Inspired by the parable of the Useless Tree and shared with Poetic Bloomings #571 – Nothing But Trees: Carpenter Shi was travelling through the countryside with his young apprentice when they came upon a village shrine built around an enormous oak tree. The tree was ancient beyond measure, its trunk so vast that a thousand men holding hands couldn’t encircle it. Its branches spread like a green cathedral, offering shade to the entire village square.
The apprentice stood transfixed. “Master!” he called excitedly. “In all my travels, I’ve never seen timber so magnificent! Why won’t you even look at it?”
Carpenter Shi barely glanced up from his path. “Worthless wood,” he muttered dismissively. “Make boats from it and they’ll sink. Make coffins and they’ll rot before the bodies do. Make tools and they’ll break in your hands. Make houses and they’ll be eaten by worms. It’s completely useless—that’s the only reason it’s lived so long.”
The carpenter continued on his way, but that night the great tree appeared to him in a dream.
“What are you comparing me to?” asked the tree. “Fine trees like cherry and pear? Those trees that bear fruit are attacked the moment they ripen. Their branches are broken, their bark is stripped. Their very usefulness makes their lives miserable, cutting short their natural span. This happens to all things.
“I’ve been working for ages to become perfectly useless. I nearly died several times in the attempt, but I’ve finally succeeded. My uselessness is now my greatest usefulness. If I had been useful, do you think I could have grown this large?
“Besides, you and I are both just things in this world. How can one thing judge another? You’re a dying man who understands nothing—what could you know about a useless tree?”
When Carpenter Shi awoke, he told his apprentice about the dream. The young man was confused: “If the tree wants to be useless, why does it serve as a shrine?”
The master smiled. “Quiet! It’s simply taking shelter there. Those who don’t understand it might harm it otherwise. If it weren’t a shrine tree, wouldn’t it be in danger of being cut down? Its way of preserving itself is different from ordinary trees, so using conventional standards to judge it will lead us far astray.”
On the surface, this story seems to be about different definitions of value—the carpenter sees lumber, the tree sees survival. But dig deeper and you discover something revolutionary: the tree has found freedom through strategic uselessness.
What if our quirks, our imperfections, our refusal to fit standard molds aren’t bugs in our programming but features? What if the very things that make us “unemployable” in one context make us invaluable in another?
Standing as a shrine, the carpenter carves his maths into my bark, deciding I’m worthless of even a spark.
As a boat, you’d drown, a coffin would soon rot; a tool soon broken; in use, it’s better not.
As they dressed for compliments all my friends became stripped bare; miserable lives soon utilised and no longer standing there.
If I were useful I’d no longer stand. We are just things. What could you know about me? I’m a shrine, just as I planned.
Sweet like a peach, tough like a man; Dirt spins free.
Ears are wet, arms are wide, Dead nerves jolt.
We want signed concussions.
Written for an AllPoetry.com contest, choosing a painting by Jane Davies, whose work reminded me a lot of Trumans Water’s album covers. So inspired I scoured their lyrics for clues and indeed, this work is completely a cento of lines take from their 1993 album Spasm Smash XXXOXOX Ox and Ass.
Daily hits At my favourite morning spot; Rock ’n’ Roll utopia Killer caffeine, cranking tunes.
So, what’s up, Floyd? Is it stuck on repeat? Do I need to hear Money Every single day?
Oh, Syd – I wish you weren’t still here, Falling down and on fire.
The show must go on, I suppose. However Even madcaps have their limits.
More Money? Overplayed, this lunar cartoon; Obliged to orbit this sound; No more, no more, I say!
This was another attempt at Day 16 of GloProWriMo, though I didn’t get into the details so much as previously. Utopia is the name of my local coffee shop where I often sit and write. After a year or two, though, I had to request that they not play any post-1974 Pink Floyd while I’m there! Oh, this is an acrostic.
The Garuda flashes wings on high, in the hunt for its eternal foe; Born from a mother’s binding sigh, from bitter chains of long ago.
Dazzled by the sun-god’s splintered light, the Naga bows again, brought low; One tastes the freedom earned in flight, one tastes the curse its mothers sow.
In peaceful skies, the hunter prevails and thus, in this unending chase; matched by trembling serpent tails, a cosmic balance finds its place.
Based on this tale: According to Hindu and Buddhist stories, the giant birdlike Garuda spends all of eternity killing the snake-like Nagas. The feud started when the Garuda’s mother and the Nagas’ mother married the same husband. The husband granted each wife one wish. The Nagas’ mother asked for a thousand Naga sons. Garuda’s mother wished for just two children but that each child would be equal to 1,000 Naga sons. Their rivalry continued until Garuda’s mother lost a bet and became the servant and prisoner of the Nagas’ mother. The Garuda was able to free his mother by stealing the nectar of immortality from the gods. But he swore vengeance for his mother’s treatment and has been fighting Nagas ever since. Shared with dVerse – Tuesday Poetics – creature feature
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