The Board V3 (was 'The Signal Getting Clearer')
Posted: Mon Apr 01, 2019 7:45 pm
I sleep on a drawing board.
One of two in this strange house -
and seasoned sublimely. (But I leap forward-
the mice run under!)
So, bed, I note your riddled corners
(Daddy's younger thumbs)
and gobs of rabbit glue,
milky white and brittle.
That spray of pinholes, each one
such resolution, drawings dashed out, clients
braying (nothing really paying)
and him, locked in his dreams and never stopping.
My other, brother-board's still harnessed;
tilted, shod in mottled steel but turning
merely to the sun; like me
it lacks intensity of purpose (idling).
Timbers such as these are rare today;
their grooved and filleted complexity unneeded;
nature's noise (unruly trees!)
constrained to abstract planes
with cheaper ease in other faster places;
(and tight, slow-grown,
long-seasoned grain
now more of a gentleman's game).
That time he claimed the architect
had changed the plan (the stairs fell short);
so there they stood - adopted only
by the cat - the wood untreated, bare -
they looked magnificent, literally
going nowhere - with Susie sunning
herself two steps from the top:
she'd found her perfect spot,
and stayed there for at least a year
before a speeding van put paid to that
and Dad went bust. How strange
how small I was when he
was here. In six months
it will be, I think, ten years;
and now, splayed out across his board,
I feel as if I've only just begun
to breathe;
like wood turning towards
its warp.
V2
I sleep on a drawing board,
one of two in this strange house -
(and seasoned sublimely) - but I leap forward,
the mice run under!
So, bed, I note your riddled corners
(Daddy's younger thumbs)
and gobs of rabbit glue,
milky white and brittle.
These timbers are rare now,
their grooved and filleted complexity
unneeded; nature's noise constrained
to abstract planes much faster
and with more forceful arts
these days. This spray of pin holes,
each one a dashed out drawing
(always in a panic!) -
Not just plans but rods, the doings,
one to one - this board laid flat,
the hot glue ready (in its stalagmited kettle);
fresh cut timbers scent the sunlit spaces.
Daddy's Portobello joinery
never made much money -
he'd bus us in at weekends;
sanding, polishing and waxing -
But I loved it -
the big high windows, easy afternoons,
the market down the road,
(hippies ruled the world)
and cheese-tomato rolls
with tea in filthy mugs (five sugars).
Those mice
have gone - thank god!
Their nest of rolled up plans,
my daddy's favourite winders;
his heroic stairs - no doubt
still out there leading somewhere.
All except the last - he claimed
the architect had changed the plan
and there it stood, so grand
and pointless. Adopted only
by the cat; she'd found her perfect
spot; and sunned away a year
before she died and Dad went bust.
How strange how small I was when
he was here. Bro and Sis
got out, and ran in opposite
directions - (one in Scotland,
one in France) - I stayed.
Six months
and it will be ten years.
(As if I've only just
begun to breathe.)
One of two in this strange house -
and seasoned sublimely. (But I leap forward-
the mice run under!)
So, bed, I note your riddled corners
(Daddy's younger thumbs)
and gobs of rabbit glue,
milky white and brittle.
That spray of pinholes, each one
such resolution, drawings dashed out, clients
braying (nothing really paying)
and him, locked in his dreams and never stopping.
My other, brother-board's still harnessed;
tilted, shod in mottled steel but turning
merely to the sun; like me
it lacks intensity of purpose (idling).
Timbers such as these are rare today;
their grooved and filleted complexity unneeded;
nature's noise (unruly trees!)
constrained to abstract planes
with cheaper ease in other faster places;
(and tight, slow-grown,
long-seasoned grain
now more of a gentleman's game).
That time he claimed the architect
had changed the plan (the stairs fell short);
so there they stood - adopted only
by the cat - the wood untreated, bare -
they looked magnificent, literally
going nowhere - with Susie sunning
herself two steps from the top:
she'd found her perfect spot,
and stayed there for at least a year
before a speeding van put paid to that
and Dad went bust. How strange
how small I was when he
was here. In six months
it will be, I think, ten years;
and now, splayed out across his board,
I feel as if I've only just begun
to breathe;
like wood turning towards
its warp.
V2
I sleep on a drawing board,
one of two in this strange house -
(and seasoned sublimely) - but I leap forward,
the mice run under!
So, bed, I note your riddled corners
(Daddy's younger thumbs)
and gobs of rabbit glue,
milky white and brittle.
These timbers are rare now,
their grooved and filleted complexity
unneeded; nature's noise constrained
to abstract planes much faster
and with more forceful arts
these days. This spray of pin holes,
each one a dashed out drawing
(always in a panic!) -
Not just plans but rods, the doings,
one to one - this board laid flat,
the hot glue ready (in its stalagmited kettle);
fresh cut timbers scent the sunlit spaces.
Daddy's Portobello joinery
never made much money -
he'd bus us in at weekends;
sanding, polishing and waxing -
But I loved it -
the big high windows, easy afternoons,
the market down the road,
(hippies ruled the world)
and cheese-tomato rolls
with tea in filthy mugs (five sugars).
Those mice
have gone - thank god!
Their nest of rolled up plans,
my daddy's favourite winders;
his heroic stairs - no doubt
still out there leading somewhere.
All except the last - he claimed
the architect had changed the plan
and there it stood, so grand
and pointless. Adopted only
by the cat; she'd found her perfect
spot; and sunned away a year
before she died and Dad went bust.
How strange how small I was when
he was here. Bro and Sis
got out, and ran in opposite
directions - (one in Scotland,
one in France) - I stayed.
Six months
and it will be ten years.
(As if I've only just
begun to breathe.)