The Art of the Lathe
Leonardo imagined the first one.
The next was a pole lathe with a drive cord,
illustrated in Plumier's L'art de tourner en perfection.
Then Ramsden, Vauconson, the great Maudslay,
his student Roberts, Fox, Clement, Whitworth.
The long line of machinists to my left
lean into their work, ungloved hands adjusting the calipers,
tapping the bit lightly with their fingertips.
Each man withdraws into his house of work:
the rough cut, shearing of iron by tempered steel,
blue-black threads lifting like locks of hair,
then breaking over bevel and ridge.
Oil and water splash over the whitening bit, hissing.
The lathe on night-shift, moonlight silvering the bed-ways.
The old man I apprenticed with, Roy Garcia,
in silk shirt, khakis, and Florsheims. Cautious,
almost delicate explanations and slow,
shapely hand movements. Craft by repetition.
Haig and Haig behind the tool chest.
In Diderot's Encyclopaedia, an engraving
of a small machine shop: forge and bellows in back,
in the foreground a mandrel lathe turned by a boy.
It is late afternoon, and the copper light leaking in
from the street side of the shop just catches
his elbow, calf, shoe. Taverns begin to crowd
with workmen curling over their tankards,
still hearing in the rattle of carriages over cobblestone
the steady tap of the treadle,
the gasp and heave of the bellows.
The boy leaves the shop, cringing into the light,
and digs the grime from his fingernails, blue
from bruises. Walking home, he hears a clavier—
Couperin, maybe, a Bach toccata—from a window overhead.
Music, he thinks, the beautiful.
Tavern doors open. Voices. Grab and hustle of the street.
Cart wheels. The small room of his life. The darkening sky.
I listen to the clunk-and-slide of the milling machine,
Maudsley's art of clarity and precision: sculpture of poppet,
saddle, jack screw, pawl, cone-pulley,
the fit and mesh of gears, tooth in groove like interlaced fingers.
I think of Mozart folding and unfolding his napkin
as the notes sound in his head. The new machinist sings Patsy Cline,
I Fall to Pieces. Sparrows bicker overhead.
Screed of the grinder, the bandsaw's groan and wail.
In his boredom the boy in Diderot
studies again through the shop's open door
the buttresses of Suger's cathedral
and imagines the young Leonardo in his apprenticeship
staring through the window at Brunelleschi's dome,
solid yet miraculous, a resurrected body, floating above the city.
Outside, a cowbird cries, flapping up from the pipe rack,
the ruffling of wings like a quilt flung over a bed.
Snow settles on the tops of cans, black rings in a white field.
The stock, cut clean, gleams under lamplight.
After work, I wade back through the silence of the shop:
the lathes shut down, inert, like enormous animals in hibernation,
red oil rags lying limp on the shoulders
of machines, dust motes still climbing shafts
of dawn light, hook and hoist chain lying desultory
as an old drunk collapsed outside a bar,
barn sparrows pecking on the shores of oil puddles—
emptiness, wholeness; a cave, a cathedral.
As morning light washes the walls of Florence,
the boy Leonardo mixes paints in Verrocchio's shop
and watches the new apprentice muddle
the simple task of the Madonna's shawl.
Leonardo whistles a canzone and imagines
a lathe: the spindle, bit, and treadle, the gleam of brass.
poem by B.H. Fairchild
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Related quotes
Song
"Gesang ist Dasein"
A small thing done well, the steel bit paring
the cut end of the collar, lifting delicate
blue spirals of iron slowly out of lamplight
into darkness until they broke and fell
into a pool of oil and water below.
A small thing done well, my father said
so often that I tired of hearing it and lost
myself in the shop's north end, an underworld
of welders who wore black masks and stared
through smoked glass where all was midnight
except the purest spark, the blue-white arc
of the clamp and rod. Hammers made dull tunes
hacking slag, and acetylene flames cast shadows
of men against the tin roof like great birds
trapped in diminishing circles of light.
Each day was like another. I stood beside him
and watched the lathe spin on, coils of iron
climbing into dusk, the file's drone, the rasp,
and finally the honing cloth with its small song
of things done well that I would carry into sleep
and dreams of men with wings of fire and steel.
poem by B.H. Fairchild
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The Video Shop
The local factorys been pulled down
By an overseas corporation
Now all of my brothers are looking around
For alternative occupation
I was sitting by the telly with my brother, kenny
When suddenly the penny dropped
While all of my brothers are sitting at home
Ive got a bank loan and Ive opened up my very own
Video shop
Video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
Comedy and tragedy are all sitting on my shelf
And if youve got a fantasy
For a small rental fee
You can set yourself free
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
From all of the depression in you head
Caused by all the living in the red
Ive got a bootleg version of citizen kane
A second hand copy of psycho
Ive taped them off the telly so you shouldnt complain
And theres no guarantee youll get your money back again
From my video shop
My video shop
If you want to escape, I can rent you a tape
To relieve your situation
If you feel a bit low, I got a good peep show
cos everybody knows almost anything goes
At my video shop
At my video shop
One fifty a day and Ill fly, fly you away
Its nothing to pay to fly far, far away
I can help you through that lonely night
Ive got technicolour, black and white
I can guide you through those empty days
Make you smile and take your blues away
O let me fly you away
At my video shop
Fly, fly you away
Another factorys been knocked down
But nobody ever complains
And all of my brothers are customers now
We all play video games
I can see it in the eyes of all the lonely wives
If theyre bored and they feel like a change
I do sales, rentals, even a swop
And if you feel like a change, well it can all be arranged
At my video shop
At my video shop
At my video shop
At my video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
And everyone who walks in through that door
Has got something that theyre looking for
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
Oh, at the video shop
Oh, at the video shop
Oh, at the video shop
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Down the Sweet Shop
The little corner shop
full of special treats
Chocolate, bottles of Pop,
and jars and jars of sweets.
With pocket money in hand
given to me by my Dad
sometimes a little bit extra
if he heard I'd been a good lad.
I really loved that little shop
it was every young boys dream
you could get everything you'd want
Football Cards, Toys, and Ice-Cream.
My dad used the shop as well
he'd pop in to buy his fags
and Mum did her weekly shop
she'd get me to help her with the bags.
Then along came the big supermarket
the little shop began to lose it's trade
so sadly it had to close it's doors
an end of an era again I'm afraid.
But I'll always remember the little shop
stood there at the bottom of our lane
yes it may have only been small
but it had more style than any supermarket chain!
poem by Kevin Halls
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As Time Goes By
In our town there were many small shops, one selling
buttons the other socks; and a hardware store should
you need a hammer and nails to hang up a picture of
your mother -in- law, in the living room.
There was also a shop selling scarves, another selling
ladies hats, and a third one, quite posh, selling suits and
ties. I mustn’t forget the shoe shop, leather footwear
black or brown and white tennis shoes.
In our street of trade most shops have shut, those still
open are run by the Orientals where you can buy all
you need for a very small price. If your shoes wear out,
no point going to the old cobbler, buy Chinese instead.
Red lanterns sway in the fiscal breeze of decline where
wistfulness has no price tag. But you must remember
this, a shop is just a shop, yet, for us sentimental fools,
are remembered as a sweet memory of times gone by,
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Avenue Of Love
(9/24/12)
Love is an avenue of which to explore
Go to any shop and open the door
Shops for every feeling known to man
Walk in to understand.
Shops for pain, sorrow, bitterness and heartbreak
Shop around - it's not to late.
Shops for joy, happiness, contentment, devotion
Shops for every emotion.
Stop in - look around - feel every emotion
That can be found.
Shop around ahead of time
To find out what awaits down the line.
But do not be fearful of pains
That may await
Take the chance - don't hesitate.
You can search every shop that's on this street
But there is nothing that can compete
To the love that you have deep inside
A love so beautiful that you can not hide
All these shops are in your soul
Open the doors and life unfolds.
© L. RAMS
poem by Louis Rams
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Shop, she shops!
Once she constantly smiled
Bought cloths and jewelry that gave her style
Shop, shop, shop
She shopped till she dropped
Shop, shop, shop
She just could not seem to stop
Her credit was on top
Her spending way rocket up
She paid with cash or credit card
This Lady was absolutely shopping mad
Shoping malls!
Markets stalls!
Shoes, clothing, and handbags she bought all year long
Spend, spend and spend daily was her beloved song
Shop, shop, shop
She now shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
This lady has now put a stop
Today is different shopping expedition
This time spending with supervision
No more that crazy spending addiction
Her credit card is cut
Her goods seized, the whole lot
Today she spends, her pockets hurt!
She has become street wise
Haggling with each price
She has become precise
About what she needs and not what is nice
Shop, shop, shop
She shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
Her spending has taken a big drop!
This lady has now put a stop to shop!
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Loving Fun
Old lady
Age - 65
Old man
Age - 80
Booth are
Begger's...
shop to shop...
Begein
On the road...
shop to shop
They are not
Husband and wife...
They are
Friends
To companian...!
But;
Booth are
Beger's
Enjoy the life
Loving fun...! !
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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An Echo from Africa
Da ruction happen by Nicko's place
Las' week, in da deada da night.
Da copper he very near cop da case
Accounta da fish-shop fight
In da great beeg international way
Dat wrecka da oyster bar.
Now Nicko he grinda da tooth an' say,
'Da white-a man rule, by gar!'
Sammo, da slush, wit' da dark-tan face,
Scale an' clean-a fish
Long time he toila by Nicko's place,
Washa da dirty dish.
But Nicko he say, 'Da t'ings get slow;
Dis war make da beezness slack.
Dat Sammo, da slush, he have to go.'
So Nicko he sacka da black.
Las-a night, when Sammo he come for da mon',
His eye got da look like-a dirt.
But, Nicko, he say to heem, like in fun,
'Take-a dat, black scuma da eart'.'
Den Sammo he scowl aroun' da shop
An' he grabba da long, fat eel,
An' he smacka poor Nicko right in da chop
So he fall head over heel!
But Nicko come up wi' da Musso glare,
An' he seize-a da ten-poun' schnap.
Ah, I only wisha dat you been dere;
You see-a da bonza scrap!!
Dey smash-a da souce-bot, smash-a da chair,
Dey smash-a da glass partish,
Dey smash-a da pot-plant topa da stair;
An' da place all cover wit' fish!
Den Sammo he tread on da gar-fish head,
An' da foot fly up in da air,
An' he come-a down flop an' lie like dead
When he banga da head on da chair.
An' Nicko he grab heem quick by da feet
An' drag heem outa da door,
An' he say, as he fling heem into da street,
'Dat feenish my Afric war.'
But Nicko he same like a change man now;
All over da shop he fuss;
He flash-a da eye an' he knit-a da brow,
An' he stick out da jaw like-a Muss.
An' he look each customer close by da face
For da sign of da bad, black drop.
Den he grind-a da tooth if he twig da trace:
'Abyssin! Get outta my shop!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Jazz and The Hobo
It was a Saturday morning
And you were 19
and you were racing along
Victoria Street having just left
Victoria Railway Station
on your way to Dobell's
Jazz Record Shop
moving quickly
through the sea
of humanity
thinking of jazz
and what record
you were going to buy
at the shop that day
imaging yourself
fingering through LP sleeves
taking a mental note
of which one
you might buy
a John Coltrane or Miles Davis
an Art Blakey or maybe
a Dizzy Gillespie
a jazz record being played
over the loudspeakers
in the shop
you mingling with others
in the crowded place
when this hobo stopped you
taking hold of your jacket gently
and said
have you got some small change
for a sandwich?
no
you replied
I haven't
and rushed on
through the crowd
fingering in your pocket
loose change
silvery coins
and his voice
in your head
as you raced along
and your conscience
nagging you
maybe the voice
of the believed in Christ
so you stopped
and turned around
and made your journey back
through the people
passing by
your fingers taking hold
of the coins
the silvery loose change
and there he was
the hobo asking others
the same question
and they too went by
shaking their heads
or saying
no sorry no change
and you took his hand
and put in the loose silver
into his open palm
and said
here go buy yourself
a sandwich or whatever
and you turned
and left looking over
your shoulder
and he stood there
staring at his palm
and the coins shining
in the morning sun
and then you looked ahead
thinking of the record shop
and the LPs and the jazz music
being played
but deep down
in some other part of you
you knew you'd given
to one who maybe
was hungry
and had unconsciously
prayed.
poem by Terry Collett
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Your shop door
I looked at the sign on your shop door
it didnt say open or closed
I tried the handle because I wasnt sure.
Thats why im here inside
Well that and the fact I want some sweats
my dad often goes to the Cafe
and they look at him when ever he eats
he takes a packed lunch
he sits on the seats
there was this one time when he got a punch
it was because he wasnt allowed to buy
they threw him out they give him a black eye
they spat on him and I never knew why.
I looked at the sign on your shop door
it didnt say open or closed
I tried the handle because I wasnt sure.
That cafe he entered was open
and he was not there when the window was broken
he just needed somewhere to sit on a rainy noon
an accent like his?
The roads were his only room.
They're tools? Knives, falks and spoons
His? a shovel, a graft, to dig out the root which so many hold onto.
I pass your shop every day thinking,
'Open or closed to enter I dont know if I want to'.
poem by Daniel McCann
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Walk To The Shop
I’m going for a walk
I’m going for a walk to the shop
I’m walking to the shop
I sweat as I walk to the shop
I’m walking to the sweat shop
I’m working at the sweat shop
I work at a sweat shop
I’ll be back in an hour
I’ll be back in hours
I’ll be back in 16 hours
I’ll be back from work in 16 hours
I’ll be back from my 16 hour shift
I work a 16 hour shift
I need to go to the supermarket
I need to go to the supermarket to buy food
I need to buy food
I need to spend my wages on food
I need to spend all of my wages on food
All of my wages is just a few pence
For my wages I only have a few pence
I only get paid a few pence
I’ll be home soon
I’ll be back to my home soon
I’ll be back to my house in this town soon
I’ll be back to my house in this shanty town soon
I’ll be back to my hut in this shanty town soon
I live in this shanty town
I live in a shanty town
I am wearing my pair of Nike running shoes
I have a pair of Nike running shoes
I have lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I am surrounded by lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I make lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I make Nike running shoes
I make your Nike running shoes.
I work in a sweat shop
I work a 16 hour shift
I only get paid a few pence
I live in a shanty town
I make your Nike running shoes
The Cottage
Here in turn succeed and rule
Carter, smith, and village fool,
Then again the place is known
As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school;
Now somehow it’s come to me
To light the fire and hold the key,
Here in Heaven to reign alone.
All the walls are white with lime,
Big blue periwinkles climb
And kiss the crumbling window-sill;
Snug inside I sit and rhyme,
Planning, poem, book, or fable,
At my darling beech-wood table
Fresh with bluebells from the hill.
Through the window I can see
Rooks above the cherry-tree,
Sparrows in the violet bed,
Bramble-bush and bumble-bee,
And old red bracken smoulders still
Among boulders on the hill,
Far too bright to seem quite dead.
But old Death, who can’t forget,
Waits his time and watches yet,
Waits and watches by the door.
Look, he’s got a great new net,
And when my fighting starts afresh
Stouter cord and smaller mesh
Won’t be cheated as before.
Nor can kindliness of Spring,
Flowers that smile nor birds that sing,
Bumble-bee nor butterfly,
Nor grassy hill nor anything
Of magic keep me safe to rhyme
In this Heaven beyond my time.
No! for Death is waiting by.
poem by Robert Graves
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Pawn Shoppe Heart
I found my heart
In a pawn shop, baby
You took me for dead - dead
By the way - you still
I am way past tales
I'm bored and I'm crazy
You took all my good love
And gave it all away
I've been on the backstreet
I'm all alone
I've been on the hotseat
I'm gone - I'm gone
Sweet little love of mine
Take all you can
I'm your pawn shop lover
I'm your pawn shop, broken-heart man
With all your good looks
I still have nothing
Breaking the whip on my back like a man
Still have nothing
Take everything you want
Take all you can
I'm your pawn shop lover
I'm your pawn shop, broken-heart man
song performed by by Von Blondies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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While I get a few coins from my pocket
Yesterday there were young black men
standing in underpants
at the Apies river
and they were busy
washing their clothes
in the dark brown water
In one of the remote corners
of Sunnyside
a big cardboard box stands
at a shop’s entrance
on the sidewalk
and I see an old white man and woman
crawling out of it one winter morning
and they have got a half white bread
that they share with a white and black fox terrier.
At shoprite in Voortrekker street
a young black man
tries to sell fake perfume
and wants to know nothing
about removing his head
from the car’s window.
I place his goods
next to my car’s door
and tell my darling
to close her window
while he walks round the car
to get him out of the car.
At a pick-a-pay
there’s a small white woman
that’s a car guard
and always helps politely
to get the bags into the boot.
Then I realised
that if you just look around
there are countless people,
that life bites into pieces
and I wonder where
everything in this country is going?
While I get a few coins from my pocket
out of my pocket,
I feel guilty
to live like a king
and to see
others struggle around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Running Blind
At a quick shop somewhere west of Albuquerque
Got a tank of gas, a cold drink and a beef jerky
The cashier she gave me a smile
So I stood there and I talked to her awhile.
She said, ''Where you headed, I hope I get there soon
I seen 'em all day long from 4 a.m. to noon
Some are runnin' from, some are running to
Some are runnin' blind, Lord which one are you?''
''Well'', I said, ''It don't 'pear to to me to be cut and dried
You don't know me from Adam, can it be so black and white.''
I said, ''I got a plan you see, I got it figured out.
How can you be so sure my dear, what I'm all about?''
She said, ''I've stood in this window for 27 years
I can tell you cash or credit, I can tell your brand of beer
I can tell you who's a liar and the truth is plain to see
That's you last $20 and don't ya lie to me.''
''There's a girl in Albuquerque cryin', ain't there
And you're standing in a quick shop lyin', ain't ya
Well?''
She handed back my $20, said, '' You know what to do
If you drive steady son, you'll be home this afternoon
And I hate to judge you, I don't mean to seem unkind
But there ain't no use in runnin' if you're only runnin' blind,''
''Ah, there ain't no use in running if you're only runnin' blind.''...
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He Asked about the Quality
He left the office where he'd been given
a trivial, poorly paid job
(something like eight pounds a month, including bonuses)
left at the end of the dreary work
that kept him bent all afternoon,
came out at seven and walked off slowly,
idling his way down the street. Good-looking,
and interesting: showing as he did that he'd reached
his full sensual capacity.
He'd turned twenty-nine the month before.
He idled his way down the main street
and the poor side-streets that led to his home.
Passing in front of a small shop that sold
cheap and flimsy merchandise for workers,
he saw a face inside, a figure
that compelled him to go in, and he pretended
he wanted to look at some coloured handkerchiefs.
He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs
and how much they cost, his voice choking,
almost silenced by desire.
And the answers came back in the same mood,
distracted, the voice hushed,
offering hidden consent.
They kept on talking about the merchandise
but the only purpose: that their hands might touch
over the handkerchiefs, that their faces, their lips,
might move close together as though by chance
a moment's meeting of limb against limb.
Quickly, secretly, so the shop owner sitting at the back
wouldn't realize what was going on.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Shop Talk
I seen you in your pajamas
Drinking coffee at the house of pies
You was flipping for the check
And talking like your tongue was paralyzed
You were saying something
That I dont understand
Bout looking other places
While youre holding my hand
Lets stop
Lets not
Talk shop
In front of all these guys
Chorus:
Lets not
Talk shop
Shop talk
Shop talk is talking something
That you dont realize
Loose lips sink ships, shake hips
Bad tips draw spies
I want you when I can get you
But you only want me on the rise
Well I thought I had your number
But your numbers too loud
Now youre standing on the table
And were drawing a crowd
Lets stop
Lets not
Talk shop
In front of all these spies
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm The Pied Piper
As soon as he turned it on
The wind outside of his room
Stirred up for a few seconds
He thought to himself
"i'll climb out my window
And go sit out there with my radio"
Out the window he went
Sitting against a small stump
Behind some flowerbeds
The light from his bedroom window he could still see
The music of bach was playing
After a while it began to sound distant
As the young prince gazed at this radio on his knee
The music was floating away from his hearing
What could be happening
He took it off of his knee
And put the radio to his ear
Nothing happened
Then the transistor left his hands
And was floating in the mid-air
Two feet off the ground
As the prince laughed
It suddenly turned around
And it was light green phosphourous in color
Dancing back and forth
The magic transistor
Started moving down his path
He could hear the sound out
Like nothing he had ever heard before
The trees were getting closer together
And flowers glowed with tinges of magic light
As he followed thinking to himself
"what's going on?"
The transistor lifted slowly
Up to the top of a little tree
And sat there
While it slowly became louder
To where the prince could hear it clearly
Fireflies shot across the path in front of the prince
He turned around and couldn't see the light from his window
There he was watching all alone all by himself
He got a hunch to get back to his room
And he turned and ran right back
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cold and Deep
The end of civilization is to seek out and learn,
Never and never does the snow hiss or walk
Like us, for we crawl and hurl from it.
It is the cloud that is the spiritual center,
The importance of flesh has disappeared,
Foolish breath has eventually worked.
Cold and deep was the shop called blood,
My only sound ran away,
The following day he claimed a joy.
Shop for the sudden belonging,
Far-off the windows are shut and open,
Touching is too much beginning.
My young man matters to the born,
And he parked along the black roads,
Melted by the snow you certainly watch.
My claim he cast aside,
Now that the birth of brown beards
Arose from the jungles and forests.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Morning
The light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object,—hill, and stream, and skies,—
Rejoice within th' encircling line to be;
'Tis day,—the field is filled with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din,
The traveller with his staff already stands
His yet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently too within the breast,—
Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,
Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,
Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,—it is no day
To those who find on earth their place to stay.
poem by Jones Very
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