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Sailboat
Each day I stole, set a side or borrowed
An hour of toil. With pencil, handsaw, hammer
Block plane and chisel, I bestowed
Shape to ideas and thoughts that did not stammer.
Pre-adolescent dreams coming true
In a man’s need for a tangible reality
That will carry me across waters of anguish to You
My hands work and my mind is silent, seeking eternity.
A sailboat has no right angles, corners or flat plains,
I struggle to grasp the three-dimensionality of its curves.
Beside me, holding boards, making marks and measuring is my oldest son,
Close by my younger two play games; encouraging with lemonade, my hon.
Every time I set sail these memories gurgle in the wake
Sawdust, paint, smooth curves; my heart awake.
-Jonathan Bornman
Hi, I have enjoyed your online magazine for about six months. The picture is our skiff built in 2002 from plans by Gifford Jackson, his Marisol Skiff (see photo above).
I wrote the poem as a reflection on the building experience.
Construction photos are available on my website:
Jonathan Bornman
B.P. 335
Louga,
Senegal |
