Thread: The Heart of the Candle

This Beeswax candle
they say will burn for a day and a night.
Give me the empty honey cone staff,
twenty four hours of costly flame,
so I can feel the heat stolen from my heart.

The thief is no lover of mine,
nor the family who stole the child.

It is I who batters love
with a dead dove
waving it around
like some kind of victory flag.

Let’s face it.
I’m no mawkish woman
who writes lacey letters or
pours sweet syrup in your
desert, deserted eyes.

I sit in an easy chair,
knitting fat sweaters like my grandmother
who taught me how to pull the wool over people’s eyes,
who taught me that if I love it’s my own fault.

I have her picture hanging over my empty bed.

When I wake, my hard foot makes a horrid impression
on the fluffy white rug my mother chose for me, she
who taught me that first impressions are lasting ones.

I used to watch her as she bowed to the book everyday.
Emily Post, her pristine black and white god.

Give me grandmother any day.

My words,
I tell you, they're better than being someone’s soup.

It’s nearly midnight now
and the Beeswax candle is saying its prayers.

Such a long warmth for this small heart.
　

Hmm, this is one of those poems I can't understand, but it seems to me like the narrator is like the person described in "Bitter Waters." Y'know, cold, bitter, withdrawn... The second verse seems to be the key to the whole thing... *scrutinizes*

Thank you for taking the time to read, Trieds. You did get a feel for part of the poem "cold, bitter,..." but the narrator is not withdrawn. She nearly shouts. Laurie

Funny that Trides should mention Bitter Waters. I'll wait for someone to come along and throw some light on this so I can understand better, just like I'd done for Bitter Waters .

Have never read "Bitter Waters". I suppose I should look into it!

Haha. It's Gumby's - Structured Verse section.

Ha! I thought you both were talking about a character in a book so I did a search and did find "Bitter Waters". A Sci-Fi book. And I'm going "Wha?" Gumby is a brilliant writer and this teaches me to stay more on top of her work! I thank you and Trieds for the great compliment. (Cindy, I'm sorry I missed that one!)

It is I who batters love
with a dead dove
waving it around
like some kind of victory flag.

striking image, Laurie. (no pun intended)

I sit in an easy chair,
knitting fat sweaters like my grandmother
who taught me how to pull the wool over people’s eyes,
who taught me that if I love it’s my own fault.

Another nice image. I'll certainly be back for more reads to absorb all that's being said here.

I agree with Trides in that I don't fully understand it but i'll have a bash at it:

This Beeswax candle
they say will burn for a day and a night.
Give me the empty honey cone staff,
twenty four hours of costly flame,
so I can feel the heat stolen from my heart.

To me this comes across as wanting to be able to feel passion for someone but at a cost; knowing the relationship will eventually burn out. The only part I am not 100% sure of is the 'honey cone staff' (am I being dumb here?) What is it?

The next lines seem to explain a little further:

The thief is no lover of mine,
nor the family who stole the child.

It is I who batters love
with a dead dove
waving it around
like some kind of victory flag.

The thief being someone (which you point out is 'no lover') who took the passion from your heart and left you with the inability to fall in love.

I also echo Gumby's appreciation of the great imagery you convey, particularly the lines:

I sit in an easy chair,
knitting fat sweaters like my grandmother
who taught me how to pull the wool over people’s eyes,
who taught me that if I love it’s my own fault.

I have her picture hanging over my empty bed.

When I wake, my hard foot makes a horrid impression
on the fluffy white rug my mother chose for me, she
who taught me that first impressions are lasting ones.

The first stanza comes across as a deliberate portrayal of someone laidback, homely and soft (pulling the wool over peoples eyes - brilliant!) but actually not letting anyone in, hence the empty bed and the picture of your grandmother to serve as a reminder that if you love someone it's your own fault.

This is a really deep piece Laurie and I could sit and pore over it all day, although parts seem cryptic I really did enjoy reading it.

Thank you for sharing it.

Patricia

Like others, I found this quite cryptic but I love your imagery, it's absolutely fantastic.

Interesting the walk through the generations and the way we fight their influences. Nice work, Silvermoon.

Cindy, thanks for appreciating the imagary ( I can never help myself!) That your willing to give it another read humbles me. Thanks, again

Patriica, thank you for your very thorough review and questions.

the empty honey cone staff,

I'm using imagery to describe the candle. Staff being the candle stick. The Beezwax candle has actual honey comb impressions.

The thief being someone (which you point out is 'no lover') who took the passion from your heart and left you with the inability to fall in love

The narrator is not placing blame on anyone for turning out to be cold when it comes to love. We all make the choice to wallow and blame our demons. She chooses to not to be a victim and takes full responsibility for being the way she is. She cannot bear to think of herself as being a victim. She needs to feel in control.

And I'm always flattered when someone takes notice of my imagery. Thank you.

the empty bed and the picture of your grandmother to serve as a reminder that if you love someone it's your own fault

Absolutely correct.

Thank you so much, Patricia, for enjoying this piece. Laurie

Revious, Funny thing. During the writing I never intended to make this poem cryptic. But I'm glad it's allowing people to dig in and think. I always love a challenging poem. Like figuring out a puzzle. And I'm very glad that you enjoyed the imagery as well!

Van, I thought you had disappeared! So very glad to hear from you.

we fight their influences.

Yes. The narrator is a fighter but to a fault. She'll not no love due to grandmother's influence. She bucks her mother's attempts to refine her. She finds her mother to be superficial and conventional. She's a sad, angry woman who will most likey never take the brave chance of falling in love. As said before, she needs control. Thank you for dropping in, Van. I'm honored. Laurie

Question for you, Law, did freaking "Richard" have anything to do with this? Just curious. At first, I was confused by staff, but then I realized you meant stick as in candle not wood. I need to ask, "nor the family who stole the child", you know what I'm thinking, am I right? Rotten buggers. I have to echo Cindy regarding S3, to die for, what an image, indeed. Kudos. In S4, I'd drop the or down to the next line, or pour in rapid succession sounds better to me, but that's just me. In the final line, I think you mean dessert; desert, deserted eyes has me confused. Gram's picture hanging over your empty bed is wonderful, way to drive a point home showing and not telling. I absolutely adore this:

My words,
I tell you, they're better than being someone’s soup..

so very clever. The last three lines are freaking genius. Wonderful piece, Law, one I can relate to entirely. The brutish image of that dove has clawed it's way into my brain, that one I'm keeping forever if it's okay with you.

Ha! To my conscious mind "Richard" played no part in this poem. But beware if I do write about him!

"nor the family who stole the child", you know what I'm thinking, am I right?

Yes. You are certanly correct. Though, this is not a Confessional poem. More about describing the plight of the human condition. There are certain parts which are true to my experiences. For instance:

I used to watch her as she bowed to the book everyday.
Emily Post, her pristine black and white god

I practically teethed on "Emily Post's Etiquette for Young Girls". But this was step-mother who I later enjoyed rebelling against. At age 14 I wore nothing but black. Should this surpirse anyone?!

In the final line, I think you mean dessert; desert, deserted eyes has me confused.

No. I meant "desert". I was going to employ "dry" eyes but thought I'd use some imagery. "deserted eyes". The man representing men has been deserted by some force in life. It's not the narrator's job to heal. She is bitter and cold, afterall.

My words,
I tell you, they're better than being someone’s soup

My favorite, too. At first I wrote "My bitterness, I tell you, it's better than being someone's soup" then I realized it would be redundant. Bitterness is implied throughout the poem by "showing". Why "tell"?

The brutish image of that dove has clawed it's way into my brain, that one I'm keeping forever if it's okay with you.

My dear friend, you may keep it but don't make too much of a bloody mess! I know how you keep such a sanitary home.

And note to everyone: I have a very large, giving heart. This was a "portrait" poem.