I think this a splendid poem, Sue. With this one proviso. I think this is a
sketch almost for a longer poem. You are now at a point in your life when
you can look back to grandparents and their stories of 'before' and forward
to your own grandchildren and their visions of tomorrow and it a unique
blessing of age and family that allows us this view- a view of the wonderful
continuum of human existence of which we have been a small part. The axe
makes a wonderful focus for the concept of 'before' and the fact that you
will in all probability hand it forward as focus for 'after' . It is that
depth of theme that you have begun to explore here. Note 'begun' !! I think
there is far more to the poem than what you have presented here. It may
benefit from a tighter form, if so. You know I am not agin free form its
just thinking aloud. Do you see it as part of larger whole?? Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Sue Scalf" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Saturday, March 01, 2003 7:57 PM
Subject: new one: descendant


> Descendant
>
>
>            Of the Woodland Period, Fully Hafted
>
>
> In a Virginia cave
> it lay there perhaps a thousand years
> buried in sand, until that summer day
> my father held it in his hands.
> Only fourteen, he was dumbstruck,
> silent for once, knowing history,
> knowing it was something
> too valuable to lose.
>
> When he was nearly ninety,
> I asked him to will it to me.
> He said, "Things have a way
> of getting away from us. You better
> take it now."  His arthritic hands
> looked for all the world like any caveman's.
> We both clasped it, and time was no more
> than a long scroll, unwinding three thousand years.
> "I wonder how many hands have held this I said,"
> and felt the sting of tears.  Esau and Isaac,
> the passing of a blessing I thought.
>
> Now he is gone, and in my hand I hold the ax,
> see blue-veined, thin-skinned,
> gentle hands, awkward, nervous hands,
> fingers once stained by nicotine,
> always moving as he told his tales.
> Beyond his hands are others
> greasy, dark and scarred, and mine
> overlapping.  I hear the long howl
> of wolves, hungry beneath the shadows
> of trees, see their shining teeth aglow
> in the dim light of setting sun.
>
> Carved in little triangles here and there,
> ticks that measured time decorate the dark
> surface, time that passed until it wore the ax
> to half its length.  Outliving the dust of men,
> bison, wolves, and wolverine, it rests now
> as I lift it to the light and remember
> all those hands.
>
> Sue Scalf