Blowing Bubbles
—for Lisa
Mourning a mother, I gratefully smiled,
When you sent me a photo of your little child,
To see how she conjured a stream of bright bubbles
And set them afloat, so perfect, untroubled,
Like meandering thoughts of an innocent mind,
To squander themselves on the whim of the wind.
Her face made a picture of stern concentration
As, caught in a mystical act of Creation
(The garden her universe), steadily she
Blew gossamer globes and watched them drift free.
Moments ensphered, time iridescent,
Breath its own prisoner, life evanescent,
They shone and they trembled, suspended in space,
Ephemeral wonders new-born to replace
The fragile, the vanished, the worlds gone before
Which suddenly burst and were bubbles no more.
At her unspoken fiat they blossomed and rose
Where oblivion beckons, where spent beauty goes.
Since God knew the joy of a mother’s embrace
Childhood is hallowed, and play is a grace.
Mothers are daughters, women were girls,
Loss turns to laughter, tears fall as pearls
Then are gone, like the galaxy gaily unfurled
By four year old Ruby, creator of worlds.
Martin Briggs lives in Suffolk, England. He only began writing in earnest after retiring from a career in public administration, since when he has been published in various publications on both sides of the Atlantic.
The universe seen in the fragility of a bubble and a small child. Wonderful, Martin.
Yes, fragility is the word. Thank you Paul.
Every word of this poem contributes to its mysterical, gossameric mood. Can a poem be bittersweet and pungent at the same time? I guess so. All granddaughters like soap rainbows. Perversely, I like to blow soap bubbles with exhaled cigarette smoke.
Thank you, CB. The concept of a smoke-filled bubble has a horrible fascination. A kind of sensory bomb.
Yes, Martin. It’s funny what you see when the smoke is trapped, and even funnier what happens when the bubble bursts.. Pneuma is never inconsequential.
Yes, Martin, the word choices are wonderful, but the bubbles of worlds you’ve structured into the poem as a whole bring forth a galaxy like Ruby’s. The first stanza shows the photo, and the second enters into it such that its two last lines float away. The third stanza begins as bubble description and quickly moves to metaphorical interpretation. The fourth rises to spiritual contemplation of womanhood, and suddenly I remember the poem’s first line, where the speaker is “mourning a mother.” Every word here is a pearl-like teardrop. I especially like the internal eye-rhyme of “daughters” and “laughter.” How did you ever think of that? You’ve shaped a jewel of a poem to treasure.
Thank you, Margaret, for this sympathetic appreciation.