by Aldous Huxley
Still life, still life ... the high-lights shine
Hard and sharp on the bottles: the wine
Stands firmly solid in the glasses,
Smooth yellow ice, through which there passes
The lamp's bright pencil of down-struck light.
The fruits metallically gleam,
Globey in their heaped-up bowl,
And there are faces against the night
Of the outer room--faces that seem
Part of this still, still life ... they've lost their soul.
And amongst these frozen faces you smiled,
Surprised, surprisingly, like a child:
And out of the frozen welter of sound
Your voice came quietly, quietly.
"What about God?" you said. "I have found
Much to be said for Totality.
All, I take it, is God: God's all--
This bottle, for instance ..." I recall,
Dimly, that you took God by the neck--
God-in-the-bottle--and pushed Him across:
But I, without a moment's loss
Moved God-in-the-salt in front and shouted: "Check!"
Last updated January 14, 2019