Saturday Poem / Craft

With the heel of his hand, / My father drove the rip saw ...

Share with others:


Print Email Read Later

With the heel of his hand,

My father drove the rip saw

Hard into the blue line of chalk

Ripping the soft wood.

He drew the saw back and up

With only fingers

Letting teeth do the work

Cutting the yellow wood.

 

Today, I read Neruda

And listen

As he builds a poem

Of wet earth

And stars.

 

With a keen eye for the line,

He chooses a word,

Weighing it in his hand,

Inspecting it for shape and feel,

Not afraid to spill

Blood in the sawdust

Or tears on the blade.

David Kutcher

David Kutcher retired from the Department of Veterans Affairs in 2005. A 1998 graduate of the University of Pittsburgh English Writing Program, with a concentration in poetry, he lives in Brighton Heights.


Join the conversation:

Commenting policy | How to report abuse
To report inappropriate comments, abuse and/or repeat offenders, please send an email to socialmedia@post-gazette.com and include a link to the article and a copy of the comment. Your report will be reviewed in a timely manner. Thank you.
Commenting policy | How to report abuse

Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement

You have 2 remaining free articles this month

Try unlimited digital access

If you are an existing subscriber,
link your account for free access. Start here

You’ve reached the limit of free articles this month.

To continue unlimited reading

If you are an existing subscriber,
link your account for free access. Start here