“Let my worship / be this work / and the force / of each bit / strike / on masonry”. And so, begins Joshua Robbins’ latest collection of poetry, Eschatology in Crayon Wax. With such intriguing titles as “Prayer with a Rotohammer and Stained Glass,” “Apologia Sharpied on Cardboard,” “If Paradise Has Cul-de-sacs,” and “Confession through Honeysuckle and Chain Link,” Robbins masterfully and seemingly effortlessly blends the ancient with the contemporary, the religious and the secular, the eternal with the ephemeral. Drawing upon the Jobian tradition in which a presumably omni beneficent deity tardily responds to the eponymous figure of the biblical book which, more than any other, attempts to address the theodicean question of why God allows good people to encounter tragedy and suffer, Robbins pairs almost every poem included in his collection with a textual response (or “answer”).  

Offset by both italics and a page break, each response with which most of the poems are paired arguably reflects the inextricable (if strained) link between Job and his creator. More than that, though, each “answer” questions, clarifies, enlightens, or (in a trickster-like fashion, as the Jobian Satan arguably operates) even troubles. In most cases, the accompanying responses operate in more than one capacity, often managing to simultaneously illuminate and unsettle. In this way, Robbins, like Job’s God, becomes both creator and interrogator. Much like God’s own response to Job (or, rather, God’s non-answer to Job’s question as to why he unjustly suffers), the Elohimic-like responses Robbins provides eschew easy answers for philosophical investigation and self-inquiry. Though such responses may not alleviate suffering (as the in the case of Job) or allow for an easy read (as in the case of Eschatology in Crayon Wax), what they do allow for is a richer understanding of human existence and the realities (both sublime and tragic) that attend such an existential fact and living the life with which one, whether arbitrarily or providentially, is blessed (or cursed, as the case may be). Ultimately, is such insight not more valuable than Job’s restoration or complete textual transparency?

In “Prayer with Rotohammer and Stained Glass,” the opening free-verse poem of Robbins’ collection, the speaker, obviously troubled and distressed, yearns for both connection and renewal. Such suffering is reflected not only the speaker’s tearful acknowledgements (e.g., “Say you won’t / let me go. / In the darkness, / I close my eyes”) but also the arguably aggressive imagery of the power tools and the paradoxically violent action of creation: “When a stone / is hammered, / the form of what’s / broken becomes / another form”. Even Robbins’ inclusion of the word “pane,” though used in a literal context therein, is almost certainly intentional in that it evokes the word “pain” (being a homonym to it), and the connotations that attend such a term. Like the Rotohammer, the image of the stained glass is also clearly deliberate. Both ecclesial and artistic, such imagery not only doubles the idea of the divine act of creation but also pairs nicely with the biblical verse to which the opening lines of the accompanying response allude “yers through a glass darkly”. Though as responsive to the speaker as Job’s God is to him (in other words, neither justifying the speaker’s anguish nor promising them restoration), the speaker’s deity differs from the latter in significant aspects. Most obviously in diction (employing slang and contractions), the God of the poem references itself, revealing near-human insecurities and anxieties: “ain’t gonna be me lying / face down / at the end” and “don’t turn away like me”. Though arguably mostly bleak, the deity’s response does conclude on a note of possibility, if not the prospect of hope: “you still don’t know why I made you”. To the degree that this God-like figure is addressing the speaker in such an intimate moment of revelation, it is also  directly addressing the reader. Any reader. All readers. Expertly, Robbins ensures as much.

To take another example of a poetic expression of suffering (though a tragedy, as opposed to vague agony), “After Miscarriage,” one of Robbins’ later poems, addresses the issue of reproductive loss and the questions and doubts regarding cosmic justice that such a traumatic experience engenders. Though a free-verse poem like “Prayer with a Rotohammer and Stained Glass,” “After Miscarriage” progresses through couplets instead of irregular verse paragraphs, suggesting the inextricable link between the speaker and their unborn child,  it also serves as a painful reminder of all the possibilities that ended with the pregnancy. Though at times opaque in meaning (“Every choice has a cost. / And maybe if I’d listened, rushed you to the Emergency, / something there, someone / To stop your bleeding”), there are also beautifully understated moments of realization and refreshingly surprising language and imagery throughout: “the inexplicable buttonweed / blooming out of the accumulated mix of shoppers’ detritus” for example, or “an accumulation of dust to gather on the windshields / of every parked minivan and family wagon”.

In the case of the former, the sprouting buttonweed suggests growth and maturity, poignantly contrasting with the reality of a life never given the opportunity to bloom. Even the term “inexplicable” is clearly intentional, as it suggests both a cosmic arbitrariness and the elusive (arguably futile) search for meaning in the face of such tragedy. In the case of the latter, the choice of dust, like that of the detritus left by the shoppers, is also deliberate, as both kinds of matter are small (if often overlooked) and seemingly inanimate. Reflecting the idea of another small life (this one prematurely lost), the dust and the detritus contrast with the randomness by which both collect in the parking lot of the strip mall. More than that, though, they also emphasize the arguably domestic imagery of the minivan and the family wagon (both quintessential symbols of middle-class suburban life). Additionally, the dust and detritus emphasize the role of choice—not just choice in the sense of the speaker’s regret wondering what might have happened, had they taken more precautions, but choice in the sense of if and how the speaker will process the loss and otherwise proceed. Though the poem does indeed end on a bleak note (“the possibility of saving it / became a darkness / over the city streets and blind / to my useless hand in yours”), there is something potentially transformative (if not comforting) in the concluding refrain from the accompanying response: “what you seek / is already yours what you / seek is already yours / what”. Preceded by contracted/inverted religious/biblical language (“Mira—Mira—Mira—Mira—Mira,” “no miracle” and “pray for nothing”), the deity’s parting message does allow a reframing, a new way to process. As much a gift as Robbins’ skillfully rendered collection of poetry is to the reader, such wisdom is present throughout Eschatology in Crayon Wax. It is palpable. It is welcome.

Whether intrigued or unsettled by the title of the collection, no reader should avoid Eschatology in Crayon Wax for fear of encountering an uncritical expression of the dogmatic or the blasphemous. In equal measure, there is devotion and irreverence. There is faith and doubt. There is the sacred and the profane. For believers and nonbelievers alike (as well as everyone in between), Robbins’ latest collection of poetry has something to say, something to offer. I dare you not to listen. I dare you not to say Amen. 

Joshua Robbins. Texas Review Press. 2024. 74 pgs. $21.95