My father’s serviette ring,
silver incised with a design
of Scotch thistles, the central medallion
uninitialed, a blank oval.
The two massive
German kitchen knives, pre-1914, not-stainless steel,
which my mother carefully scoured with Vim
after each use.
My daily use
of these and other such things
links me to hands long gone.
Medieval con-men disgust and amuse us;
we think we’d never have fallen
for such crude deceptions-unholy
animal bones, nails from any old barn,
splinters enough from the Cross to fill
a whole lumber-yard.
But can we
with decency mock the gullible
for desiring these things?
Who doesn’t want
to hold what hands belov’d or venerated
were accustomed to hold?-You? I?
Who wouldn’t want
to put their lips to the true chalice?
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| DENISE LEVERTOV 1923-1997 NOTED BRITISH-AMERICAN-RUSSIAN POET |
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denise_Levertov ("At the age of 12, she sent some of her poems to T. S. Eliot, who replied with a two-page letter of encouragement.") ("She felt it was part of a poet's calling to point out the injustice of the Vietnam War, and she also actively participated in rallies, reading poetry at some. Some of her war poetry was published in her 1971 bookTo Stay Alive, a collection of anti-Vietnam War letters, newscasts, diary entries, and conversations.")
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