the life in it

Poem #135 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction

in truth
he had allowed himself
a small indulgence

a little mindless
while he worked
the knife
the narrow chisel

it always came on him
that way
as though the job
did not require
his active thought
his presence
somewhere behind the clever-work
of his hands

the root had been formed
into a gnarl
shaped into a character
that he could discern

that he could

a shapely knob
that he could place
at the end of a stick

a gentleman’s walking stick

his work today
was delicate

cleaning with the knife


shaping with fine touches
of the chisel

but at no point
imposing himself
his will
on the form
that he sought
to release

the character
was already present
in place

only requiring his

and so
there was no room
for his thinking self
to become involved
when hands
with their sensitive fingers
upon the wood
and knowing grip
on the tools
could work so much better
without him

in his contemplation
he daydreamed
of walks overland
climbing gentle slopes
ambling along
to the cheerful sounds
of a small watercourse

and the dog

and today’s stick

he wouldn’t ever do it
of course
it was just a daydream
and the stick would be sold

but he felt
that his dreaming
while his hands were busy
and the shape emerged
beneath them

put life


and purpose

into the work
that he did

© Frank Prem 2018

Bachelard and me Poem #136: white waits


7 thoughts on “the life in it

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