility, how anything might happen next. But then it brought the reader back to the matter at hand. These objects in the light and how they're ordinary, really, but also not. How when you give your attention to humble objects, you see them in a different way. The weight of them will strike you and the way the light transforms them, too. It's wonderful that when you read a poem like this, you feel a subtle shift in your soul. The world feels smaller, warmer, more filled with light.
Some objects become holy when placed at the centre of your attention, goes the poem. The objects are looked at long and with love. What has been overlooked is now placed in the centre of your vision. And maybe now the objects shift, the light changes, we begin again.
Then, the poem most likely brings us back to the world after leading us in a revery of depth and song. When the reader finishes the poem, first she sits with it, lets it settle and sink in. Closes the book and closes her eyes.
The poem lends itself to another reading, this still life poem, which I never did find.