Friday 21 November 2008
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The Wednesday Poem

'Hands' by Vivien Jones
Read This
Read This
Vivien Jones
 Thursday 18 September 2008, The Journal Issue 9

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With wood, your hands are in control,
the push and press of the plane,
a planned path, strewing shavings,
gold ringlets tumbling,
the sweep of the saw whistling straight
through, your hand certain in the grip.
Pressing the planed wood to your lips,
your flesh detects its imperfections.

In music, your hands are dancers
sure of their allotted space,
weightless fingertips finding the note,
the chord shapes in their senses
independent of mind; then the strum,
a statement of being in the only place.
Holding the bow like a gift,
gifting the bow to the string.

On flesh, your hands are silent,
silky creatures exploring a world
of open aspect, mapping the paths
towards a mutual destination.
Best, in tormented moments,
your hands on my back, melting
the hard fear to liquid.
The Wednesday Poem is provided by Readthis magazine, www.readthismagazine.co.uk
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