015: Ode to a Carpenter

In hopes that the world relents before breaking your back for a third time

Below the old dark basement stair there sat
your drafting desk, whose nuts, whose rambling arms
belied the old fine flicker of forge and vat,
of framing, making, building, dreamt-up forms,
of vision, hope from unsung pioneer
will one day invent his masterpiece, his tour
de force. Aged desk, are you prepared to tell?
Has time arrived to meet fear
with nose, to nose? If asked, work surface, flour
everything kneaded, ease us—all is well…

Tinkering sets and Lincoln logs dispersed
along with the plastic basketballer toy
buried within a young man’s cedar purse,
casket of treasures, strong-box made of boy.
Always I played with playthings left from when
younger and younger versions of you lived
in worlds where daydreams folded on the earth.
Desire and intent
informed a simple world that muted moved
en route to Blissed Everlasting: Birth. Rebirth.

Soon come the fadings, manhood disenchants
in worlds without enchantments, glamoury.
When Everyone is worried, caught in rants,
conned, abused, used, massaged with emery—
they take (cause taken), break (broke), bricked (in turn)
because they know not if the “what I should do”
can break the reverie
of all I’ve known and know to do: to burn.
And thus the good we know we never do do.

Or do we? Really, do we only ill?
Methinks that the good men in this world are good,
that every bad man still in bed feels
all his guilt growing blackened mold-food
upon his own soul’s plinth and weeps inside
the backside of eyes, either eye like glass,
Man who, unmanned, unarmed, will know regret.
From such no evil hides,
though some exist like their remorse can’t outweigh past
sins. Godly-born sorrow makes for better brides.
Repentance without regret ain’t hard to get…

For grace does marry mercy to the just,
it pays the debt with money from above,
the death deserved by the inflictor still a must,
yet made innocuous, the vile removed.
Our resurrected Savior is alive
who died: it is his demise that extricates.
Be free. For good men get their goodness from
the Ghost Whose Life still thrives
in all things, reminds us all that “Grace on grace”
applies to the apple, airplane, smile, the broom.

For the begotten’s better still than the made,
for making takes what’s given, makes it less.
But the begetter rears up a peer, his shade,
his shadow, fellow, counterpart to bless.
Was not the Father him that Christ promotes?
Got not Christ glory making man his friend?
The Spirit earned his praise in Mary’s womb
slept not with her, but woke.
Begetting is the better thing: to die
so what’s begotten remains (empty tomb).

I can’t achieve your feat: No you? No me.
No you, then none of me of whom you’re proud.
I say that in begetting me, a seed
freed freedom — piece of you. Behind this shroud
hid Heath — a kinder man — and Lauren came,
who is favored in form and pax arsa.
In Heath — that open land untilled is a bond.
Distill these two, their fame
still trumps my own. You see? Like a dream, far as
I know, your achievement cannot soon abscond.

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“But Lance, my boy, all men beget!” How true,
but not intentionally. And none can
beget this son, these three. Dad, it’s not new,
but older things are often better: you stand
where others flee. You foot our bills, you ache,
give when there’s none to give, and give still more.
This means more than the theories relative,
which split atoms, dry lakes.
carpenter, learn from Carpenter this trust:

Beget: to give another life, chores.

Through ecstasy, family from family lives.
This, I believe, is genius.

}{

For newcomers — a note on 50 @ 25:

Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three.  Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.

These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24th birthday on April 30th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.

Who was I kidding?

Milton was blind and oldoooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.

(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).

Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”

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  1. Dead Christ | Lance Schaubert

    […] than statues wrought of steel. There are pseudo-exceptions – The Ballad of the Silent City and Ode to a Carpenter come to mind — but I typically turn my attention toward paying gigs. As a slow, steady […]

  2. Like, Literally, and the Ethics of Interviews | Lancelot Schaubert

    […] Which is why we need poetry, regardless of whether we enjoy it or understand it fully. We need sex, at very least, to create the next generation of humanity. We need poetry to create the next generation of words. As I wrote in the poem Ode to a Carpenter:  […]

Quick note from Lance about this post: when you choose to comment (or share this post with your friends) you help other readers just like you.

How?

Well, see, your comments & sharing whisper a few things to those who come after you:

The first is that this site is a safe place to speak up & stay curious. That it's civil. That discussion is encouraged. That there's no such thing as a stupid question (being a student of Socrates, I really and truly believe this). That talking to one another and growing together is more important than anything we could possibly publish. That the point is growing in virtue and growing together and growing wise. That discovery is invention, deference is originality, that we all can rise together. The only folks I'm going to take comments down from are obvious jerks who argue in bad faith, don't stay curious, or actively make personal attacks. And, frankly, I'd rather we talk here than on some social media farm — I will never show ads and the only thing I'm selling anywhere on the site or my mailing list is just the stuff I make.

You're also helping folks realize that anything you & they build together is far more important than anything you come to me to read. I take the things I write about seriously, but I don't take myself seriously: I play the fool, I hate cults of personality, and I also don't really like being the center of attention (believe it or not). I would much rather folks connect because of an introduction I've made or because they commented with one another back and forth and then build something beautiful together. My favorite contributions have been lifelong business and love partnerships from two people who have forgotten I introduced them. Some of my closest friends NOW I literally met on another blog's comment section fifteen years ago. I would love for that to happen here — let two of you meet and let me fade into the background.

Last, you help me revise. I'm wrong. Often. I'm not embarrassed to admit it or worried about being cancelled or publicly shamed. I make a fool out of myself (that's sort of the point). So as I get feedback, I can say, "I was wrong about that" and set a model for curious, consistent learning, and growing in wisdom. I'm blind to what I don't know and as grows the island of my knowledge so grows the shoreline of my ignorance. It's the recovery of innocence on the far end of experience: a child is in a permanent state of wonder. So are the wise: they aren't afraid of saying, "I don't know. That's new: please teach me." That's my goal, comments help. And I read all reviews: my skin's tough, but that's not license to be needlessly cruel. We teach one another our habits and there's a way to civilly demolish an idea without demolishing another person: just because I personally can take the world's meanest 1-star review doesn't mean we should teach one another how to be crueler on the internet.

For three magical reasons — your brave curiosity, your community, & my ignorance:

Please comment & share with friends how you prefer to share:

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