The Carpenter
The Carpenter
Paul Mariani
Georges de la Tour, Joseph the Carpenter. ca. 1642
Out of that darkness behind the man who turns
the augur into the wood which his left foot holds
steady, note how the light grows stronger
as it approaches the boy. Note too how the fingers
of the boy’s left hand shield the flame of the candle
he holds in his right. From the creased brow, and half-
glazed eyes you can see the man is tired. He’s dressed
in drab like any other workman of the time, as on he works
into the night to put that daily bread upon the table.
Look again and see how alive the boy looks as he talks
to his father, trying to comfort him as the man keeps
on working. He’s a handsome kid, dressed in a modest
red garment, so eager to share still one more story.
Then note how the candle flame which alone illumines
the scene, seems to pass radiantly through the boy’s
outstretched left hand, as if transfigured. How happy
the boy seems, his hand raised as if blessing the man
who raised him and who, except for giving the boy
his name, remains silent throughout Scripture.
Still, here in this night the boy seems to have all the time
in the world to spend with the man chosen to be
his protector, here in Nazareth, as in Bethlehem and Egypt,
though it’s his heavenly Father the boy will call on,
beginning with those Temple elders when he turns twelve.
And the boy of course, being who he is, will seem puzzled
why his parents, who will search three days for him, don’t
see why he must be about his Father’s business.
But even that scene remains somewhere off in the distance,
and for now, note how the wood is being readied, like
the wood that will be waiting for him to complete his work.
By which time Joseph will no longer be there to watch over
his boy, though by then the hard lessons of patience
will have been drilled in: that readiness to say yes
to whatever task his Father has for him. How often
the story’s been told, as here by someone who will see
his own family wiped out by a plague, along with himself.
Still, the story never grows old, does it? No matter how many
times you keep coming back to it—often in the dark—to see
how a man watched over a boy and the mother of that boy.
Paul Mariani
Poet & Author
Paul is the author of seven poetry collections and numerous books of prose. His honors include fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the National Endowment for the Humanities. In 2009 he received the John Ciardi Award for Lifetime Achievement in Poetry. He was Distinguished University Professor at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, where he taught from 1968 until 2000, and currently holds a Chair in Poetry at Boston College.
Photography by Wolfgang Rottman