My absence from these pages last week was due in part to a project begun by my sister. We are enjoying a joint foray into the task of creating an online vintage shop.
We’re in the early phases of the project, but far enough along for this poem to take shape from the process.
Selling Vintage
To start a vintage shop, be up to date
And know your selling niche, so you can rate
The values as they move with current trends;
And if you sell old books or old bookends,
Today’s hot markets say the thing that flies
Off of your shelves will bring you some surprise.
Why, so will all the things that stay, collect
Old dust. It’s laughable if you expect
Your tastes to be reflected in the mass
Of customers, whose search, besides, will pass
Your shop up if you cannot pay for ads;
You’re getting what you pay for. And then scads
Of bright consumers want their AI print;
Now don’t you think that you might take a hint
And let tech do the hard work? Never mind
You like the human touch, or that you find
Old memories in things that have been used
And loved and handled day by day, enthused
About by owners, shown around to friends,
Or treasured quietly, a gift one sends
For love or laughter; something for a feast
That’s placed at table’s center, cloth that’s creased
With years of careful storage; orphaned glass
That isn’t quite cut crystal, bits of brass–
You like that silverplated tray? So too
Did Grandma Jones, she liked the white and blue
Of china cups; now only pink will sell.
She kept mementos of the sea–that shell
Is all that’s left; the memories were sweet.
There was the pressed glass bowl in which a treat
Was always kept–some candy when the boys
Came over for the weekend, bringing joys
Aplenty, but the strongest glass brought out
To hold the chocolates. That dish was stout!
Not so the cut glass compote with a rose
And buds etched round as if their presence froze
In molten elegance and leaded gleam.
It was one of a pair she had, a theme
Of diamonds and roses; and she wept
(Though no one saw) the night one touch, inept,
Sent its twin downward in a shivered crash.
What could she do but pick up slivers, wash
The counter, mop the floor, and wipe her eyes?
I love glass compotes too–the slender stem,
The chiseled rim, and ample bowl–a gem
To Grandma Jones, and me–perhaps to you.
And so I mean to offer things that through
The years have value; but perhaps I dream
A little clumsily of what they seem,
Of what they might have been in yesteryear
And may not be today. Ah, well, I trust
To find some buyers who look past the dust
To love the beauty that’s still there, to find
Perhaps some memories or dreams entwined
Among their own thoughts when they see a dish,
A candlestick, a small ceramic fish,
A sterling spoon with scallops, or a lamp
With lovers laughing long ago, a stamp,
A signature, a style that brings our hearts
A little closer to our elders, starts
A small tradition in our own lives’ chain.
I’m still too much philosopher to gain
A living by such suppositions! Wait,
Though–would you like this small, hand-painted plate?
I’ll also ask my readers for their kind thoughts and any spare courage as I deal with another, much more difficult, family issue. As some of you know—though I seldom write about it anymore—I escaped from a very small, evangelical-type, family cult. Unfortunately, I am now having to try to ensure that some remaining legal issues, however minor, are taken care of.
Anyway, I have got my chin up, ready to navigate the shoals as best I can!
Meantime, here is a rather slight, light sort of poem to enjoy at night.
Night Dances
The day has fallen asleep
To silences singing
Of night where it’s springing
Through places where darkness is deep.
The owl begins humming a tune;
The starlight starts dancing
With breezes romancing,
Unchaperoned by the moon.
Yet even the night will fall still;
The laughter and riot
Of breezes fall quiet
Before the first gray on the hill.
*****whatever you need.
*****it's beautiful
*****I hope you share the shop-I love vintage
******are you sure we've never met? somewhere
Oh, Christine--poetry AND thrifting/vintage--two of my very favorite things. What a fun poem.
And the moon poem was as well.
*****
How it saddens me to hear what you've dealt with on the mental and emotional trauma of leaving a cult. May God bring reparation to your heart and soul as only He can.