Men at Work
Oct 3 2013
I watch the men at work.
They clash,
in yellow hard hats
orange vests.
They chat, talk with their hands,
waving cigarettes
leaning back against
rough concrete piers.
A belching crane
that could squash them like bugs
unspools steel cable
as thick as a weight-lifter's chest,
the diesel revving
deafeningly
against the compression of weight.
I see drones
slouching, lounging,
determined workers, beetling around.
Each man, going this way and that
is a single ant
at some minor task
in a vast chaotic collective.
While I look on, suppressing envy,
as if a boy's dream machines
were their private playthings.
I watch the men at work.
They clash,
in yellow hard hats
orange vests.
They chat, talk with their hands,
waving cigarettes
leaning back against
rough concrete piers.
A belching crane
that could squash them like bugs
unspools steel cable
as thick as a weight-lifter's chest,
the diesel revving
deafeningly
against the compression of weight.
I see drones
slouching, lounging,
determined workers, beetling around.
Each man, going this way and that
is a single ant
at some minor task
in a vast chaotic collective.
While I look on, suppressing envy,
as if a boy's dream machines
were their private playthings.
Like a badly
choreographed dance,
its conductor stuck in an airless trailer
peering at plans
only he understands.
Or a mismatched ensemble
cacophonous jazz,
cacophonous jazz,
all flinching minors, a screeching sax.
Until the final note,
when the racket resolves, nearly miraculous
in a pure sweet chord.
A work of art
in glass and steel,
like music, taking form.
A few times over the last year, I've flown in and out ofBilly
Bishop Airport Toronto . It occupies a
small island, separated from the mainland by a narrow gap. So I've been able to
catch an intermittent glimpse of the vast underground tunnel that's being built
to replace the ferry.
The workers seems almost haphazard and random in their chores. They seem to spend as much time standing around as actually doing something. Which is an impression -- probably thoroughly unfair -- I seem to get at every construction site. The project management and engineering of something like this is a gargantuan and exhaustive task. But slowly, out of this chaos, an incredibly complicated project is taking shape: until all the small details converge; until both ends of the tunnel merge in the middle, not missing even by inches. In a year, when I'm able to walk through a finished tunnel and all signs of disturbance on the surface have been converted to grass and trees (or, more likely, parking lots!), the utter chaos of its gestation will be forgotten. The poem, on the other hand, remembers at least a little of it. Although here, the tunnel becomes a skyscraper. Because you have to admit that a soaring building of glass and steel makes a lot more uplifting image than buried concrete walls.
One metaphor is of small insects: a pretty natural (and hackneyed?) one when you consider flying, and the tired old cliché about ant-like people seen from the air. Although I hope I managed to keep it fresh.
The other metaphor, of music and dance, conveniently leads to the ending, which is simply a different iteration of the quote attributed to Goethe comparing architecture to frozen music.
But I could easily dispense with literary devices, with showing-off how clever I am. Because the 2nd stanza -- which is purely descriptive and pretty much linear -- is actually my favourite. I like the "unspooling", the simple analogy of the weight-lifter, the solid language of "squash" and "bug", and the muscular sound of the diesel compressing.
I wonder if this is the first poem ever that's a paean to project management?!! ...Not to mention comparing civil engineering to the miraculous!
when the racket resolves, nearly miraculous
in a pure sweet chord.
A work of art
in glass and steel,
like music, taking form.
A few times over the last year, I've flown in and out of
The workers seems almost haphazard and random in their chores. They seem to spend as much time standing around as actually doing something. Which is an impression -- probably thoroughly unfair -- I seem to get at every construction site. The project management and engineering of something like this is a gargantuan and exhaustive task. But slowly, out of this chaos, an incredibly complicated project is taking shape: until all the small details converge; until both ends of the tunnel merge in the middle, not missing even by inches. In a year, when I'm able to walk through a finished tunnel and all signs of disturbance on the surface have been converted to grass and trees (or, more likely, parking lots!), the utter chaos of its gestation will be forgotten. The poem, on the other hand, remembers at least a little of it. Although here, the tunnel becomes a skyscraper. Because you have to admit that a soaring building of glass and steel makes a lot more uplifting image than buried concrete walls.
One metaphor is of small insects: a pretty natural (and hackneyed?) one when you consider flying, and the tired old cliché about ant-like people seen from the air. Although I hope I managed to keep it fresh.
The other metaphor, of music and dance, conveniently leads to the ending, which is simply a different iteration of the quote attributed to Goethe comparing architecture to frozen music.
But I could easily dispense with literary devices, with showing-off how clever I am. Because the 2nd stanza -- which is purely descriptive and pretty much linear -- is actually my favourite. I like the "unspooling", the simple analogy of the weight-lifter, the solid language of "squash" and "bug", and the muscular sound of the diesel compressing.
I wonder if this is the first poem ever that's a paean to project management?!! ...Not to mention comparing civil engineering to the miraculous!
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