The Boilermaker
a poem by Laura Cushing
Thighs fused
welding like metals
Luke constructs
internal combustion engines
powered only by that
Moldy source of
deadfall love
white and bunched
this cairn of bones
bends over
the carbon rod
his deep hatred
a Necromancer's
lunatic joy
sparking
tanglewood fuel
his instincts
revolve
with practiced burden
into exhilaration
end-day factory whistle
his only
mental relief
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Comments: 16
My father tried to teach me how to weld when I was a teen- but after I burt myself a few times, I wasn't into the whole experience. Ouch! I think I'm far too clumsy for that line of work.
It's about welding, but more than that - it's about working at a repetitive task until it becomes so instinctual that it's almost like a part of you.
Sorry if it was a bit obscure- I'm going to be posting some more of my poetry up, and it's not all this tangled up in imagery.
--L
You're right, this poem does need to be punctuated. I think a lot of my poems would benifit from proper punctuation. I'm really bad at punctuating poems- I either go all crazy and stick it in everywhere, or go all minimalist. One of the pitfalls of being self-educated as far as poetry and writing go is that I've never learned the 'right way' if there is one.
I'll keep working at it, though. One of these days I'll reach the happy medium of punctuation - the just right zone. =)
--L
Folks would ask what's a boilermaker 'rough'
and the wag would say 'I take one away from a boilermaker.'
He was big enough he could have done that too,
but really he was a lamb.
(Except the horrible scars up the backs of his legs winding up around to his ribcage told of war time ferocity and bravery)