My hands feel they are unsightly appendages,
spider fingered, square palmed, skinny wristed,
a little out of touch with the pulse of the world.
Unable to grow, these forty something years,
a decent set of nails to grace themselves,
they constantly fret about age spots and wrinkles
until I comment that they sound just like my mother.
I give them rings and bracelets to appease them,
shiny baubles in moonstone, sapphire, chalcedony, and jasper.
At Christmastime I let them ornament themselves
with the entire Wal-Mart collection of holiday gaudery.
Arthritic knuckles and cuticle encroachment forgotten,
they converse, all atwitter, in unselfconscious animation.
I mutter thoughts on flamboyant adornment and frippery.
Nails clipped short and smooth filed,
chapped and cracked from countless scrubbings,
I wear well my healer’s hands.
One-palmed, they have cradled the tiniest of neonates.
Together, eased the breathing of a gasping, frightened child,
They have pressed beats into a man’s dying heart
to next day wipe a dollop of Jell-O from his smiling face.
My hands love the wild plants of the woods, creeks, and fields.
I scold, though, their childish need to touch them all.
I indulge the pop of pregnant jewel weed pods,
the crush of fragrant hyssop, bee-balm, and mint,
and the caress of fronded fiddlehead and crow’s foot.
Wearing powdery flecks of mica in an earthy blush
my hands indulge me the first ripe strawberries along the trail.
I have lain in a sun warmed field in early spring
and watched my hands reconnoiter with a red tailed hawk;
widdershins loops across the sky in slow lift and soar.
I have felt them dive back to me in delight
as the hawk plummeted down behind the ridge.
My calloused hands have skinned their knuckles willingly
to find me arrowheads, curious cobbles, and chunks of quartz,
A water sign in palmistry, old souled and strangely portentous my hands bear a life line, long and intricately woven.
Wielding knitting needles, lawn rakes, spatulas, and books,
polished stones, ventilators, dust rag and beads
they sculpt the bridge between my creativity and my existence.
Pen clamped tight in a lefthanders clumsy grip,
my hands have scribed my truths and written down my dreams.
Author notes
Written November 23rd, 2004
What did you think
Comments
1 - 14 of 14
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This was a work of art. I really enjoyed it. I wish I could elaborate but words escape me...not a good thing for a poet...guess I won't try to write tonight. Anyway, it was very creative and touching...no play on words intended.
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ELOQUENT
beautifully penned...from the very hands that have accomplished so much in life, and has so very much left to accomplish...'cause this is the first poem I've read of yours and I will eagerly await the time when I can read more. -
This is exremely artistic and lovely. Everything about it is so amazing. Very beautiful. Wonderful job.
amanda -
Oh my... I was right to add you to my favourites without a second glance... another stunning and touching write here. What a fabulous subject... hands; such invaluable yet often neglected parts of ourselves... when I look at my hands now, I see my mother’s hands... and I love them for that.
I can remember, as a child, sitting with my grandmother pinching the skin on the backs of our hands and noting how her old skin took longer than my supple, young skin to go back into place. Recently, I sat and repeated this exercise with one of my own children... yes indeed, hands are marvellous markers of time passing and of our achievements in life.
I love every part of this splendid write but two bits that particularly struck me were the lines...
“They have pressed beats into a man’s dying heart
to next day wipe a dollop of Jell-O from his smiling face.”
and the second to last stanza... such beautiful imagery throughout...
Bravo another excellent write!
Louise ..
Edited on Feb 18, 8:22 because ''. -
This is amazing. I really enjoyed the imagery you created in this poem. You caught my attention from the beginning and that is very hard to do. So, great job and please, please write more! I would love to hear more like this.
<3ren -
Exquisite!
I have been held spellbound by the entire revelation of your write... moonstone, chalcedony and jasper are three of my favourite gemstones so I felt I had an affinity right away.
Your third stanza had such an impact on the imagery you had created for me to see. I have worked hard all my life, my hands have held the most delicate of thread when doing needlecraft, to holding a spade full of horse dung, shovelling the lot into an old wheel barrow with a tyre only half way inflated (because I couldn't find the necessary pump to fully inflate it again) the barrow tipping sideways over as I tried to empty it, so having to shovel it by hand onto the muck heap...to the feel of a newborn kitten all slippery and still steaming as it came forth from its mother, my hands have experienced all of this and more. Your poem wrapped itself around my heart and mind in the most wonderful way.
Your fourth stanza was like walking through a memorable dream, I too have lain on my back in a field with my eyes squinting into the sky, trying to follow the elegant flight of a sparrow hawk on the wing... I could go on and on, I truly thank you for writing such a beautiful, insightful piece of writing.
~Katie~
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I worked in an industry where we were told that it was important to have well groomed hands
. And I did, but I often wondered if that really was what people judged me by , or if it was maybe and hopefully that I tried to be friendly and helpful as well...I would like to think the latter.
But to your write. It is one of the most gripping that I have read in a long time. It speaks of a real life and the enjoyment as well as heartbreak of it. I lived every touch of your hands with you and therefore I thank you for the experience
reenie
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I have never really thought about all the things my hands have done, the touches, the sensations, traveling through this world. Such a new way to see ones appendages which are most important. You have really made me think about other body parts and what poetry could be written about them. The eyes for example, all the things that have been seen, the pain, the love, the tears etc... Very well written.
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wonderful
Sounds like your hands have been blessed with the wonderfulness of life. Great poem. It's truly enjoyable and wonderful to read. My favorite part was the jewlry. LOVE it... It reminds me of my Grandmother. -
This is an amazing write, It is true, with what the others have said, skin is just the covering, if whats under it is spoiled then the rest will spoil over time!! I love the way this is writtin. Your use of diction is wonderful.
This poem is one of insite as well as a life story...I find it amazing how this is written, with the flow it has and yet also with the feeling you get when you read it. When I read this piece I felt as if a person of great wealth ,not as in money wealth, but the wealth of living a full life, a life of wonders, and adventures! A life I hope to live! Thank you for such a wonderful piece!!
~Cris~
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Your hands are the tool that projects your beautiful thoughts onto paper for the world to see - and you must be thankful for that. This was moving and most enjoyable. Thanks for sharing and take care of your hands - I look forward to reading more.
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Calming
Amazing hands indeed! And haven't they been known to coerce music itself from polished wood and bits of string? But Sis... again you enchant me with wordly paintings of forest scene and mountain flower! If I were to sit down there on warm spring days, close my eyes and listen to natures overture... ah... I could live forever! Just look where you have taken me with your words! -
Beautiful!
My Dear, you may see 'unsightly appendages', but beauty is in the eye of the beholder; is it not? I wrote a rather long piece called "True Beauty is Much More Than Merely Skin Deep"; about a woman who was ignored at a party because she was rather plain. I had a group of friends who were rather 'catty'; into their clothes, nails, hair, etc. It touched upon this very subject. It was about her hands and how lovely I found them because they were rough because she worked so hard. Her hands had also lovingly cared for the man she adored. She was plain and somewhat unkempt. BUT SHE WAS REAL! The story was made up, but it was based upon what had happened at many parties to many women with this same group of 'real people who were so unreal'.
It was written for my friend and I gave the victim at this particular party in this story the woman who had 'victimized' these women all of the time I knew her, HER NAME! She actually had been a model for a large cosmetics company at one time and she thought she was 'all that'. She would humiliate perfect strangers, in public, like nobody's business. One day I'd finally had enough. I smacked hard, walked out of the store we were shopping in, called a cab and never looked back. I've never touched anyone in my life in violence! But I'd had enough.
I faxed her the poem and that was it. She was VERY upset by the poem, but I never did resume the friendship and we had been friends well over 20 years. I severed ties with the entire group. There are too many 'real' people I'd rather be spending my time with. Life is too short.
Your write is absolutely exquisite. Just as with age, comes wisdom, experience and timeless beauty. As with your hands. They've done it all. But most of all, you can look at them knowing that they have restored the health and life of others and there is no greater beauty than that. So I would have to say your hands are probably the most beautiful hands graced upon a woman there could possibly be. Wear them proudly, my Dear
Many blessings and
s
~ Becky ~
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What your hands haven't done! I liked the last two lines best of all - as they give your reason for being here today - well written.
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