Res John Burman (27th October 1942 to 'Not Yet! ' / London, Middlesex, England)
I am the sword of the Samurai,
Lovingly sharpened, honed,
Polished by skilled craftsman’s hands.
Some talk of thirsty blades,
But we are indifferent to flesh.
Though flesh is unwise to cross us!
I am the Cavalry Sabre,
Sharpened on the mobile whetstone,
Every unit carries, before battle.
I am the pike and the bayonet,
The shining spear point blade,
Winking in the sun and air.
I am myriads of knives
Fighting, hunting, whittling
Cooking but seldom “Flick”.
Invariably an inferior tool,
Made from suspect steel.
And wielded by fools.
I am the carpenters chisel.
Honed bright on Arkansas Stone,
And leather or canvas strop.
Handle polished smooth with use,
Fit to pare wood as thinner than a whisker
Worthy of the hand of a Saviour.
I am the surgeons scalpel,
Razor sharp, stainless,
Used only once.
And I am millions of razors,
Open, safety, twin, three, four, five
Bladed and disposable.
Scraping daily at men’s chins
And ladies legs, etcetera.
I am carbon enriched steel
Danish, Solingen, Damascus.
Forged in the white heat
Of the furnace glare.
I am Scorpio personified,
As good or evil as he who uses it,
As constructive or destructive,
The Sharp Cutting Edge.
26th March 2008
Comments about this poem (Blades by Res John Burman )
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