Thursday, March 3, 2011

The Glass Studio

I see him through the walls of his cell;
walls made of glass that blind him;
he cannot see me waving.
He found the key in his studio room,
emptied the bottles that said DRINK ME
until he fit through the little door
into the walled garden - and was gone.
Tears poured as I bashed the bottles.

I watch as she walks along the shore;
Isis, Queen of Heaven,
gathering bits of sea glass in her bag.
She sees me wave.
In her studio over the dunes
a new creation will rise
from shards of broken bottles,
battered by drowning tides.


  1. More delicious glass. I thank you.

  2. Oh Ann ... A hard, hard rite of passage, living in a bottle-shaped prison, getting out through the worst of doors ... I once wrote a poem about drunks on the beach whose seaglass eyes the sea rolled like dice. That the shards of broken bottles could become part of a seaglass mosaic of resurrection, life from death -- in the studio of Isis, which is where all creation begins -- perfect. But what a cost. - Brendan

  3. Brendan, Thank you. I wrote the poem last August and more or less hid it in The English Laundress. I couldn't post it with my bird notes and flippant observations. But since I became involved in the River of Stones writing project and immersed myself in a whole new course of study, it seems, of poetry, I thought I could take the poem out of its closet and spill it's tears over these pages --- and this reply---