It’s time for a whole new poetry prompt and playlist! Wrap your ears around our latest collection, we’ve searched far and wide to find just the right songs for you. Our playlist invites you to step away from the hustle and breathe deep the earthy scent of woods and balsamic resins. So pour a cup of coffee, come sit on our front porch and let’s see what creativity we can carve up.
Here’s a poem by American poet John Pierpont. He describes passing down the art of whittling to a new generation:
“Whittling”
The Yankee boy, before he’s sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns, while he hears his mother’s lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And in the education of the lad
No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor’s art,
His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart,
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,
His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,
You’ll see his ship, “beam ends upon the floor, ”
Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanch,
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.
Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven,
Ere long he’ll solve you any problem given;
Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,
A plow, a couch, an organ, or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,
Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block—
Make any thing, in short, for sea or shore,
From a child’s rattle to a seventy-four;—
Make it, said I?—ay! when he undertakes it,
He’ll make the thing and the machine that makes it.
And when the thing is made—whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o’er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand’s upon it, you may know
That there’s go in it, and he’ll make it go.
—by John Pierpont
POETRY PROMPT: You’re watching an old timer peel away layers of wood with a pocket knife he’s had since boyhood. What is he whittling? What does it tell you about him?
***
Photo by Phillipe Put. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.
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Richard Maxson says
Apocrypha
—after Robert Pinsky’s From the Childhood of Jesus
The days returned to small things away from Bethlehem,
forgotten was the tattered sky, wool-gray
wings scattering the flocks, the cacophonous night
lost in the shearing of the lambs and fear of lions.
The Son of Man began his trade with shavings
fallen from the blade of Joseph’s adze;
he found wonder in the fragrant cedar curls
and challenge in the way they broke when pried.
Like birds torn from the sky, he buried them,
with the secret ceremony of a child,
cupped out each hole and made twelve tombs of sand,
and prayed in wishes well beyond his age.
All children four live in a world they’ve made,
omnipotent, they might invite you in;
Jesus, one-hundred cubits from the house
when found, said, “Before Abraham was, here I am.”
Long before temple elders spoke of him,
his precocious understanding of the law.
Awake at night, the parents of Immanuel
whispered with fear and bated wonder,
in the valley of Nazareth, about the progress
of their baby boy, the God of Light,
while the constant song of nightingales
trilled from the dark and sudden cedars grown.
Heather Eure says
This is wonderful, Richard. It’s a remarkable thought that Jesus found wonder in curls. Me too.
Donna Saliba says
The Whittler
Whistling,
An old man
Wishing away the hours
Whittling wood,
Wondering where time went.
Thoughts wandering
To the woman,
His wife,
Who went away.
Whistling,
Whittling.
Waiting
To see her
Once more.
Richard Maxson says
Donna, the very natural structure of the repetition in this drew me in. The placement of the word “Once” coupled with its “w” sound seemed to sum up the entire poem of someone there in spirit and not there in form. Stuff like that makes my hair stand up when I read it. I don’t know if it was intentional or not. If yes, it is very good poetic craft. If it was not intended, it still demonstrates the innate genius of poetry.
Donna Saliba says
Wow! Richard, Thank you so much for your wonderful comment! It came at a time when I was actually wondering if I could have written a better poem! I posted on my FB page that I really loved the repetitive sound of the “w”. Thanks again and feel free to check out my other poetry if you are on FB. It is under “Professional Prose”. Have a great night!
Elizabeth Marshall says
Donna, an official welcome from one of the three poetry barristas here at Tweetspeak. Wonderful to see you here among the poems and prompts and people playing with words. Welcome.
Donna Saliba says
Thank you! Glad to be sharing here!
Heather Eure says
I second that, Richard. You summed it up brilliantly.
Sandra Heska King says
Seconding that welcome. Tea? Toast?
Heather Eure says
I like this very much, Donna. His longing is felt.
Donna Saliba says
Thank you, I am certainly glad you enjoyed it!
Robbie Pruitt says
Carve
The old man
Sits and carves
Entrenched lines
Like wrinkles
In the furl of his brow
Layers are stripped
Like mines
As he whittles in time
Slivers curl back as years
With shavings and tears
As remnants fall like shrapnel
To the cutting room floor
In disciplined craftsmanship
The essence of childhood
Is revealed in wood
As the toy soldier stood
The old man salutes what is lost
And what would never be understood
© November 5, 2014, Robbie Pruitt
Heather Eure says
Oh, this is very good Robbie. The constant carving and creating and stripping down is the nature of life. Thank you for sharing this. It also kindled thoughts in my mind of our veterans.
Donna Saliba says
This is great! I think we are all constantly peeling back layers of ourselves and your poem showed this beautifully!
Robbie Pruitt says
Thank you for your comment Donna! May our layers continue to reveal our truest selves as the peel back through time.
Robbie Pruitt says
Thank you Heather! Thanks for picking up on our veterans. This was there intentionally. The boy used to carve soldiers and imagine great battles. In his old age he understands the costliness of war and has seen it first hand. He has his own carved lines from the experiences of being on the front lines. He has seen the horrors and carves the memories as he longs for innocence lost. I actually retitled the poem latter last night to “Carved Wooden Soldier”. Thank you for your comments and thoughtful response. Glad you enjoyed the poem.
Richard Maxson says
Robbie, this is so appropriate for Veterans Day. It also captures the nature of carving: revealing something my stripping away what it is not.
Monica Sharman says
“What the Old Man Does”
Wanders off-trail to search for a branch—
and it can’t be too thick, too dry or too curvy.
Flips a blade out of the Swiss Army knife
he’s carried some fifty-odd summers.
Finds a thick fallen tree to serve as a bench
while he whittles the end of that stick, presses
the blade to the bark at an angle and flicks off
knots and bumps and moss that’s grown
on the branch from the day it fell down on a pine-needle bed
till the day the old man would climb up this mountain
and find it, whittle the end of it,
press a fresh marshmallow into its point
and turn it slowly over the firepit ring
surrounding hot embers, a square broken off
a Hershey bar on a graham cracker
waiting on a fire-warmed rock.
Heather Eure says
Monica, so clever! Your words had the fragrance of green wood, and then a whiff of vanilla. So unexpected. A delight.
Richard Maxson says
Monica, the description in this is wonderful. What a fitting end for an old branch, to roast a marshmallow.
Sandra Heska King says
Oh yum. And now I’m thinking about the sticks my dad whittled… not just for marshmallows but for biscuit dough wrapped, roasted, and then filled with squeezed butter and honey.
SimplyDarlene says
“Ember to Dust”
Amber, notched
sprinkled with ashes
a single cigarette
burns, ember
to dust
Leather-clad tools,
sharpened last
decade stand ever
ready, lonely in his
red, coffee tin – good to the
last drop
He tongue-flips
lemonheads
side to side in practiced
saliva moist succession. Licks
cracked lips
up, down
long necked giraffes – known
from storybooks;
proud, inflight eagles; thick chested
steads – ridden over pastures,
years, no more
whittled in intricate detail. Today
he shaves away
excess, scrapes slow,
sharp – scarred, soft hands tremble
pocketknife blade
lines blur
lonely, he sits at green, metal
kitchen table. Misshapen – a larger left
lobe, nonetheless he
finds my heart
Blind
in earthly eyes, grandpa
sees into my
soul –
amber, notched
sprinkled with ashes.
* I posted it on my site, with an image here: http://simplydarlene.com/2014/11/06/ember-to-dust/
Heather Eure says
I can picture him, Darlene. Full of years with calloused hands, holding gently your heart. Thanks for sharing Grandpa with us.
Richard Maxson says
Darlene, what a wonderful photo to go with your poem. I love the lemon heads references. Those red coffee cans full of surprises are a great memory. Your ending seems to indicate your soul is very much like grandpa’s.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Tired
Shavings
Sit piled at his weary feet
By his well worn boots that match his face
Leathery lines
Deep crevasses carved by time
No amount of Botox
Were he so inclined, would mend and fill
The valleys of his face
Fitting
As they mirror this, his art
He carves
Dying
Art form
Knives and men
Paired on benches
Fade into the once was
What is it
About carving something from nothing
Must be close to godliness
Bringing form from void
Something from nothing
Bit by bit
Boney fingers
Sweeping along the piece of Hickory
Cryptic
Curling crooked
Like a school boy practicing his cursive
Bit by bit
He whittles away, aiming not for perfection
But to simply pass the time
His shavings blow like thistle seeds, released
By the currents, backdraft
Of the 5:04
He’ll return
Find his place tomorrow, smooth impression
Of his own backside
Made by years of sitting here
Tired of his retirement
Weary from too much rest
Rocking forth and back
To the sounds of
Metal scraping down the tracks
Carrying the 9 to 5’ers home
He and his Hickory
Left to sit, count the minutes
Count the days
Whittle away
What remains
Memories, bit by bit
Fade in messy piles by his weary feet
His Hickory chips
And the tail lights of the 5:04
Dim
He’ll form something from the void
Aiming not for perfection, but simply to pass the time
And pray to God
To grant him rest
(He is so tired, he is so very tired)
Of whittling away his life
Heather Eure says
I can feel the weariness in his bones. Evocative words, Elizabeth. Thanks.
Richard Maxson says
Elizabeth, I love:
Dying
Art form
Knives and men
Paired on benches
Fade into the once was
The train’s regular coming and going, scraping of the wheels on the tracks, go well with the routine of the old man. It’s as if the train is symbolic of time being whittled away as well.
Sandra Heska King says
This… “weary from too much rest” contrasted with “and pray to God to grant him rest” stopped me on a repeat read. So much here to love. I see him. I feel the weary.
Sandra Heska King says
I played this time.
http://sandraheskaking.com/2014/11/jackknife-many-trades/
Eric says
Came to play: Patriarch of the Land
Anna Blake Godbout says
The Woodcutter
His sense of smell has dwindled
never forgetting the scent of apple wood
as he splits decayed branches
inside the weathered red barn.
He reminds himself that the barn
is in need of fresh milk paint come spring.
Aged hands on his grandfather’s axe
hack the wood into pieces of splintered fuel.
He breathes the chilled October air;
Prayerful words tumble with each strike.
Sweating, he interrupts his rhythm
to unbutton his frayed flannel shirt.
Outside, russet colored leaves
twist and drop
as another season chauffeurs him
towards a dusty end.