An Apple Peeler

In which we take joy in the fine art of imitation

In Mr. McKendy’s class at Marianopolis, we spent a fair amount of time trying to fool each other. His Apple Peeler poems were a joy and a frustration — especially for an aspiring poet like myself.

The rules were simple:

• Choose a published poem.

• Write two alternate variations on it.

• Submit all three versions to the class.

The class’s job was to guess which version was the original “real” poem. A grade may have been attached to the results, but mainly there were bragging rights to be won (and I deeply wanted to win them, though I’m not sure why I imagined I could improve upon the Emily Dickinson poem I selected).

I am delighted that a quick search online for “apple peeler poem” yields only results related to the kitchen tool used to remove the peel and sometimes cores from apples. I take this to mean the Apple Peeler exercise was something special, borne of Mr. McKendy’s unique experience and insight, and his love for language.

A few more reworded internet searches turned up a mediocre poem of the same name written by an obscure poet.

More digging yielded an account of a spat between Robert Francis and Robert Frost about Francis’ poem titled “Apple Peeler” that Frost thought was an attempt to disparage him, and so he retaliated with a disparaging poem of his own. (Maybe, just maybe, this was the story behind the name of the assignment. But if Mr McKendy told us back then, I can’t remember.)

The internet has been of little help, but it did turn up this paper Mr. McKendy wrote about the Apple Peeler exercise — unfortunately, I don’t have access to the full PDF.

To my sadness, I recently found out that Mr. McKendy passed away in 2019. And I’ve been thinking of Apple Peelers off and on ever since.

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It’s fall. The apple trees in my backyard have mostly dropped all their apples, though a few cling to the branches still. Dots of deep red, a reminder of what we’ve missed.

We did our best to salvage and process what we could, baking apple crumbles and filling a couple of 60L bins to make the cefre mash that will be fermented and made into pálinka. Still, a good many apples were left to feed the slugs and worms before disintegrating into the ground, which I suppose is only fair.

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The workers were here again this weekend (Thanksgiving in Canada, but there is no such holiday here) for a long day of shoveling and pouring cement. They arrived early, while the dew was still on the ground and the air had a distinct bite to it, and they stayed until after 4 p.m., ending the day with a third pot of coffee.

As they sat relaxing in the tired white plastic chairs, smoking their cigarettes and stirring sugar cubes into small amounts of coffee, I listened to the lilt of their conversation. I understand enough Hungarian to get the general idea of what they are saying but not the specifics. They were talking about the next projects. About what could be done here, and there, and with the lugas (grapevine-covered archway). About the roof, about the walkway. None of this is within the scope of the current job, but they were mulling things over and coming up with ideas and solutions. Conjuring possibilities that could be shaped into realities. And then the how. How they would do it. What would be needed. What was the best way.

And as I stood there listening, off to the side, a line from a poem popped into my head. (I remembered it incorrectly, but no matter.) I needed to find it because I knew that that moment of coffee and cigarettes and problem solving was the brother to that poem, and needed to become a poem of its own.

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In the spirit of the Apple Peelers, here it is, with apologies:

A carpentry of old men

When old men together sit drinking
hot coffee and planning out the
joists of tomorrow, thoughtfully
pointing at this
or that stud or strut, or laying
this stair over that stringer till
rise and tread of new lives begin
surely to ascend, when old men sit
smoking and planning, the plans
making smoke in the air, when they stir
cubes of sugar into a dainty coffee cup
and keep stirring the same small spoons
in the same chipped cups, something creaks
in the grain of the wood
and it’s tomorrow already,
and the curled wood chips tumble
from the lathe of the sky.

When old men together sit planning
a new project, when they plan
the time out, plan views, plan
night – they plan up a dust
of lumber yards and beams
and they plan a fiddle for the wood
to dance to, till the dance
fiddles up a spark; when old men
sit stirring sugar in cups
with spoons, when the spoons turn
into tools that spin and whine
and the brace of the sky
keeps working its drill bit deep
to bore lumber, when lumber seats
plans in a bearing wall, and turns
plans into a frame to build the strength
of the spark – then it’s plans
against plans, till the flash
of the spark sears into wood
and they plan the wood back up.    

Things that matter and don’t matter
are caught together, things done and undone,
and the trees grow tall and strong
while they lean closer to peer down
into the fallen ashes where the day’s work
flicks a match and is gone
(and the truss of the sky keeps bracing
its timber frames up) – when old men together
sit drinking hot coffee and tapping on the boards
of tomorrow, it is a new song.
The sun glints off the metal flashing
and the gutters gather the rain.

The original is here, written by one of my favorite poets, Robyn Sarah.

CAT'S CRADLE

Robyn Sarah
From:   The Touchstone, Poems New & Selected. Anansi, 1992

When women together sit sipping
cold tea and tugging at the
threads of memory, thoughtfully
pulling at this
or that bit or loop, or slipping
this loop over that finger till
warp and weft of past lives begin
crazily to unwind, when women sit
smoking and talking, the talk
making smoke in the air, when they shake
shreds of tobacco out of a crumpled pack
and keep drinking the same weak tea
from the same broken pot, something clicks
in the springs of the clock
and it's yesterday again,
and the sprung yarn rolls down loose
from the spool of the moon.

When women together sit talking
an afternoon, when they talk
the sun down, talk stars, talk
dawn--they talk up a dust
of sleeping dogs and bones
and they talk a drum for the dust
to dance to, till the dance
drums up a storm; when women
sit drumming fingers on tops
of tables, when the tables turn
into tops that spin and hum
and the bobbin of the moon
keeps spinning its fine yarn down
to catch fingers, when fingers catch
talk in a cat's cradle, and turn
talk into a net to catch the curve
of the storm--then it's talk
against talk, till the tail
of the storm trails into dust
and they talk the dust back down.

Things that matter and don't matter
are caught together, things done and undone,
and the kettle boils dry and over
while they lean closer to peer down
into the murky water where last night's dream
flicks its tail and is gone
(and the reel of the moon keeps cranking
its long line down)--when women together
sit sipping cold tea and sawing on the strings
of memory, it is an old tune.
The rice sticks to the bottom of the pan,
and things get left out in the rain.