picking up shards

 

the waitress at the table next to me drops a stack of plates and it shatters everything 

 

patrons clap and whistle, offer the required jabs as she kneels to the floor and begins to pick up the shards

 

the first quietly falls into her apron—a large piece—we seem to always start with the large pieces, don’t we?—and it makes no sound, not even a whisper as it’s transported from the unforgiving floor to the gentle, sweeping slope of the waitress’s outstretched apron 

 

so quiet

 

watching her, I know the other pieces will not be so quiet when they reach their destination and, of course, I’m right 

 

the scrape and clink and clatter of shards of china falling onto each other in a woman’s apron is a sound we know, even if we can’t place it; it’s the sound of things constantly finishing and continuing on; that scraping is the dog wanting out again; that clinking is ice in a too-quickly-emptied whiskey glass; that clattering is the child in us pleading, constantly pleading

 

but even this noise—this echoing brokenness—is magic. wholeness is reflected in brokenness—if one looks…or listens

 

the wholeness of a thing that, having served its purpose fully, simply lets go, doesn’t wait for you or I to say, “well, that was the last meal for that plate”, it just finishes in its own time, and with the scrape and clink and clatter of a child laughing at the morning sun, leaps onto an unforgiving floor and shatters everything.

 

and, picking up the shards, we touch over and over the memory of wholeness

Reviews

[Blackbirdsong]

True musicians hear music everywhere they go while the rest of us walk along thinking its nothing. The same can be said of artist and poets of course. We experience life on a different level than most. This poem exemplies that in a wonderfully, powerful and stirring way. This event probably happened and I can imagine you sitting there watching this whole scene and this poem was born in that moment.

This stanza just knocked it out of the ballpark for me -

"the scrape and clink and clatter of shards of china falling onto each other in a woman's apron is a sound we know�even if we can't place it�.it's the sound of things constantly finishing and continuing on�.that scraping is the dog wanting out again�.that clinking is ice in a too-quickly-emptied whiskey glass�.that clattering is the child in us pleading�constantly pleading"

And then this -

"but even this noise-this echoing brokenness-is magic�

wholeness is reflected in brokenness-if one looks�or listens
the wholeness of a thing that, having served its purpose fully, simply lets go�doesn't wait for you or I to say, "well, that was the last meal for that plate."�. it just finishes in its own time, and with the scrape and clink and clatter of a child laughing at the morning sun, leaps onto an unforgiving floor and shatters everything
and, picking up the shards, we touch over and over the memory of wholeness"

Okay to sum up this review I just have to say the next time I break something I will think of you and this poem and I will smile at the thought of such beauty coming from something as common as shards of broken
china.

Bravo!

[Anne Martin]

Oh my, that's good. I can't believe it's taken me this long to find you. There is so much profundity to be found here in these few words.

"Wholeness is reflected in brokenness" as darkness defines light, as noise defines quiet ...

This is going in my favourites (and my lit list if you submit it, hint, hint). Well done!