I was building shelves out of oak. Not veneered plywood but real honest-to-goodness straight-from-the-tree planks. Oak is cranky wood. Because it was alive, because it wasn't manufactured in some factory, it has all the little quirks and idiosyncracies of any living thing. Each board requires its own special approach: the grain veers here, the plane twists there, the knot goes this-a-way. I love it. You don't fight the wood, you go with it, you bring out its potential beauty as befits its personality. Jeez, it's a lot like raising children. Sometimes it even throws a tantrum.
Saw blade
with the strength of two
electrical mules
kicks back my piece of wood
like a hoof in the groin.
First sound
from my lips
as I double over
comes not from the brain
but directly from pain
to the indifferent air:
a guttural crack
like the cry
of a falling tree.
from Son of a Poet
© Copyright 1986 and 1999 by Joe CottonwoodNext: Enemy or Enema