Good Wood
Sept 4 2014
When I say good wood
I mean well-seasoned
true-grained.
So it splits straight.
A single blow, a heavy axe
keen blade gleaming.
A solid crack,
so dry
it almost rings.
Hardwood burns long, and hot
to incandescent coals,
a warm red glow
through the stove's
tempered glass.
I prefer silver birch
black ash.
Softwood is fast,
thick
with branches, and knots.
Pockets of sap
that sizzle, and pop,
flare-up
in tiny supernova.
Fire season is home, and hearth,
an antidote
to darkness.
The woodpile, prepared
chimney swept.
The scent
of fresh cut wood.
A log, that burns
too hot to smoke.
A hundred years of sun
to grow this tree,
released
in a single night.
A hundred summers, the stuff of stars
in bone-deep heat
and dancing light.
A purely descriptive poem, that verges on the sentimental. I tend to feel that a poem like this is unworthy: too easy; too much an exercise in language, rather than meaning.
And I've written previously about this idea of all those seasons of energy released in a single night, of the concentrated sunlight in a piece of wood. So not only am I being self-indulgent, I'm also plagiarizing myself!
On the other hand, the wordplay is terrific fun. And it's challenging to keep it simple; to keep it short, yet rich; to evoke nostalgia in readers who heat with wood, while painting an exact and compelling picture for those who don't. And to toy with cliché, yet somehow not descend to it.
Why was I thinking about splitting wood? A couple of things.
A friend of mine has been keeping me apprised of her autumn woodpile odyssey. She got a deal on black ash, and was marvelling on its straight true grain. This makes splitting wood a joy. I use mostly birch, which is also pretty good. And then I read a piece about a completely different subject. But in it, someone was building a dug-out canoe. Out of oak. He mentioned the quality of concentration required, especially with the first blow of the axe: a misplaced cut risks splitting the entire log. I found thus preposterous: a wood as hard and fine-grained as oak? I would imagine it's almost impossible to split! So, needless to say, splitting wood was on my mind. ...Not to mention my barely disguised envy for that prime black ash!
And something else. Today, the snap of fall was in the air. Soon, it will be wood-burning season. My woodpile is ready. So I have that smugly snug and cozy feeling of being well-prepared. Seems as good a time as any for a poem about wood piles and woodstoves.
I'm conflicted about the title. Which isn't at all unusual. I think a good alternative would be "A Hundred Summers". Or better still "A Hundred Years of Summer".
When I say good wood
I mean well-seasoned
true-grained.
So it splits straight.
A single blow, a heavy axe
keen blade gleaming.
A solid crack,
so dry
it almost rings.
Hardwood burns long, and hot
to incandescent coals,
a warm red glow
through the stove's
tempered glass.
I prefer silver birch
black ash.
Softwood is fast,
thick
with branches, and knots.
Pockets of sap
that sizzle, and pop,
flare-up
in tiny supernova.
Fire season is home, and hearth,
an antidote
to darkness.
The woodpile, prepared
chimney swept.
The scent
of fresh cut wood.
A log, that burns
too hot to smoke.
A hundred years of sun
to grow this tree,
released
in a single night.
A hundred summers, the stuff of stars
in bone-deep heat
and dancing light.
A purely descriptive poem, that verges on the sentimental. I tend to feel that a poem like this is unworthy: too easy; too much an exercise in language, rather than meaning.
And I've written previously about this idea of all those seasons of energy released in a single night, of the concentrated sunlight in a piece of wood. So not only am I being self-indulgent, I'm also plagiarizing myself!
On the other hand, the wordplay is terrific fun. And it's challenging to keep it simple; to keep it short, yet rich; to evoke nostalgia in readers who heat with wood, while painting an exact and compelling picture for those who don't. And to toy with cliché, yet somehow not descend to it.
Why was I thinking about splitting wood? A couple of things.
A friend of mine has been keeping me apprised of her autumn woodpile odyssey. She got a deal on black ash, and was marvelling on its straight true grain. This makes splitting wood a joy. I use mostly birch, which is also pretty good. And then I read a piece about a completely different subject. But in it, someone was building a dug-out canoe. Out of oak. He mentioned the quality of concentration required, especially with the first blow of the axe: a misplaced cut risks splitting the entire log. I found thus preposterous: a wood as hard and fine-grained as oak? I would imagine it's almost impossible to split! So, needless to say, splitting wood was on my mind. ...Not to mention my barely disguised envy for that prime black ash!
And something else. Today, the snap of fall was in the air. Soon, it will be wood-burning season. My woodpile is ready. So I have that smugly snug and cozy feeling of being well-prepared. Seems as good a time as any for a poem about wood piles and woodstoves.
I'm conflicted about the title. Which isn't at all unusual. I think a good alternative would be "A Hundred Summers". Or better still "A Hundred Years of Summer".
No comments:
Post a Comment