The Carpenters Son
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- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
The Carpenters Son
My father was a quiet man and good
with his hands. There are scars to prove it.
He could make anything from wood
except a boy to be proud of.
The woodshop was his sanctuary
with its pegboard wall upon which
hung the implements of his salvation,
each outlined in black marker
to note it's absence.
Sometimes, he'd let me go with him.
He showed me how to hold a hammer,
use a tape measure, and to square wood.
Then I'd fuck something up and he'd
throw it across the room, rail at me until
I'd become smaller than
the bits of wood which studded my hair,
and I stood motionless and silent while
his voice was lost in the whine of machinery and his countenance obscured
by a blizzard of sawdust.
Two things I learned.
The world is strict of measure
and meager of error and there
is no slot nor notch nor corner
I could find to be safe from him.
with his hands. There are scars to prove it.
He could make anything from wood
except a boy to be proud of.
The woodshop was his sanctuary
with its pegboard wall upon which
hung the implements of his salvation,
each outlined in black marker
to note it's absence.
Sometimes, he'd let me go with him.
He showed me how to hold a hammer,
use a tape measure, and to square wood.
Then I'd fuck something up and he'd
throw it across the room, rail at me until
I'd become smaller than
the bits of wood which studded my hair,
and I stood motionless and silent while
his voice was lost in the whine of machinery and his countenance obscured
by a blizzard of sawdust.
Two things I learned.
The world is strict of measure
and meager of error and there
is no slot nor notch nor corner
I could find to be safe from him.
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- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: The Carpenters Son
[quote="Kenneth2816"]My father was a quiet man and good
with his hands. There are scars to prove it.
He could make anything from wood
except a boy to be proud of.
The woodshop was his sanctuary
with its pegboard wall upon which
hung the implements of his salvation,
each outlined in black marker
to note it's absence.
Sometimes, he'd let me go with him.
He showed me how to hold a hammer,
use a tape measure, and to square wood.
Then I'd fuck something up and he'd
throw it across the room, rail at me until
I'd become smaller than
the bits of wood which studded my hair,
and I stood motionless and silent while
his voice was lost in the whine of machinery and his countenance obscured
by a blizzard of sawdust.
Two things I learned.
The world is strict of measure
and meager of error and there
is no slot nor notch nor corner
I could fit myself into that was
ever safe from him.
with his hands. There are scars to prove it.
He could make anything from wood
except a boy to be proud of.
The woodshop was his sanctuary
with its pegboard wall upon which
hung the implements of his salvation,
each outlined in black marker
to note it's absence.
Sometimes, he'd let me go with him.
He showed me how to hold a hammer,
use a tape measure, and to square wood.
Then I'd fuck something up and he'd
throw it across the room, rail at me until
I'd become smaller than
the bits of wood which studded my hair,
and I stood motionless and silent while
his voice was lost in the whine of machinery and his countenance obscured
by a blizzard of sawdust.
Two things I learned.
The world is strict of measure
and meager of error and there
is no slot nor notch nor corner
I could fit myself into that was
ever safe from him.
-
- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: The Carpenters Son
[quote="Kenneth2816"]My father was a quiet man and good
with his hands. There are scars to prove it.
He could make anything from wood
except a boy to be proud of.
The woodshop was his sanctuary
with its pegboard wall upon which
hung the implements of his salvation,
each outlined in black marker
to note it's absence.
Sometimes, he'd let me go with him.
He showed me how to hold a hammer,
use a tape measure, and to square wood.
Then I'd fuck something up and he'd
throw it across the room, rail at me until
I'd become smaller than
the bits of wood which studded my hair,
and I stood motionless and silent while
his voice was lost in the whine of machinery and his countenance obscured
by a blizzard of sawdust.
Two things I learned.
The world is strict of measure
and meager of error and there
is no slot nor notch nor corner
I could fit myself into that
was ever safe from him.]
with his hands. There are scars to prove it.
He could make anything from wood
except a boy to be proud of.
The woodshop was his sanctuary
with its pegboard wall upon which
hung the implements of his salvation,
each outlined in black marker
to note it's absence.
Sometimes, he'd let me go with him.
He showed me how to hold a hammer,
use a tape measure, and to square wood.
Then I'd fuck something up and he'd
throw it across the room, rail at me until
I'd become smaller than
the bits of wood which studded my hair,
and I stood motionless and silent while
his voice was lost in the whine of machinery and his countenance obscured
by a blizzard of sawdust.
Two things I learned.
The world is strict of measure
and meager of error and there
is no slot nor notch nor corner
I could fit myself into that
was ever safe from him.]
Re: The Carpenters Son
Not much to change in first 3 stanzas. I like the break on "good". I like the absence image. It's the final stanza that ruins the poem. It's telling me instead of showing. A boring little philosophical summing up of what the reader should get from this poem.
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- Posts: 2683
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: The Carpenters Son
I like the first 2 stanzas, especially these lines:
He could make anything from wood
except a boy to be proud of.
The last stanza needs work, and its preceding stanza can be tightened. Overall, a good subject and a good start.
He could make anything from wood
except a boy to be proud of.
The last stanza needs work, and its preceding stanza can be tightened. Overall, a good subject and a good start.
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- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: The Carpenters Son
Billy and Bob. Thank you both.
Billy you nailed it. Ending was rushed on my part. I've not written a new poem in nine years.
Billy you nailed it. Ending was rushed on my part. I've not written a new poem in nine years.
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- Posts: 140
- Joined: 09 Jul 2017, 06:34
Re: The Carpenters Son
to note it's absence.
to note its absence
and too many 'ánds' in the penultimate stanza. In the last stanza you may delete the first two lines and keep the last two.
S
to note its absence
and too many 'ánds' in the penultimate stanza. In the last stanza you may delete the first two lines and keep the last two.
S
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- Posts: 1983
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: The Carpenters Son
Suggestions for you to think about in rearranging
this is a practical down to earth poem, poems like this I love.
I love to roll in the wood shaving, immerse my myself
in the smell of pinewood forests and resin seeping from the bark.
I love the machines that cut and plane, that sliced shaving
from the legs of furniture, the scots pine glue that
melts on your hands until I became made of that very wood
and burnd with joy at the images I'd created.
My father was a quiet man and good
His hands grooved with splinter scars.
He could not make from wood
a boy to be proud of.
He hung his woodcraft on the walls
of his workshop santuary,
a pegboard wall hung with implements
of salvation in outlines of black mists,
the ghosts of absent tools.
[The third stanza is far too long i.m.o.
and mundane, tell us something rivetingly
new about the craft that we never knew before.]
I'd cock something up and he'd
throw it on the floor,
I'd became smaller than the bits
of wood studded in my hair,
I'd be silent as his voice droned
on among the whine of machinery,
his countenance obscured
by a blizzard of sawn dust.
The things I learned:
the world is strict of measure,
meager of error and there
is no slot, no notch, no corner
I could find to meet with him.
[You can do something with this, good subject for a poem,
master craftsmne are not always nice people and not always
able to teach, to be sympathetic. That's why so many drop out
of the craft and go and do other things. It demands so much
attention to detail and in a way is very limiting
to other things in life that is good and beneficial.
I hope you complete this poem it could go somewhere.
I think you brought out the angst between father and son very well.]
[His father was normally quiet but could expload into rage and condemnation.
I think somehow you have to show that his rage distorted the quiet man
and that first libe ahs to somehow convey that, somthing like:
My father was normally a quiet man and good.
or
My father was a normal quiet man until . . .
or
My father was a quiet man and good until . . . ]
this is a practical down to earth poem, poems like this I love.
I love to roll in the wood shaving, immerse my myself
in the smell of pinewood forests and resin seeping from the bark.
I love the machines that cut and plane, that sliced shaving
from the legs of furniture, the scots pine glue that
melts on your hands until I became made of that very wood
and burnd with joy at the images I'd created.
My father was a quiet man and good
His hands grooved with splinter scars.
He could not make from wood
a boy to be proud of.
He hung his woodcraft on the walls
of his workshop santuary,
a pegboard wall hung with implements
of salvation in outlines of black mists,
the ghosts of absent tools.
[The third stanza is far too long i.m.o.
and mundane, tell us something rivetingly
new about the craft that we never knew before.]
I'd cock something up and he'd
throw it on the floor,
I'd became smaller than the bits
of wood studded in my hair,
I'd be silent as his voice droned
on among the whine of machinery,
his countenance obscured
by a blizzard of sawn dust.
The things I learned:
the world is strict of measure,
meager of error and there
is no slot, no notch, no corner
I could find to meet with him.
[You can do something with this, good subject for a poem,
master craftsmne are not always nice people and not always
able to teach, to be sympathetic. That's why so many drop out
of the craft and go and do other things. It demands so much
attention to detail and in a way is very limiting
to other things in life that is good and beneficial.
I hope you complete this poem it could go somewhere.
I think you brought out the angst between father and son very well.]
[His father was normally quiet but could expload into rage and condemnation.
I think somehow you have to show that his rage distorted the quiet man
and that first libe ahs to somehow convey that, somthing like:
My father was normally a quiet man and good.
or
My father was a normal quiet man until . . .
or
My father was a quiet man and good until . . . ]