Photograph by Chris Sims
Thanks for your patience. Just back from New York and able to spend a bit of time at the Poetry Space desk! Thank you all for voting. I am delighted to announce that the winning poem is My Father’s Hands by Michael Docker. Congratulations! I enjoyed reading all the poems.
Poem 1
Old Hands on Familiar Wood
He knows the grain of the wood so well
he doesn’t even have to open his eyes –
it’s been there, in front of him,
for as long as he can remember.
The white cloth is merely a guide
nothing at all to do with surrender –
he’s not ready to give up just yet,
not ready to remove his leather watch.
So many feet have passed him by,
he’s lost count of shape, size, texture.
Scrape, pull, scrape, push, busy hands
his thoughts active
or at rest,
he has the power to choose.
At night, when he removes
dark glasses
he sees the wood before his eyes,
has to restrain his hands from twitching
scrape, pull, scrape push – marking time.
Alison Hill
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Poem 2
The Carpenter
Understands the wood;
looks at the bark, whittles it back
feels the heat from the friction
sees the sawdust gather around,
remembers the lichen it sprinkled off
onto the blade rubbed back
smudged grey, the new wood.
Stares at the grain, sands it down,
fashions a chair, strong back, sturdy arms
graceful legs, tough feet, makes room
plenty of seating at the theatre
sits back and admires the production.
Johanna Boal
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Poem 3
These Hands
The veins pump the blood
to fingers that hold the wood
The old man sits
at the same lathe
making parts for the boats
the rich buy.
He sees smooth hulls
slide in Southwold seas
the beautiful ones
sun themselves on the decks.
All dressed to this years trend
perfect cap, best dungarees
laughing and drinking
shining in decadence.
The hard skin on his hand
made the curves that sparkle
sweat from his brow
the cutting prow that
slices waves now.
Andy Scotson
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Poem 4
Craftsman
Muscles extended, retract
as the old lathe slices
filaments of wood from
the thin branch peeling bark
mottled by summer’s wrath
revealing white elm .
An old rag protects from chips
slips, the odd cut as she watches
silent, dark the flash of his ring
as his watch times every sweep
of the lathe as it once logged
his sorties as his spitfire spun
overhead before she placed
the ring on his finger.
Carolyn O’Connell
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Poem 5
My Father’s hands
My Father’s hands, skilled at pulling
A spokeshave or the wrapped tang
Of a file along the grain of ash or pine
Till flesh turned white, blood retreated,
Work was hard and a post was carved –
Hands that held me
While my flesh grew, blood
Made way and I learned other skills;
Hands that dressed me,
Warmed me, handed on,
Never raised in anger;
Hands with chipped nails, a ring
Scratched and marked from woodwork,
Old scars from a slipped chisel;
Hands that cracked
With age,
Hands I loved, feared,
Folded over a failed heart –
Rest now, finished like formed wood..
Michael Docker
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