JCT Woodwork

08/11/10

When I was sixteen and building my first house

I had an epiphany about  wood,

I noticed that it was changing: warping, oozing, cracking

Even as I  constructed.

I hated that fact.

I wanted my work to be perfect and permanent.

I thrashed around in my sleep.

Perplexed by imperfection.

My boss at the time was a slob.

He coached me: “You need to adjust your attitude:

Don’t worry ‘bout it. Goddamnit.

Can’t see it from my house anyway.” He shrugged.

I found some boldness in his prescription for mindless action.

And that seemed to work for him and be to his pleasing

When I immediately did what he told me to do.

Right wrong: not my fault: not my job to be mindful.

I never could make peace with it.

Even with a raise, when everything was swimming.

I thrashed around in my sleep.

Wrestling an internal opponent that pit me against myself.

I was blissfully unemployed about five years ago

I sat on the lawn at my sister’s house

With both my artist sisters, eating a simple lunch.

One  sister said “Wabi Sabi”

Other sister said “Just was reading about that.”

Brother in law rounded the house

Like in a musical reading a book titled:

“What is Wabi Sabi?”

Well…. It’s a Japanese phrase that juxtaposes

Two notions of age, like New-Old.

Like aging renewed by usage.

An old tarnished door knob that shines anew just where you grasp it.

So after years of mindful care, I can grasp and turn a log

From something old, hidden and rotting

Into a fascinating new vessel.

That honors old and new life in its layers of age and coping.

That has been the idea behind my work this week.

Love, John

July 4, 2010

A friend sent me a photograph

Of a generous oak in Rochester.

In a park designed by Omstead

Near the beautiful Genesee river.

In the precarious comfort

Of my grandfather’s recliner.

But come the fourth of  July this year

That tree was cleft in twain

As if smacked so hard

It split from the blow

Of a bare fisted giant.

Now, I’m not Druid any more,

Though those would be my roots.

But such an event on such a date

Might cause a plume to quiver

Back in the age of Shakespeare

When catastrophic events caused

Kings to repent from wars

And other wrong decisions.

Beware, repent and then perhaps rejoice.

Love, John  

P.S. find the “after” picture in the attached.

05/29/10

I’m sick about the Gulf of Mexico.

Everything seems so mighty there at the mouth of the Mississippi.

But the breeze carries such a delicate mixture of scent.

Of things that require the gentlest kind of loving.

The scent of frogs, whatever that is

And reeds that bravely flower over mud

And little eyes that blink in the surface of gentle water.

I so hope whoever spills oil will certainly clean it up

Before it washes to shore.

Surely they will corral it like a gigantic school of fish

And suck it up as I’ve seen them do with fish into the hold.

And I hope they will experiment there

And find a way to separate

Oil from troubled water.

O, it’s already reached the shore?

O, they didn’t try to capture it?

O, they don’t know what they’re doing?

O, ships are full and won’t offload until the price of Oil rises?

O, they think the ratio of oil to water is not yet high enough?

Try this: One teacup of oil in the vast ocean is too much.

We must be fastidious as American Indians were about buffalos.

For all the bounty of this delicate earth.

Love John  

Spring

My heart aches for the rush of Spring

Where every shrub is stretching

And rushing with all its might

To get ready in its fat bud.

Then burst with scent and color

And join the wild profusion

On its dizzy march toward summer.

Alas, much of summer is here all winter.

And while I applaud the quiet and formal rites of Spring,

I’d still like a taste of New England’s all out bash!