March 7th, International Muntins Day, in a way. What are the chances of my unearthing this, a poem upon that subject, by the Edwardian character whose output I increasingly seem to stumble upon? Irregardless (as someone I knew used to say), here it is – and posted with pleasure on the one-year anniversary of my own trifling gimcrack, rag-tag-and-button-box but nonetheless earnest little blog post on the matter of a newly-discovered word.
Though no poet or critic myself, I get it enough to understand that the authoress / poet is looking at her reflection in a window – around 1915? (the year, not necessarily the time of the evening), and finding it noteworthy that she’s seeing herself ‘carved’ up by the gridwork of muntins. And yet at the same time this sense of incompleteness is what she treasures as the very thing that makes her whole. Which is quite sweet. Plus, I guess, there’s the window / life analogy in the last two lines. Apologies if all that’s screamingly obvious.
Not sure I get the ‘macaroon’ reference, though.
Muntins, by A Lady
Out of the window’s dusky pitch
Black as the heart of any whore,
A life is pitched back at me which
Will answer not to earthly law.
Though perfect in my lovers’ sight
The window carves me as the moon
Is split by forces of the night
Like a whore or grotesque macaroon.
Wooden imps! you machinate
To conceal what I alone have seen,
That the best of me is situate
In the spaces in between.
I will reflect upon forever
That which obscures an engorged heart,
For what binds us close together
Also holds us quite apart.