Custom woodworking and art
My ode to Hawk tower and Robinson Jeffers. Hawk tower and Tor house were built by Robinson Jeffers a poet who lived in Carmel by the Sea, California. The first time I ever set foot for a tour of the main house named Tor House and the adjoining three-story stone tower “Hawk tower” which he built to resemble the stone towers in Ireland I knew I was home. But to a home I had never known. I have made a promise to myself that I too will build my own hawk tower someday. But until then I will do what I can with what I got. One of the many cool details on hawk tower was a hawk carving made from stone that acted as a scupper that allowed for the water that collected on the flat stone floor to exit outside.
To check out more about tor house please visit: http://www.torhouse.org/
If you can read the poem below and find no substance than no need to travel any further on my site you won’t find anything here.
By Robinson Jeffers:
IThe broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.
III’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.