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 Favrile by Mark Doty 
						Glassmakers,at century's end,
 compounded metallic lusters
 
 in reference
 to natural sheens (dragonfly
 and beetle wings,
 
 marbled light on kerosene)
 and invented names
 as coolly lustrous
 
 as their products'
 scarab-gleam: Quetzal,
 Aurene, Favrile.
 
 Suggesting,
 respectively, the glaze
 of feathers,
 
 that sun-shot fog
 of which halos
 are composed,
 
 and -- what?
 What to make of Favrile,
 Tiffany's term
 
 for his coppery-rose
 flushed with gold
 like the alchemized
 
 atmosphere of sunbeams
 in a Flemish room?
 Faux Moorish,
 
 fake Japanese,
 his lamps illumine
 chiefly themselves,
 
 copying waterlilies'
 bronzy stems,
 wisteria or trout scales;
 
 surfaces burnished
 like a tidal stream
 on which an excitation
 
 of minnows boils
 and blooms, artifice
 made to show us
 
 the lavish wardrobe
 of things, the world's
 glaze of appearances
 
 worked into the thin
 and gleaming stuff
 of craft. A story:
 
 at the puppet opera
 --where one man animated
 the entire cast
 
 while another ghosted
 the voices, basso
 to coloratura -- Jimmy wept
 
 at the world of tiny gestures,
 forgot, he said,
 these were puppets,
 
 forgot these wire
 and plaster fabrications
 were actors at all,
 
 since their pretense
 allowed the passions
 released to be--
 
 well, operatic.
 It's too much,
 to be expected to believe;
 
 art's a mercuried sheen
 in which we may discern,
 because it is surface,
 
 clear or vague
 suggestions of our depths,
 Don't we need a word
 
 for the luster
 of things which insist
 on the fact they're made,
 
 which announce
 their maker's bravura?
 Favrile, I'd propose,
 
 for the perfect lamp,
 too dim and strange
 to help us read.
 
 For the kimono woven,
 dipped in dyes, unraveled
 and loomed again
 
 that the pattern might take on
 a subtler shading
 For the sonnet's
 
 blown-glass sateen,
 for bel canto,
 for Faberge
 
 For everything
 which begins in limit
 (where else might our work
 
 begin?) and ends in grace,
 or at least extravagance.
 For the silk sleeves
 
 of the puppet queen,
 held at a ravishing angle
 over her puppet lover slain,
 
 for her lush vowels
 mouthed by the plain man
 hunched behind the stage.
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