James Owens
has two books of poems scheduled for publication this fall: An Hour is the Doorway, from Black Lawrence Press, and Frost Lights a Thin Flame, from Mayapple Press. Recent or upcoming publications include Birmingham Poetry Review, Blue Fifth Review, Mimesis, Galatea Resurrects and The Pedestal Magazine.
He lives in La Porte, Indiana with his wife and three children and maintains a blog.
—Back to Work Poetry Contents—
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Sledge
It paid to know the grain, before a blow
would crack the knee-high chunks of oily coal
to fit a stove-door. Swing wrong, the recoil
of mishandled strength would ring wrist and elbow,
jarring the hammer back from that still unbroken,
matte-black surface. Useless the planted heel,
the over-muscled swing. It took a feel
for the clever angle, percussive tonk that opened
an ancient gloss on sides of slabs as they fell
apart to the kindest tap—not force, but owned
and managed heft, gravity aimed and known.
The tug of iron on joints weighing the real
eased when levered to a balance, deft.
We learned at work what lightness owes to craft.
Originally published in Birmingham Poetry Review
The Morning after the Storm
My father’s middle-aged son gets to work.
He finds a rusty saw in the tool shed
for broken poplar branches, thinking, “Kerf—
there’s sense to match the sound you’d need
to write about sawing. Hacked and curt.”
The word is like a slash he barks aloud:
“Kerf, kerf,” weighing the morning’s worth
of labor against desire to write or read—
and gets to work. Much his father taught him
returns, to his surprise. His hands adjust
to find the leverage, the sawyer’s rhythm
that scores out little gouts of poplar dust.
Brightened teeth rasp “kerf,” a rough hymn,
the saw waking from its dream of rust.
Originally published in Now & Then
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