To Hold a Candle
Can I begin to convey adequately the significance of the lit candle in the dimensions of imagination if you cannot already relate, in some way, to what it means to take heart from a struck match...?
I'll sit us there, if you're willing, for a moment.
It's a bright incandescent rhombus, a square turned-- perfect. A diamond. That is the surface of the lighted table. It floats in an otherwise seemingly borderless space. It might be said to be literature unmade, a meandering mess, reaching for oxygen. The way a book is closed, and the cover glares.
A darkness on so many levels. Lit.
We seldom eat here, though there is a freezer-fridge. It functions entirely as a closet, unplugged. We keep our cash in a pickle jar on the center wire rack. It is the kitchen in name still, and the wood table itself is like a plain slice of bread. Lightly warm toast. It's spread with books, and papers, and dotted with the Holy Bible in the center, and anchored by a pair of brass candlesticks.
We're dressed like we're going out.
I mean in padded pants and jackets. Hood, hats, layers on layers, and the kind of gloves "real artists" wear-- with no fingers. We cut them off ourselves in frustration, then splurged, and bought a couple of $4 pairs pre-made. Whether we're slowly sipping the second pressing of a shared teabag, or reading aloud in a near whisper, or silently writing and sketching some quixotic idea, the thing that keeps us glued and heartened, is the tiny glow of the eyes of two candles.
The poverty of less would demoralize.
Of course we can share, one. But two represents us better, each burning at the wick, at astonishingly even tempo. It is a kind of understated miracle the way household emergency grade wax melts at a fairly predictable rate. We know we have about two hours. I speculate that it's the extra chill of our surroundings that keeps these candles hardened.
Each should only last an hour-- according to the package.
staples
a candle used to be light
it used to be my utility
heat and safety pack
a must for weathering
the storms of every day
imagination
it used to be
the illusion
on the kitchen table
of getting more, for less
it set the atmosphere
like steaming tea
now it's truly luxury
I hold the glow in my heart
a reminiscent blade
and haven't seen one
in years, close up.
not safe! I tell myself
battery operated...
it's like I've grown clumsy
among infants in old age
04.10.2024
A lit candle challenge @KarenKitchel
Failsafe
As I bent forward to blow the only candle on my birthday cake, my mate Dave quipped:
"Shouldn't we have moved on to LEDs with a switch? Imagine the possibilities: colours, even blinking in sequence!"
I know Dave's a funny bloke just taking the piss but after the party, over yet another beer, I reminded him:
"Hey mate, about those LEDs--"
"Sorry man! I was being silly."
"I know," I continued, "But I had a think about it--"
"What? Such an awesome party and you were thinking?"
I laughed. "Yeah, I am like that. Anyway, we could move to LEDs and all the bling but a candle is a constant. It is a reminder that legacy systems don't fail. It helps us stay grounded, connected to the past. Electricity has enjoyed, what, 100-plus years? The candle has been around for ages!"
"Bravo! Must be the VB talking" Dave lifted his bottle of beer flashing the brand.
I made my last comeback.
"Mate, I'll be sure to light an LED on your grave!"
The sudden expulsion of beer spray from Dave's mouth was pure joy.
Lit
temptation
noun
the desire to do something, especially something wrong or unwise -
oxygen escapes
the lit candle
by some mechanism
or maybe that’s
carbon dioxide
I failed chemistry
with a 59.9%
grade point average
my professor said
if you pass the next test
I could bump you
to a D minus
the candle flickers
indifferent
temptation
noun
the desire to extinguish
what wasn’t there
to begin with
Relativity in Wax
A lit candle is a relative thing
The burning stub of a wick
The present fueled by wax and string
The future drilled down the candlestick
My eyes leave the wick aflame
Travel down the cylinder
Within which, is future, constrained
Until I can go no farther
From the flame of the present
To the dry wick lying in wait
The future, twice as incessant
If the other end burns at the same rate
And then there was light
Shadows creep slowly from the corners of the room. Outside, the last golden rays of sunset disappear in the dusky light. On the table, a candle sits vertically in a tarnished brass candle-holder, flecked with drops of wax and a thin layer of dust. The man crouches in the darkening room, head cradled in his rough, leathery hands.
The door creeks open and a shock of curly hair appears from the gloom. There's a faint rattle as the boy's young hands push the thin cardboard box open and a scratch of red phosphorous as he flicks the thin wood of the match against the comb. With a hiss, the head flares to life - casting eerie shadows around the room. In a second, the burst of white flame shrinks to small golden orb, with a hint of blue - rapidly munching the sliver of white pine.
The boy holds the match gingerly to the blackened candle wick - waiting for the heat of the flame to melt the wax - and jump to feed it's insatiable hunger. The match is almost spent - just a powdery, shrivelled stick of black - and the flame is licking at the boy's fingers.
The wick catches, just as the boy drops the match to the table and grunts with pain. The flame started as a kernel, but as the wax vapour rises, it flickers and grows. It grows and flickers. One centimetre, two, three. The candle dances on the wick, a thousand different colours and none at all.
Satisfied with his work, the boy retreats behind the wooden door to scratch about in the kitchen for something to eat. The man sighs. The candle dances.
