The experience of the Poet’s Eye
When I was a little girl, my father was a keen woodworker,
using every spare moment to beaver away in a corrugated iron shed in the backyard.
One wall of the shed was stacked high with wood, mainly branches he had dragged back from long walks in the bush.
I liked to lie on the bottom shelf of the workbench, playing with the sawdust and wood shavings or just lying on my back, watching my father work or daydreaming.
One day I became puzzled at how long my father stood with a branch in his hands, just staring at it. I asked:
“What are you doing?”
“Why?”
“Where is your poet’s eye?”
“Is it this eye or this eye?”
“Have I got a poet’s eye?”
“What does it do?”
“If I have one can I see what is inside my sister’s treasure box?”
“I want to see something with a poet’s eye.”
“I just see an old, broken branch and the white ants have eaten it here and it has sharp things sticking out here.”
“What, are the white ants still inside?”
“Is there a lizard inside, when can I see it?”
After that I tried to see everything with my poets eye, talking about it until the whole family (including my father) was heartily sick of hearing about it. I am still trying.
I liked to lie on the bottom shelf of the workbench, playing with the sawdust and wood shavings or just lying on my back, watching my father work or daydreaming.
One day I became puzzled at how long my father stood with a branch in his hands, just staring at it. I asked:
“What are you doing?”
“Just looking.”
“Why?”
“I’m looking at the branch with a poet’s eye, trying to see what it wants to become.”
“Where is your poet’s eye?”
“Oh, here and there, somewhere around.”
“Is it this eye or this eye?”
“Well….. it’s actually both eyes… sort of.”
“Have I got a poet’s eye?”
“Oh yes, everyone has a poet’s eye, only some people just don’t know they have one.”
“What does it do?”
“Oh, it just looks, and then sees what is underneath and inside things.”
“If I have one can I see what is inside my sister’s treasure box?”
“No, you cannot! It is not meant to be used for being nosey.”
“I want to see something with a poet’s eye.”
“Oh well, come and hold this piece of wood with me and tell me what you can see.”
“I just see an old, broken branch and the white ants have eaten it here and it has sharp things sticking out here.”
“Yes, but if the old bark falls off, you will see something struggling to come out.”
“What, are the white ants still inside?”
“No -o - , keep looking.”
“Is there a lizard inside, when can I see it?”
“Look inside the wood, try to see what it wants to become.
Everything on earth has got an inside that is a different and beautiful shape, something it is trying to become.
You’ve seen the butterflies come out of the chrysalis. Just so this piece of wood.”
After that I tried to see everything with my poets eye, talking about it until the whole family (including my father) was heartily sick of hearing about it. I am still trying.
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