WARNING: This is a really bad poem about how “attached” a dude can get to a familiar and favorite handle. The Riven Word takes no responsibility for any physical discomfort caused by reading the following verse. That is all.
Ode to a Helve
Whither hast thou gone, my lusty-hearted helve,
Thou art laid low by worms, e’en as once thyself did fell
Oaks great and small, true thou didst cut them round,
And cleanly so to fall, a-quaking to the ground.
Thou wast rived of ash, oak wedges drove secure
Thy heart light and strong, and thy growth rings as pure.
But time did steal thy bloom as it is want to do,
And our quarrels so increase’d, our honey-month, adieu!
As muddy-ale’d drunken swains, thy wedges to and fro,
Did fall about the ground–Oh I did curse them so-
Still we journey’d from frame to frame, together boxing square
Much timber for their knitting, and firewood to spare.
I think of thee most often e’en though I’ve helved anew,
She’s heavy-hearted stuff and hath the humour of a shrew.
For the nonce she holds her wedges, and I for my part keep–
But in my heart and in my hands thy grain it runneth deep.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Tags: ax, hand tools, hewing, Plimoth Plantation
Delightful! keep em coming!
Thank you, Julia!
Love it! Sorry about your old faithful handle—
You’re kind to say, Linda–thank you!
Nice ax! Sorry about your luck.
Thanks John. I love that ax! It cuts great and its steel holds an edge very well. The handle was nice because it was durable but light, as ash should be. I’ve really noticed a difference using hickory as a handle on the same ax. A few ounces makes a big difference. It makes sense that baseball players use ash instead of hickory for their bats. (There’s a local wooden bat company who occasionally makes custom orders bats out of yellow birch–who knew?).
Rick
You know, this was a kind of beautiful that only a hand craftsman could discern. A favorite tool can become like an appendage that is wondered after when it is lost. It knows so intimately your toil in both success and failure. It has hurt you and it has helped you. In truth it has been a source of pride, joy, and confidence. That being said, life goes on and we make a new tool, embarking on a journey getting to know it. The cycle begins again. This in a nutshell must be what it is like to be a god…
A very nice poem… I was wondering though, is that McKee’s ax lost so long ago in the woods?! (next to Peter’s wedges?)
I’m guessing a chupacabra ran away with it or we will find that one when we rethatch a house sometime
Or did he bury that one in a daubed wall beneath some apotropaic marks!
Wait, Follansbee lost some wedges? We better keep that on the QT.