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
there
among saw and plane
chisels and mallets
sandpaper
and dust
he would find himself
in reverie
his hand
hairy-backed
thing of strength
had only to run
idly
along the length
of a piece
of aged blackwood
or salvaged walnut
ash
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
now
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
210418
Our Aaron doesn’t have a garden of his own
LikeLiked by 1 person
That seems an awful shame, Derrick. He appears to do a fine job for you in your garden.
LikeLiked by 1 person
He does. Like so many younger people he is now priced out of the housing market
LikeLiked by 1 person
Same over here. Big houses, small blocks, and costs to the sky.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You have summed up the anxiety and the deep craving of snow artist.Beautifully penned, Frank.
LikeLiked by 1 person
And there is no shortage of that anxiety. Thank you Megha.
LikeLiked by 1 person
My pleasure Frank
LikeLiked by 1 person
Of an artist..sorry for the typo.
LikeLiked by 1 person