The exercise:
Let's go with: the carpenter.
We got some more seeds planted in the greenhouse today, but otherwise it was another day of resting because I'm still not totally healthy yet. Getting a bit frustrated about that.
Mine:
He examines the wood,
Measuring tape holstered
And saw at the ready.
A few quick pencil marks,
Then he begins to work,
His breath and hands steady.
He sets it in its place
With his hammer and nails,
His focus never roams.
With a smile on his lips,
He works from dawn to dusk,
Building his town's homes.
4 comments:
Hi my name is Aaron. I just found your blog and think it is really great. I really respect what you are doing here. I am a beginning writer.
The Capenter
Strong and silent at your practice
A work of mind and stable wholeness
The ends all meet a new beginning
and cut away the act of spinning
Saw through the eyes of dead trees
You leave no traces of your weaves
Silent and strong you hold together
The unaware inside your shelter
Heya Aaron, it's always good to meet another writer here! I like your poem, I think you've done a great job of capturing the spirit of the carpenter without ever mentioning him -- which shows how well you're describing him.
@Marc: Heh, here in the UK you don't get so many wooden homes; I think they'd rot in our winters in no time! Still, the rhyme-scheme you've picked for the poem is nicely executed, and the rhythm never falters. Nice work :)
The carpenter
Always rosewood. All his best pieces were fashioned from rosewood, no matter how large or small. The wardrobe he'd built, four doors, eighteen shelves, and it never fit inside the house. She'd sold it after he died at auction and it fetched nearly C$100,000. Which was still less than he'd fetched, slumped over an antique chair after his heart attack.
Always rosewood. She sighed, and stroked the lid of the coffin. He'd built them one each, keeping them in the garage, just in case. And after all that, he never got to use his. She supposed she ought to sell that as well, but it was so beautiful.
She pushed the lid to one side, wondering what he'd lined the coffin with, and the shock nearly killed her too. He'd lined it with sheets of beaten gold.
Hello Marc,
I miss writing here. I miss writing. There are things transpiring that have taken much of my energy and thoughts.
I have no idea what, if anything, is being played in Canada or England or any of the other wonderful places your participants live, but Wisconsinites are protesting over the proposed policy changes that have been put into two various "budget" bills. I use the term budget lightly. From my experience, no one in the media has really gotten the story quite right. And I am not about to go into it fully.
Instead, I thought I would include a link that doesn't pick sides, but gives a very neat look at what my beloved city has looked like for the last 3 weeks. http://www.tourdeforce360.com/madison_protest/
I promise to come back when the protesters have cleared out. I hope it is with a light heart and I dread it will be with a heavy heart and plans to move to Canada..... more seriously than ever before.
Sincerely,
Heather
Aaron - welcome! I'm so glad you found the blog and I'm thrilled that you're sharing your writing with us :)
Really liked your poem - it flowed nicely and you had some great imagery in there.
Greg - I quite like your carpenter. That sounds like a lovely coffin to have waiting for you (though I'd probably sell it long before it got to that point).
Heather - my thoughts are with you and I'm hoping for the best.
Since Kat used to be a high school teacher, I've been watching what's been going on in the States recently with a heavy heart. I hope reasonable heads are able to prevail.
We'll be here when you're ready and able to write again :)
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