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
contemplation
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
merely
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
elaborate

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

scraping

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
subtle
exposure

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

himself
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
believed
really
that his dreaming
while his hands were busy
and the shape emerged
beneath them

put life

heart

and purpose

into the work
that he did


© Frank Prem 2018

Bachelard and me Poem #136: white waits

Advertisements

7 thoughts on “the life in it

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s