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

100 Poems

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

Anagha Smrithi

to also look at longer forms again. So this is a bit of an experiment and a definite early draft.

Photo by gaspar zaldo on Unsplash

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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. 

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So that’s today’s poem. Tell me what you think. Till next time.

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