The mason's hammer scribes a perfect arc, the pin rings out a perfect note an octave down from middle C. Much lower than the rest. Twelve pins there are in twelve drilled holes, even-spaced in a straight line. In turn the mason plays them all, but hits the high notes first. And so the hammer rises, falls... the stranger hears a tune. The mason, though, brings all twelve pins to ring out clear with one sound note. Soon, as he taps them evenly, together down the scale, a crack appears -- thin, wiry thing, like a shy mouse that scampers pin to pin. Yet still the mason taps: the crack runs down the marble block at either end. Still must the mason listen to the pins until the block comes clean away. Severed from its mountain home, it groans down to the ground and rolls before the mason's feet and those of him who first selected it. The master carver sees within the shapes that wait for their new day. But for the mason every day is as this one, and every night he dreams his one sad dream. The pins are choristers whom he conducts; they sing the same cantata time and time again, until the point at which the notes become the only note in town. It is a sort of death. A crack runs through the ground. It opens, swallowing the pins. He knows for sure, the day will come when it will swallow him.
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reader...
Saturday, 12 January 2013
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
Somehow had the ping of endless boredom. I felt sorry for him and all of those who worked so hard before us.
Don't know whether to laugh or cry. I suppose overall it is sad.Being partial to quarries all sorts, I don't feel sad about the cleavage [so to speak] but the fact that he has nightmares about it, whoever he may be, in reality or not.Love the cowering tim'rous wee beastie-like crack scampering from pin to pin.
BTW, it looks like your nature page comments have been vigorously scammed.
nice....there are several things in this dave...love the music...the ringing out as he cuts away....the seeing of what was in there....the best for me though is the realization that the artist day will come as well to be take by the same...
I think someone has to be a special kind of person to be a mason....it seems quite a monotonous life. Perhaps the dream is one of the few things that breaks this monotony?
A powerful metaphor the swallowing of the pins and the crack opening.
It's for us all. Ineluctable.
Such a sad piece. Although the mason breaks free the first piece that is his only contribution towards releasing a myriad of things from the marble. No wonder it is death rather than life he sees.
Much thanks to all for an interesting set of replies, a few points from which, I must admit, were unexpected, but greatly appreciated. The "mason's" method of removing a block is both something I have seen and was recently reminded of in a documentary. It was the possibility of a musical fantasy that first interested me, though in the event I did not persue that possibility.
Works for both the operative and speculative Mason. Job well done sir.
Post a Comment