Poetry Wednesday -A Poem Inspired by ‘The Bard in my Woodstove’ - Rayburn
A poem about a crotchety old oven.
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A different prompt from
after a stunning poem about a bard/bird in a stove pipe. Sorry Nelly I have strayed further afield.The Prompt - Notice what home-related gripes, complaints, or inconveniences are coming up for you today. What woes have you experienced in the past? Notice which among these carries with it the most emotion or the richest imagery or the most intriguing metaphors. Let that be the starting place for your poem.
I’ve been looking at making my poems shorter and more concise and then I decided after reading another poem by
to also look at longer forms again. So this is a bit of an experiment and a definite early draft.Rayburn (2nd draft) A long, silver bar runs along the front of the warm black metal, and I lean on it daily, my hands curling round the simple pole, along with the towels and oven-gloves dangling in front of the oven doors. Coal dust settles on the red pamment tiles along the rusty edge. mingling with the ash left over from riddling the grate. Riddling, such a small word that doesn’t convey the tremendous effort required to use this small metal handle to move the grate backwards and forwards and allow ash to fall into the pan below. Clinker needs removing separately when the beast is cold. Needing feeding regularly, the pressed oval shapes fall, rattling, onto the dying glowing embers inside. It is a temperamental machine, impossible to control, pipes clang shrilly in the darkest hours as water boils within, waking the household with thumping hearts, steam threatening to spill. The hot water tank needs emptying, the fire dampening, the animals calming, my siblings settling, and all to the tympanic tintinnabulation accompaniment of the now cooling pipes. This beast is my master, I a slave to its wiles, its demands for more or less fuel never consistent. Years later it is replaced with a new red Stanley, whose regularity and lack of nighttime drama is highly praised. I still rest on the long handle and soak up the warmth.
So that’s today’s poem. Tell me what you think. Till next time.
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This beautiful poem has brought back so many happy memories of the Aga I grew up with - and its replacement - and the Rayburn I had later in my own home. Oil-fired, all of them, no riddling required. The Aga only cooked (oh, and warmed-up newborn lambs in its bottom oven if it was a particularly cold spring), but my Rayburn was responsible for three jobs: cooking, heating and hot water. I miss that style of cooking now that I've moved places! Great post - thank you, Tamsin. x
I like this a lot Tamsin - I think the metaphor works really well..it's a soothing poem I think - nice pace .