Luis Aragon carved simple santos by hand

Not everyone knows
the nature of the carving
the mind sees,
the point of the knife
sharp and inquisitive
the blade
shaving away the false
leaving only the truth.

Every man is part of the holy trinity
of Land, Flesh and God.
Crops rise from sandy soil
children and goats romp
in the simple circle of the corral.

At night, while the woman slept and
the dog snored at the threshold
It was by lamplight pale yellow like
the glow from the gates of heaven
that the carving was done.
It was then that you searched for God
through the transubstantiation of
mesquite wood.
Without knowing how,
You'd see Saint John
in a piece of mesquite.
by your knife,
Saint John would be freed
from the wood
his body inverted trapezoids
of faith that was harder than flesh
his face a grainy vision of righteous anger.

In the morning,
Saint John would have gone
given to some stranger from Santa Fe,
who had stopped to ask for directions.
The Saint no longer belonging to you,
but to God.

All your days were spent this way.
Wrestling a living from the harsh,
uncompromising earth.
Watching the flocks and grandchildren grow
and in the evening
the mad passion of your hands
recreating the bible
in scrap pieces lumber.
Until that final day, when you
fell like a wood chip
to the hard earthen floor.

You are gone now.
St. John is a prisoner
standing on display
in a plexiglass case
owned by a museum that never
gives anything away.

Capitano Tedeschi

30

Luis Aragon carved simple santos by hand copyright Sept. 15, 2010 by Jamie Jacks

Isle of the Immortals

(poem inspired by a Chinese Painting)

I think this mountain
was a giant once
perhaps he was in love
with an empress or
a water spirit

Why is that we love
that which is so elusive?
It is sad to love
someone who can not
love in return.

When the giant finally realized this
all he could do was sit down
and weep.
He cried and cried.
He cried so long,
he turned to stone,

He cried so much his tears flowed
like streams and waterfalls.
The land sighed
and the sea surrounded him

Trees grew like moss
on his arms and shoulders
clouds congealed in what was once
his lap.

There in those clouds
I build my house.
But some days
the pounding of my hammer
the rasping of my saw
echo strangely.

I must be careful
not to awaken him.
I must be careful
not to revive
memories of you
beloved.


Capitano Tedeschi

30

Isle of the Immortals copyright Sept. 13 2009 by Jamie Jacks