"penknife" poems
Lady, weeping at the crossroads
Would you meet your love
In the twilight with his greyhounds,
And the hawk on his glove?
Bribe the birds then on the branches
Bribe them to be dumb,
Stare the hot sun out of heaven
That the night may come.
Starless are the night of travel,
Bleak the winter wind;
Run with terror all before you
And regret behind.
Run until you hear the ocean's
Everlasting cry;
Deep though it may be and bitter
You must drink it dry.
Wear out patience in the lowest
Dungeons of the sea,
Searching through the stranded shipwrecks
For the golden key.
Push on to the world's end, pay the
Dread guard with a kiss;
Cross the rotten bridge that totters
Over the abyss.
There stands the deserted castle
Ready to explore;
Enter, climb the marble staircase
Open the locked door.
Cross the silent ballroom,
Doubt and danger past;
Blow the cobwebs from the mirror
See yourself at last.
Put your hand behind the wainscot,
You have done your part;
Find the penknife there and plunge it
Into your false heart.
2.9k
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night
listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell
fashion for me word-images of the exploits
by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers.
In those semi-lucid moments before slumber,
I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny:
you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers.
So imagine my confusion, when I fractured
the right talus bone my Junior year of high school,
even putting on weight around the middle,
where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain.
My karma had begun to take on mass.
I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense
against some parallel universe impinging upon reality.
Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers
believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits.
But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger,
nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man.
Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy.
Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift.
And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed,
having long ago collapsed of its own gravity.
Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious,
so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within.
Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality
did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id,
begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices,
who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself.
The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age,
what props lie about are encrusted with patina,
laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt,
made worse by the lack of cast, save one.
Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this.
So, when my acts strike you as quixotic,
when I cut with a penknife through propriety,
it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
There was an old salesman; a peddler, he called himself
Who came to stay at my house when I was a boy
When he was on
His last business trip
To him we were strangers
One day
I asked the old salesman
If I could borrow his penknife.
He lent it to me
And when I tried to return it to him
He did not remember that it was his.
When I asked my troubled father
What I should do
He told me to keep it.
Someday I may give
That peddlers penknife
To my grandson
And I will tell him about the time
My grandfather gave it to me
When he was on
His last business trip.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 7:32 AM UTC
Hannah and I
lie on the grass
by Arrol House
she shows me
a penknife
her father'd brought
home for her
a thin bladed one
with a white handle
it's in the palm
of her hand balancing
it looks good
I say
that's not what
Mum said when Dad
brought it home
Hannah says
what did she say?
I ask
Whit did ye brin'
'at haem fur?
she said
what did your
dad say?
nothing he pretended
he was deaf
and just gave me
the knife and went
and sat in his armchair
and read his newspaper
how do you understand
what your mum is saying?
I'm never sure
if she's being angry
with me or if
that's just her
being nice
probably the former
she's seldom
nice to people
Hannah says
she puts the knife
in the pocket
of her skirt
and says
where we going then?
we can stay here
if you like
I say
lying in the sun
and talking
o sure
and have my mum
peering out
the window at us
saying
whit ur ye tois
up tae?
I fall back laughing
what's that mean?
it's what are you
two up to?
Hannah says
no let's go
through the Square
and get an ice lolly
and 1d drink
and look at
the cheap shop
on the New Kent Road
so we up and go
over the mental fence
and through the Square
and go buy
our ice lollies
and 1d drinks
and I wonder
as we walk
what her mother
says and thinks.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Well yes I do carve walking sticks
Not two or three hours
But more like thirty or fourty
But then I saw the connection
Between my poetry and wood
Each takes me into another world
Of rhythm oh so good
Where I hear you ask
Can this connection be made
A poem and a walking stick
This man is surely mad
But think dear friends about a how
poem does evolve
You start with just a single word
Then watch the poem grow
I walk in the woodlands
I walk the forest ways
And I see things
That you might miss
In the coppiced hedgerow lays
And so with my trusty folding saw
A wooden stave lies in my hand
Perfectly straight or warped
Wood, oh wood so grand
And so just like poetry the plan
Then starts to form
With penknife and a wood rasp
A walking stick is formed
Sandpaper grades decreased
And long hours pass
Eventually that rough hewn stick
Attains the sheen of glass
Yes I carve sticks with rustic pride
Never do I miss what the cuts might hide
When I write it is with love
I can edit a poem
But not a walking stick
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
This is real
This is true
I cut, reform, reshape for you
And though it hurts
With penknife sting
I hope one day
You'll accept this ring.
So trust me baby
Though I cause a fuss
I’ll work on past it
For the sake of us.
Lace my pain with percussive cussing
Swear care no matter how you fare
Taking turns, till, we in turn fail
End nearing, gasp through by breadth of hair.
So hold no breaths
And cry no tears
We’ll be there soon
Speak, breathe, forget your fears.
It's true our future’s cloudy
We're over 8 by 8 by 100 miles away
I daily **** up as you tuck in
Pledging, “Rest, I don’t jest figure eights.”
Numbers don’t matter.
And my senses, they’re surely wrong.
So why hold both eyes on you?
And ask the same for me, just as long?
It’s so we both go strain blind
Bind souls and minds together
Splatter glue hastily agreeing to this eternal song
Float handheld in this spaceless place
Disintegrating all the walls that fall upon us.
… Or those we need to walk through.
There, in fantasy, easily we go
Each kiss a taste of the love we share
That we only alone in our nakedness wear
It's clear I would put nothing on or over you
Or dare seek some other exchange
Because without this arrangement
There'd be nothing
Besides empty, pitted pangs.
Oct 22, 2017
Oct 22, 2017 at 9:54 PM UTC
Having completed various jobs
indoors and out
such as running errands
and shopping etc
your mother gave you 2 shillings
and you went through the Square
to a shop on New Kent Road
where you bought
a small penknife
you’d seen in the window
and you showed Jimmy
whose knife collection
was large
including a bayonet
his father brought back
from WW2
but he was unimpressed
showing you in turn
a **** knife his father
took from a dead soldier
from some battle
he’d fought in
you never showed
your mother
but Helen saw it
on the way to school
next morning
and peered at it
through her thick lens spectacles
does your mother know
you bought that?
she asked
no not yet
you replied
pocketing it out of sight
maybe another day
don’t you tell
your mother everything?
she asked
no not everything
you said
I have a need to know
basis I work with
what about truth?
she asked
you gazed at her
in her dark blue raincoat
buttoned to the throat
her wavy hair
in two plaits
her eyes peering at you
through those thick lens of hers
truth is like bubble gum
you said
sometimes
you have to stretch it a bit
to get a bigger bubble
she shook her head
making her plaits move
each side of her head
I don’t want the future father
of my children to be a liar
she said
maybe he won’t
you said
you are
she replied
you looked at
the record shop window
as you went by
a picture of Elvis Presley
was in the window
smiling
don’t you like the knife?
you asked
looking back at her
as you spoke
only if you tell your mother
she said
ok I’ll show her
and tell her
after school
you said
she smiled
and her big eyes
lit up
and she pushed her arm
under yours
and squeezed you near
and all because
of the small penknife
you’d bought from the shop
through the Square
but you did love
her big bright eyes
and wavy plaited hair.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
Our names carved,
With a rusty penknife,
Into the bark of a random tree;
Just words on paper, really,
From me to you; and you to me.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 3:27 AM UTC
Magdalene Murphy carved
Her initials and those of
Another, into the bark of an
Oak tree, with the penknife
She stole from her father’s
Toolbox in the shed. He’d
Not missed it, least not yet,
And if he did then she’d have
To watch her backside for
The hard slap of his hand. She
Guessed those who saw the initials
In years to come would wonder
Whose they were and what love
They signified and between whom.
They’d never guess it right, only
She knew; even the owner of the
Other initials didn’t know of the
Love felt or if she did, she never
Said or gave hint to Magdalene.
The carved initials seemed almost
Set in stone; a permanent reminder
To the world at large, that one loved
Another once with sufficient passion
To want to carve the initials so and
In such a wilful laboured fashion.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
It was always hard to know
Who hid in the hedges
Who flickered like flames out of sight
The end of the garden
The crackle of the night
It was hard to see
Through the branches and the sounds
And push away the leaves to where the secret fires burned
To think what might simmer
In the cauldron of darkdreaming
And I could never go
To the end of the garden
Not on my own, with my net and my penknife
Only with you, and your eyes snapping bright.
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 5:05 AM UTC
Quickly he picked up
keenly examined
and seemed to admire
the handy penknife
with sharp blades,
quite functional,
she hurriedly pulled out
from the clutch she carries;
she was searching
frenetically for something
when it inadvertently
showed up, she deliberately
didn't pay attention
to his expressed curiosity,
yet her eyes adequately
answered his loud
unasked question.
In words he didn't ask WHY?
though it echoed in his eyes.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
what is poetic function?
the purpose of the muse?
can what poets labor at
be of any earthly use?
here we sit and ponder
nature's beauty found
our muse will make us wander
and take us off the ground
we soar o'r the canyons
we have ne'r seen
she depicts the colors
orange, red and yellow green
she controls the vertical
the horizontal, too
she'll wrench from you heartache
make you write the blues
she'll give you the music
write notes upon your brain
then when she has done it
words are written in refrains
sometimes it's the opposite
the lyrics are rehearsed
then music flows out from them
and the process is reversed
sometimes she is whimsical
sometimes she is deep
sometimes the best poetry
is written in our sleep
sometimes she is joyful
sometimes full of angst
sometimes she will teach us
sometimes she pulls pranks
she takes us to the seashore
she takes us to the park
she gives us the penknife
to carve our words on bark
she takes us to countries
to see folk starving there
she takes us to ghettos
so we can write despair
she rides the horsehead nebula
she straddles the moon
she lassoes the stars
she brightens up the gloom
she sorts all the words out
in our poor wee minds
sometimes we get ideas
from the words our muse will find
she may talk of God's things
to draw people nigh Him
or she may be atheistic
and urge us to deny Him
but she's always relevant
even though she's lazy
you may think her strange
you may say she's crazy
she'll talk to poets softly
love's passion to want
or she'll scream and rage!
she'll come on in a rant!
but any way she manifests
beauty clothes her form
even though she's naked
as the day that she was born
let her grow and nurture her
she'll come up like a tree
but do not try to cage her
she'll always break free!
in that case you're without her
you'll have trouble then!
you'll ball up your paper
and throw away your pen!
so, be kind to sister muse
feed her goodly things
you'll have found poems abound
*she will give you
WINGS!*
so what's poetry's purpose
when all is said and done?
*TO TAKE
OTHERS WITH YOU!*
then
my friends
YOU'VE WON!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/29/2016
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
Standing up before the forked road:
This direction? That way?
In one hand a spoonful of doubts
In the other a penknife of precision
Eventually
she cut out her own way
sipping bitterness
The forked road into a trident boulevard
Good and Evil
hand in hand
side by side
avec elegance
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
She sits next to him
on a side seat
on the bus;
they're going to
Waterloo Rail Station
to watch the steam trains.
She holds in the palm
of her small hand
the 3d piece
her mother
had given her;
it's sweaty;
the 12 sides make
a slight impression
on her skin.
She moves
side to side
as the bus
turns corners;
Benny's arm
touches hers
as they move.
Why you have to go
with him
to see the trains,
God only knows,
her mother had said,
but at least
he's a decent sort,
going by his mother.
She likes Benny's mum;
she smiles at her,
and is soft spoken,
unlike her own mum,
who bellows
and spits words
and slaps her.
She looks out
the window,
then looks sideways
at Benny.
He's looking forward,
his hazel eyes
taking in the man opposite,
his quiff of light brown hair
bouncing with the bus's motion.
He's got the money
his mum has given him
in his jean's pocket,
along with a small penknife,
old conker and string,
handkerchief washed grey.
Beside him sits Lydia
the girl from downstairs
in the flats.
She's skinny
and her lank hair
seems out of place
with her bright eyes.
He suggested going
to the station to see
the steam trains;
he loves the smells
and sights and sounds
of the trains.
He had a job
persuading her mother
to let her go,
but eventually
she agreed,
(must have been
his smile).
The man opposite
stares at Lydia;
his big black eyes
drinking her in.
Benny stares back at him,
gives the man his best
Bogart stare,
even holding his head
at an angle.
The man's green tie
is stained;
the shirt is too small
and seems to want
to escape from his body.
The man stares at him,
his eyes moving to him
like two black slugs.
Benny touches Lydia's
small hand and says:
soon be there.
The man ends
his black eyed stare,
and looks away.
Well done, Bogey,
Benny says
inside his head,
and senses Lydia's hand
grip her 3d piece coin;
her bright eyes showing
small portraits of him
in each one,
absorbing him
like dark cloth
does the sun.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
I love myself
in a world that longs for perfection.
And perfection is defined by
slender figures on shining billboards,
perfect scores on standard tests,
and a heart of gold in a heartless world.
I love myself
in this race we run against each other,
trying to be the first and the best.
Where only a few ever come close,
and many never do.
After all, we were born imperfect.
I love myself
so I won't let myself fall behind.
To subject myself to scorn and judgement,
and disappointment and anxiety,
when my efforts are too little and too small.
"Do whatever it takes to achieve your goals."
I love myself,
I promise, bent over porcelain sinks
with my hair tied back and two fingers down my throat.
Because of a number on a scale,
the nausea that builds and the memories of
cloth draped over foggy mirrors.
I love myself,
I promise, as the hours tick by late into the night,
and I study until exhaustion takes my attention.
Because of a number on a paper,
the knowledge of failure and that
I will never amount to much in this world.
I love myself,
I promise, as the penknife hovers over unbroken skin,
and when the rush of traffic seems welcoming.
Because I am tired,
I am tired of imperfection, of
being unable to give myself what I want.
But eventually,
I swallow back my bile,
I pull away the cloth,
I hide the penknife in a drawer,
I step away from the traffic.
Because I love myself too much.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
Catapult
small penknife
a few stones
handkerchief
piece of string
1/-
on the grass
by Banks House
is that it?
Janice asks
it's all there
I reply
why do boys
carry stuff
in pockets?
essentials
that is all
I tell her
she sits there
on the grass
in her green
summer dress
with that red
cloth beret
in her lap
what do girls
carry then
in pockets?
she empties
a pocket
in her dress
one hanky
one boiled sweet
her gran gave
and 3d
and that's it
she tells me
can I have
the boiled sweet?
I ask her
if you like
she unwraps
the boiled sweet
and puts it
in my mouth
we could go
to the beach
next Monday
if your mum
says you can
Janice says
I study
her blue eyes
there're white clouds
captured there
I’ll ask her
I reply
a pigeon
flies on by
flapping wings
inside me
deep inside
something sings.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
A cutting of thumbs,
thin sliced across the back,
made by Benny's
small penknife
and thumbs pressed
against each to each,
blood mixed then
he dabbed Ingrid's
bleeding thumb until
it ceased and placed
a small plaster over,
then did his own.
She looked at her
plastered thumb.
So we're blood-brother
and blood-sister now?
She said.
According to some
blood oath I read
somewhere we are,
he said.
She seemed pleased
and rubbed her thumb.
He put a plaster over
his thumb and looked at her.
What shall I say
if my dad asks about it?
She said.
Just say you cut it
while cutting an apple
or something ,
Benny said.
She looked uncertain.
He'll know I'm lying,
he always does,
he gawks at me
and says you're lying girl
and wallops me.
He wallops you anyway,
Benny said.
He walloped you
the other day for going
to church, how's that
make sense?
She looked at her thumb.
Her father did.
He smacked her head
the other day for looking
at him when he lost
his door key and said
she'd hidden it.
What now?
Benny said.
Don't know,
she said.
Could go out to
the herbalist shop
and get some
sarsaparilla that helps
make blood,
he said.
She looked at her thumb.
Will it be all right now?
She said.
Sure it'll be fine
after an hour,
your old man
won't even know,
Benny said.
Well? Shall be go
to the herbalist?
He said.
She looked at him,
guess so.
So they walked
from his bedroom
and he said to his mother,
who was doing washing
in a big tub,
we're just going
to the herbalist shop.
She wiped her brow
with the back of her hand.
What have you done
to your thumb?
Cut it by mistake,
he said.
Ingrid hid her thumb
behind her back.
O well be careful,
his mother said.
She looked at Benny
and then Ingrid.
You all right, Ingrid?
Yes, thank you,
Ingrid said,
smiling weakly.
So they walked out
the flat and down
the concrete stairway
and down into the Square.
Can someone marry
someone after
the blood thingy?
She asked as they walked
down the slope
towards Rockingham street.
He frowned.
I guess so,
he said,
gazing up Meadow Row
straight ahead.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
feed me slices of apple cut with your penknife
under the old barren tree
twist your fingers in my hair, unkempt
lick at the trailing juices from my lip
travel south on my neck
smile into my flesh, huff my heady scent
grip me tighter, escape, venture inside
pour illicit prayers
in my mouth with foreheads pressed
glide through the path of the garden
lush in my summer prime
take all that I have and give in to temptation
Feb 13, 2021
Feb 13, 2021 at 6:56 AM UTC
Benny met Ingrid
by the steps
down to the playground
of the lower school
she had hesitated
and looked back at him
so crowded
she said
and noisy
wait over
by the flower bed
and keep in
the quiet place
so they walked back
over by the flower bed
we can be blood friends
he said
blood friends?
she said frowning
yes a friend of mine
Jim said it was
what Injuns used
to do in the Wild West
Benny said
she looked at him intently
do what?
she asked
well we make
a small cut on our thumbs
then join them together
and exchange blood
he said
she looked horrified
cut our thumbs?
she said
her eyes large
behind her thick
lens glasses
just a small cut
he said
and exchange blood?
she said
yes
he said
taking hold
of her thumb
in his fingers
press our thumbs together
and the blood
from us both mix
and we'd be blood
brother and sister
she looked at her thumb
what if it keeps bleeding?
she said
it won't
he said
we press until it stops
she didn't look convinced
not here
she said
no no
he said
we need a knife
and I haven't one here
but I have a penknife
at home we can use
she looked at him
through her thick lens
what do I tell my dad
if he asked how
I cut my thumb?
Benny looked
at her thumb
between his fingers
we'll think of something
he said
when would you do it?
she asked
he released her thumb
after school?
he said
where abouts?
she said
my flat
my mum'll not say
anything if you come in
he said
she looked uncertain
but my dad
what if he won't
let me out?
she said
see how it goes
he said
if you your old man
don't let you out
then we can do it
another time
she looked at him
then at her thumb
will it hurt?
no no
Benny said
me and Jim did it
we're blood-brothers now
she looked down
in the playground
at the kids at play
maybe
she said
maybe another day
ok
Benny said
and both walked on
and away.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
The sun's out
and we sit
on some stones
or old bricks
left standing
from bombed out
old houses
on bomb sites
on the right
going up
Meadow Row
I'm sitting
sharpening
my penknife
on a stone
Ingrid sits
watching me
or passed me
at coal men
loading trucks
with black sacks
with black coal
I spit phlegm
on the stone
and sharpen
the knife blade
my uncle
shows me things
Ingrid says
things he's made
out of wood
are they good?
I think so
and he said
he'll show me
to make things
at his place
I put down
the blunt stone
and fold up
the sharp knife
and will you?
I ask her
gazing at
her pale face
with slightly
protruding teeth
I don't know
she replies
this uncle
is he that
one you said
that does things
secret things?
she looks off
looks past me
at bombed out
house ruins
and blushes
nods her head
don't go there
not alone
I tell her
mustn't tell
she whispers
I won't go
on my own
I promise
she tells me
we get up
and walk off
the bomb site
off to get
2 lollies
at Baldy's
grocer's shop
and maybe
4 Blackjacks
sticky sweets
1 farthing
for each one
hot sunshine
bright blue sky
big hot sun.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Xavier
was the posh kid
in the top steam
at high school.
His girlfriend
was a dream
brain dream
night dream
wet dream.
He talked to me
about knives
a Waffen SS one
brought back
by his old man
from WW2.
A Japanese
curved one
and a flick knife
his cousin
gave him
from some hood
in the City
and others
I forgot as soon
as he said.
Have you
any knives?
he asked.
Just a penknife
I said
what's your
girlfriend's name?
He gazed at me
Penelope
he replied
we live close by
and go to the same
tennis club
and last month
went on holiday
to Corfu
with our parents
of course.
I didn't doubt
one moment
the parents
would be around.
He walked off
with a chump
named Giles.
But his girlfriend
shared my dreams
day and night
dry and wet
and no parents
about
in my dreams
of me
and Penelope.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
she sunk into the bathroom floor
eyes of parchment
longing attachment
penknife of dried ink
lying there between the sink
and her
but catches the light
into her line of sight
whispers of the wind
words out of vapour
swirl and come to her
grab it
they say
just for another day
they say
the pain will go away
they say
so she extends a hand
and fists her head
to make the voices go away
eyes of parchment
torn in two
one for them
one for You
another fist
another shriek
where is the treasure
she was supposed to reap
but she gets up
with wobbly knees
leaves the bathroom
of stingless bees
Feb 9, 2025
Feb 9, 2025 at 4:00 AM UTC
I wrote down those words "I'm missing you"
on a blank paper
a hundred times, thinking about
your brown eyes and a smile
that could melt my heart instantly.
Like a small teddy bear,
I want to put you in my pocket
to keep you with me.
I wrote down those words "I'm missing you"
on a tall mirror.
Staring at my own reflection,
I longed for you warm hug
and your gentle pats on my back.
It's gonna be okay,
you would assure and I would believe
everything you said.
I wrote down those words "I'm missing you"
with a blue penknife,
sending streams of dark crimson lines
down my arms to the floor.
You have left me and disappeared;
you've been gone for so long.
Before you left, you gave those last words:
Don't miss me ever.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC