(A poem for my father on his birthday)
I am not a believer in psychology,
there is too much claim laid and laid blame.
They draw too many comparisons between the mind
and clay, as if tragedy were the only hand that molds us.
If what I believe is true, and the mind is the seat of the soul,
if cogito ergo sum, then the soul is a carpenter,
and the mind is the series of boxes it builds.
They say that men of genius develop mansions
in their minds. That every room is fully furnished
and you can lay your cheek on the cool marble
of an imagined grecian column, more real than any
that ever was. But what of men who build a life
in the real world? St Joseph taught his son
of dirt and and stone and wood. Supernatural gifts
can become curses. If you cannot hammer a nail,
and if you cannot see the grain of the tree,
then your feet will never know the joy of the ground.
Before that moment, the only thing God had never been
was human. It was a gift only the men of earth could give.
My father is not St Joeseph and he is not a carpenter,
but he is a builder of lives and a diligent crafter of spirit.
My father's hands are molded by work,
and joy, and tragedy, reckless hope
and patient diligence. He can do one better.
He can make a slingshot, sharpen knives, and build things.
