Poets: Pen-wielding carpenters.
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It never ceases to baffle me, how overrated poetry and poets are, when they are no more than bloody metaphorical descendants of carpenters. In fact, the complexities of carpentry in comparison with poetry seems more like putting monkeys in the league of gorillas - though they belong to same family.
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The comely carpenter, sitting calmly at the cool of the day, decided to produce a wooden masterpiece - maybe a chair. The same way, the poet sits to create a 'worden' masterpiece. While the carpenter grabs his hammer, nail, saw and woods, the poet grabs his note - made from wood - and pen - fashioned after the nail - then his hand, his hammer. The arm muscles flex out in preparation for work to start, the temple throbbing gently with the brain's pace.
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Carefully, the carpenter selects his wood - of different sizes - and carefully, mercilessly dismember the woods to fit into the grand design just as the poet selects carefully his words, cutting and adjusting to match a rhyme - or rhythm. Like the former hammers nails into woods - which otherwise would not connect, the poet stubbornly forces irrelevant words together with conjunctions.
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At first, the design seems no more a junk of wood - skeletal - offering rest to your legs and pain to your butt; the poem, a junk of words from a very disturbed mind to confuse the brain - every offence intended. Both designers put your life in danger of open nails, one for the body, the other for the heart. In grandeur, both add finishing touches, which will - according to premeditated design - determine what comfort it offers the receiving party.
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What seems weird, is how easily both manage to spurt good and evil. As their ancestors created guillotine to behead 'innocent' souls, the poets use their words to saw through hearts and rip out the tongue. In the twist, rest materials - like padded chairs - are created by carpenters, and poets, soothing words. In the end, when called to the battlefield, a war of woods and words, fire will raze - mortal brutality - the carpenter ends with a broken heart, the poet with broken bones.
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Finally, beware of their designs. Poets - with lying tongues - praised Jesus with words, and led him straight into the hands of a carpenter's work - the cross and the nails. Let me humour you, Joseph was a carpenter, Jesus, a poet. :p
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#Altarboy