Ode on a Wedgwood Urn
It’s a gentle green in colour,
sits on the shelf, still, contained,
containing, and content;
around it, another world
is playing out its immortal role,
in constant movement which
somehow conveys to us, stillness,
peace; there’s order in that world;
and yes, John, you could well call it,
unravish’d quietness: (you said, once,
in your romantic way, that
you were certain of nothing
but the holiness of the heart's affections,
and the truth of imagination;
here's the urn to prove it..)
erect yet relaxed in pose,
hair in a chignon, one hand
touching her neck, the other
holding a rolled scroll, resting
on what could be a reading desk;
she’s elegant, attentive, sensing, observant,
yet full of sweetest silent thought;
she’s said to be Euterpe,
goddess of lyric poetry;
I should respect her, even beg.
Another graceful figure, also
lightly draped, so that her body
is an open yet modest secret,
plays the lyre to some timeless tune of truth;
another leans upon a rough stone column,
absorbed in what another with up-pointing hand
is telling of what reigns above;
beautiful truth; truthful beauty..
a second lyre rests, unattended yet significant,
upon the ground; as if music’s secret musing
remains always there, even when unplayed;
sweeter when heard to be unheard..
three dance together; their lightness,
grace, and ease are simultaneously
celebration and surrender; their breeze-played draperies
tell us how ethereal our holy bodies are,
caught in the breeze of time;
there’s more to them than meets the eye;
but that’s what eyes are for,
they say to us: to see, to know, they’re there..
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poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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