Monday, March 24, 2014

Bent, brooding and begging

In a shrouded long ago,
I asked a preacher, a Methodist,
if he really believed
in god. The question meant no outrage
and met none.

I did not say
fervently though you believe,
I do not understand your fervor.

Feverishly though you pray,
I do not understand your fever.

I do not understand this god of yours,
neither the shape of the thing,
nor its gender.

Neither do I understand its aspiration
for you or for us all.

I have no grip or grasp
on the universe in which it dwells,
nor why it lives there,
nor why it lives, at all.

I understand your faith has power
and stretches backward
a millennium, or more.

But I fear this is the weight
you drag behind and the cause that has you looking
to the day on which you finally will be weightless.

And he made no response to what
I did not say, but looked
the question do-you-know
of what or to whom you speak.

Ministers aside, consider,
the history of the rulers
and the ruled and why it matters now.

There are also the poems written
to draw nearer to you
and the ones rooted
in an inability to bridge
our mutual gap.

There is also the biography
of my solar-powered self
in every meaning of the term,

warm and heating up,
flaring and flaming,
sunning and indolent,
abiding the gloom,
outlasting the dark.

I am the rustle of the wind
and the sound of revolution,
the silence of defeat
and the rot at the heart of empire.
I am invention
and the means of installation.

I am the sun-dried husk,
the ruined dream,
the broken rampart,
the collapsing core,
the melancholy song,
the calloused, wracked and shackled,
the wicked wish,
the vengeful hand,
the dying.

I miss what I miss and whom.
Soon enough, I will be death
in every savage flake and pore.

No comments: