“Not too many poets has it been given…to live one of their own poems.” (G.K. Chesterton, St Francis of Assisi)
If I would be Francis, troubadour to God, before I can sing Creation’s canticles, I must tend to the sleeping children in my room and die again, again to the self that craves to be higher than them. Only then can poetry shine, until then being only words.
where, on the shore, He had already assembled, as a table, prepared for expected guests, a charcoal fire, some fish laid out, and, being himself the bread, a loaf laid for good measure.
No need, of course, for the fish they brought. No need, either, for that excess in their boats. To feed seven mouths plus His, that net-bursting horn of plenty was, as old Judas, wilting, would have had them know, not quite au fait.
Yet fitting – that He who made Leviathan solely to frolic should choose to play with the resources of Galilee to make much of these staples, to invite, to delight, and in the olive branch of this table set in the presence of friends and enemies
to ask, as the mercy-cup overflowed in the background, Simon, do you love me?
You create and give; I take and arrange
words like atoms, rhythms like pulses
and the matter of your cosmos like
the setting of a table:
an act of grace here, a wilderness feast.
You create and I, created, imitate.
More, I steward
the tones you have embedded in our movements, our speech.
I listen and echo
the hidden poundings of the muted heart,
as a host at table might –
Here, a space is left for you.
And then I point,
first to you who, poised at the vast edge of nothing,
said, Let there be.
And then, second, to the open arms,
the nails, the wood,
the carpenter carved up to make
a home for us.
And so it starts over: our spinning way Around the sun; our cycle of light, dark, Hot, cold; plants losing, gaining leaves and bark. If we hear what the seasons have to say, It will be only their incessant bay, Their insistant reminders – at the park Or down the street – to heed the spark Of summer light, and the dying winter day. If dull the repetition, or senseless The way we never move on or remain, I will take a toddler’s view and address The new day with the delight its maker Feels when he sets the sun’s circuit to recur, That this – all this – can happen again, again!
entwined with the gull’s wing
in pink seastring
among polished shellflakes
where the dog inspects the ocean’s rip
and the children tag along.
beside you with the waves’ murmur
as ever-renewing current speaks
of voices long ago which said, Here shall you go; no further.
And it hums
in the morning wind which blows
like tumbleweed over
the criss cross of the sand.
What did you expect when you came to see
The baby, all wrapped in swaddling bands?
A king, mighty, radiant in glory?
A beaming cherubim, good will in his hands?
Did you come to bow or to learn or be
Affirmed by all that you saw? Herod bore
No risks; and the heavens were certain that He
Was exactly the one wise men had looked for.
This only shows half of the truth. Alpha,
Omega, the Word in His world, the Light
At the core of all being; the Morning Star
Who speaks, and it is; the Father’s delight…
What child is this, you ask? I will tell you:
The one the teeming universe calls to.