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Poem 

Your house is full of objects that I prize –

A marble hand, paperweights that uncurl,

Unfolding endlessly to red or blue.

Each way I look, some loved thing meets my eyes,

And you have used the light outside also;

The autumn guilds collections old and new.

And yet there is no sense of objets d’art,

Of rarities just valued for their worth.

The handsome objects here invite one’s touch,

As well as sight.  Without the human heart,

They’d have no value, would not say so much.

Something of death belongs to them – and birth.

Nor are they an escape for anyone.

Simply you’ve fashioned somewhere that can give

Not titillation, pleasure, but a sense

Of order and of being loved; you’ve done

What few can do who bear the scars and prints

Of wounds from which they’ve learnt a way to live.

By Elizabeth Jennings

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Last modified: September 20, 2006