He pounds fence posts,
drives them deep into rain-softened earth,
his sweat, his muscle, his ache,
each callus of hand and fingertip,
skin sacrifice to his land;
his fence, his mark, his tattoo,
his wolf piss around the four corners of his plot,
semaphore
—this is mine, these are mine
who live within these wooden walls—
fuck you, who dares breach,
fuck you who climbs,
fuck you who peers
into my sweet, warm world.
He builds fences—
a friend, a case of beer,
a level, some string,
a hammer, saw, nails,
a bunch of wood,
a small boy looking on-
Saturday afternoon,
while the world sleeps,
makes love, watches hockey,
writes poetry, eats;
he builds fences.
4 comments:
I like the visceral quality of this poem and it's frankness. "wolf piss around the four corners of his plot" is great, but the "fuck you" loses its power with the repetition, I think.
Also, I wonder if you could get by without the last line. I don't think it's adding anything, and maybe wraps up the poem a bit too neatly.
I like the details of the "case of beer" and "small boy looking on".
you know, I'm always accused of having to much f'ing in my work... it's the power/allure of the anglo saxon vocabulary, but a little subtleness (sp?) might go a lot further...
good comments, much appreciated
Mmm. I sort of like all the fuck yous. But after the repeated jabs in the eye, I want more of the same in the third stanza. And it sort of gets beautiful and normal. And then I'm disappointed.
Territory is such a fascinating topic...
I love the list in the third stanza, very effective.
Wonder about the "fuck you" too. Perhaps try the first one, then indenting the next two lines
fuck you, who dares breach,
who climbs,
who peers
into my sweet, warm world. Just an idea.
Sweet and warm seem a bit at odds with pounds, drives, and wolf piss. Is this how the speaker sees his world?
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