I Mourn The Death

I mourn the death of plangent
metal, terra
cotta pots on plots with their slow ease
of seepage, their semi-
permeable firmness, earthy
to the touch, I mourn

the death of honest wood, we've
done wood no good in our race
to long chain polymeric plastics, they

lead only to plastique as disaffected
anarchy tears loose
the dogears of disappointment, the anointed
oilsheen of textures that
cloaked our fathers' field-fingers, their
workshop hands, the simple

implements of daily drudge yet
pleased the senses in those quiet
moments between sunbeams, I

mourn the death of wood, we've
done wood no good

Crawfordsburn, Ireland December 11, 2000

POSTAMBLE (sic)

I was looking at a pint-sized terracotta jug on the kitchen windowsill today when it occurred to me, that

terracotta breathes—it lets both air and moisture circulate inward and outward and then I thought of its plastic counterparts, how terracotta flowerpots and urns have been pushed out by Walmart's long chain polymeric brittle, non-permeable clones.

Got to thinking further—remember those dishwashing things that had solid wooden shafts with about six semi-circular plastic sponges fixed to the end. You would shove this piston-like into glasses full of soapy water and feel the satisfaction of knowing it was reaching every nook and cranny—made glass-washing a breeze.

Then, one day you walked into the Navy Exchange or the Piggly Wiggly or The Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company and suddenly-----they were gone, to be replaced by copies with thin plastic handles.

First time you shoved one of these into a glass . . . it buckled . . and after a few uses it just cracked and broke.

Ruminated for awhile on how so many of our favourite implements (and wooden clothes pins suddenly jump to mind as well) have been abandoned in favour of replacements that simply don't work.

Plastic clothes pins are made brittle by sunlight and break unexpectedly when you're holding a couple of king-sized sheets in your teeth—Bah!

Brass and copper came to mind, and pewter and more so I wrote a short epitaph to these pleasant things that we often can only find in antique shops now—even though some are only 10, 20, 30 years old.