The Wood Carver
By John Herlihy

I am a wood carver by instinct and intuition;
I am not a wood carver by trade or profession.
I carve the likenesses of things into something whole,
Into the shapeless wood, I carve the essence of its soul.

Olive wood is my medium by propensity and choice,
When I carve, the wood sings and gives me a voice.
Years of quiet carving have mapped contentment onto my face,
With enough patience to justify a desire to find my own place.

By day, I go about my business pulling the shades over my heart;
In idle hours, I engrave in the wood some faint message to impart.
At times, I carve in the evening with nothing but moonlight at my feet;
The spirit of the stars shines overhead while I sit quietly alone in my seat.

Wood carving has no true beginning, it already lives within the soul;
Nor does carving have any true end, it simply falls back inside, whole.
In another incarnation, the ability may quietly emerge to play the flute;
We harbor mystery within that emerges untaught as a skill deeply astute.

In my mind’s eye, I envision the finished product to slowly, surely appear;
The vision takes shape like a desert mirage that will never disappear.
What I carve into the shapelessness of the wood through effort and tears
Will stroke by stroke take on a permanence that will last countless years.

The finished product will finally emerge as an act of pure discovery;
An unexpected revelation with power to bring about an inner recovery.
All of the doubts and uncertainty that have flooded me thru my day
Are cast aside with the wood shavings that I just casually throw away.

I hand-carved a miniature kayak that was noble in appearance and smooth,
That plied through the placid waters to create its own simple groove.
A whistle of sharp intensity whose melodic sound was designed to thrill;
Its dignified voice would touch the saddened heart of the whip-poor-will.

I smoke the sweet skins of honey-apple tobacco when it becomes ripe,
That I stuff carefully into the contoured bowl of my olive-wood pipe.
On my night table stand, the statue of a ballerina is suspended in mid-flight;
Her breath-taking leap fills my soul with wonder during the course of the night.

In the springtime of my heart, a cooing dove settles down for her rest.
I feel peace and contentment coming on as I carve hatchlings in her nest.
In the winter of my heart, the wolf howls while her pups whimper and starve,
As I understand my loneliness, the blunt edges become near horizons as I carve.

Long into the night, the work spins within me a solitary thread of solace;
The carving knife makes haunting rhythms with flashes of light in darkness.
I have carved many a thing in my life to justify this native-born ability;
I have heard the whisper of my soul as I carve these sculptures of rare beauty.