in the workshop

Poem #148 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction

he was a man
who dreamed
within the tooled space
of his workshop

among saw and plane
chisels and mallets
and dust
he would find himself
in reverie

his hand
thing of strength
had only to run
along the length
of a piece
of aged blackwood
or salvaged walnut

or fiddle-backed redgum

and he would dream
the ways to shape it

the things he might craft
while minimizing
any waste
of precious material

so hard to come by

his dreams were rich
filled with the deep wood colours
and the smells
of stain
and of polish

at home
his personal cabinetry
was thin stuff
chipboard and veneer

laminate plastic
on top of artificial wood

his bed
was mattress
on base

plastic wheels

no wood

at night
when sleep came
he dreamed restlessly
in a toss and turn of near agitation

becoming more tired
as the night progressed

relief would come
with the light of morning
and the prospect
of another day
of wood
and of dreams
in the workshop

© Frank Prem 2018

Bachelard and me Poem #149: to judge


8 thoughts on “in the workshop

Leave a Reply

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

You are commenting using your 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 )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.