I was compelled to address a question that is often asked of many artists and craftsmen, particularly those who do intricate, detailed work, which doesn't generally apply to me. My response has since been published in many woodturning circles throughout the world. It is reprinted here for your enlightenment, and entertainment:

How Long Does It Take To Make One Of Those?

Do you mean…

not plant the tree, but find the wood,

just ‘see’ the piece, (as if I could)?

to find a highly figured burl,

a crotch, an eye, or pearly curl?

And once I spy it, perhaps buy it,

inventory, store, and dry it?

Then saw or cut it, possibly I kiln it,

glue, imbue with fill, or drill it?

You mean, that once I’m satisfied

it’s stopped the warps, checks, cracks, once dried?

And mounted on the lathe, to turn it,

(which takes much practice, just to learn it;

and then employ a gouge, or two,

or use a skew, which I don’t eschew,

to mold it, shape it (what’s your pleasure?)

by all means, I’m sure to measure,

then sand it smooth, please wear your mitts,

from coarse to fine, 10,000 grits,

then braze, or burnish, paint, or polish,

(the goal: enhance, and don’t demolish)?

Is that your question, start to end,

how long’s that path, its way to wend?

Or do you merely want to know how long it turned?

Ten minutes, or so.

  © John A. Styer, The Lathe-meister

I have been associated with a loose-knit group of poets, who meet the first and third Tuesdays of each month, at noon.  We call ourselves Lunchlines.  We give assignments to ourselves for each meeting, share them, and occasionally generate a collaborative poem on the spot.  We have compiled compendia (a word I may have just made up, since it is used so infrequently) entitled "Lunchlines...a mixed brown bag of poems".  There are presently 5 (soon to be 6) of these anthologies, available through the Cecil County Arts Council (www.cecilcounthyartscouncil.org).  Following are some examples of my exercises:

Cecilonia

Andora arrived Earleville, not expecting

her Blake for a few minutes.

Feeling a little Bohemia, and looking very Sassafras,

(she had just Colora her hair and was wearing

something ‘special’ from Fredericktown of Brantwood),

she passed the time with a glass of Port Deposit,

and a serving of Elkton and Frogtown

from down on the Farmington,

while giving the West Nottingham

to a game of Blueball.

Perryville and Glen Farms were at Warwick

with Calvert and Cecilton, both Frenchtown,

who won with four consecutive shots in the

Cayot’s Corner, the Cathers Corner,

the Kilby Corner, and the Barnes Corner.

Game, set, Mechanics Valley!

The Principio reason the Farms boys lost

was they Hacks Point too many of their shots,

but perhaps the Bay View of Andora’s

Chesapeake City had something to do with that.

Or maybe her inopportune sneeze.  Octorara!

Her Fair Hill was the Appleton of Charlestown’s eye,

but, nevertheless, she wasn’t waiting around

until Rising Sun for him to arrive,

Pleasant Hill compliments or not.

I mean, what would be the Turkey Point in that?

Sometimes he could be a pain in the Elk Neck.

Just because he had taken the Liberty Grove

to buy her a Rock Springs

didn’t obligate her to Spencerville

all her time with him.

Belvidere and Leslie had raised no fool.

She had to bring home the Bacon Hill,

from her job down at the Elk Mills,

one of a string of part time jobs

she has had, from Arnold Point to Zion.

She was hoping her current job would

Leeds to much Providence,

unlike some of those others

which were either a pain in the Lombard,

or truly Susquehanna.

She doesn’t Cowentown to any of that.

And, by Conowingo (and the grace of St. Augustine),

she was Blythedale leaving now,

Singerly like a Childs through the Woodlawn,

before that North East blows in.

 

March

Forward, March!!!

You march right in there and demand a raise!

March your butt over here and sit, buster!

March comes in like a lion.

Forgive me if the word doesn’t

conjure up positive images,

but I’m less than impressed

with its inclusion in the English language.

It is harsh; abrupt; brusque.

So many words are more colorful; poignant; alluring.

Consider sashay.

Forward, sashay!

Or ramble.

You ramble right in there and demand a raise!

Or stroll.

Stroll over here and sit your butt down, buster!

Or Iliad.

Here we are, the 1st of Iliad.  Iliad came in like soup.

© John A. Styer, March 1, 2005

 

This one is probably self-explanatory.  The assigned subject was actually ground hogs, but I, quite naturally, went askew:

Ground Hog [Day]

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard,
necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. Several minutes into the chore, I saw brilliant lights, flashing inside my eyes, but I felt no pain
as I fell unconscious.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard,
necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel.
As I was cleaning off the edge of the sidewalk,
my foot slipped, throwing me under a passing bus.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard,
necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel.
My wife decided to help by shoveling the sidewalk,
as I did the driveway.
The snowplow never saw her,
as it buried her in its torrent.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard,
necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. Before I even starting breathing heavy
I felt a crushing pain in my chest and left arm.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard,
necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. But a large tree had fallen across the driveway.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard,
necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. But it was snowing and drifting
faster than I could shovel.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard,
necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel.
Little did I know that the holes in my glove would lead
to frostbite, complications thereof subsequently resulting in the amputation of my right arm.

I woke up this morning, noticed it was 4:31AM,
and rolled over and went back to sleep. 

© John A. Styer, February 1, 2005

 

A Bulwer-Lytton Treatise on Electricity

Bert McLaren impatiently thrummed
next to the teller's window.

Next in line was Amy Feldman,
bouncing little Aaron on her hip,
trying to console him as he was cutting another tooth.

Behind them stood wide-eyed
(and lavishly tinted with hotrod metallic blue)
Crystal Lawrence, fawning over
bedenimed Donnie Adkins,
to whom she had become engaged…..last night…..late.

In strode Ralph Swayze,
wearing his personalized union jacket,
a scarf over his nose and mouth,
waving an air-gun in one hand,
and holding a plastic(!) bag in the other,
announcing "This is a stick-up!  Don't nobody move!
Fill this bag with money, Karen(!)!"

Bank Manager Chuck Dardon, Ralph's high school coach, rolled his eyes, tapped the steel barrier button,
buzzed 9-1-1, then called out to Ralph,
who promptly wet himself.

It was this moment that the bald tire
on Jake Warner's pick-up,
limping along in front of the bank,
decided to explode.

Electricity was in the air.

 © John A. Styer, May 7, 2002