Wednesday, 21 March 2012

A Poem


Each day's prayers press to God's ears
A request for the faith to make the same leap tomorrow
To reach out of unbelief
To brush transcendence
And know once more that every beat of heart and fist to skull
Tells tales of life's embedded intention

“Transcendentrimentality!
A sentimentality no man's austerity should ever entertain!”
Your voices are strong;
A child would always wish a Father to the throne
But a shout shot through with back-turned balking
At the flower you only ever half-bloomed
And even less understood.
What phantom hymns still prick a refugee
When excarnation casts heaven with the shade of the earthly?

Perhaps it is a child
Who finds cracks in the very soil
(The Teacher always said so)
The immature, then, know aesthetic awe
The cowardly, our “there must be something more”s
And I can't live without that air for no lung
That bread for no nourishment or dance on tongue
That breaking light for no temporal day
That myth that swallows truth whole
And breathes a person shaped frame

So maybe into illusion I am swept away
But the further I write
The more the doubts seem emptied, hollowed
And no power remains

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