“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.
And keep –
keep me, keep watch, keep hope.
The pains that crush me are like pricks beside
Your agony, and yet
arms out as though to gather in
more pain, more shame, and thus
Man of sorrows,
what a name,
what a scheme
that stretches out the heavens
yet does not scorn these nails.
my proud sobbing, my heart’s throbbing; take
all my attempts to rise with Self.
Enfold me in Your scars and sing
through endless days.
When morning bright awakens eyes:
awaken tongue; awaken mind.
When birdsong sounds the new of day:
sing, soul and heart; sing new pathways.
When yesterday creeps back to minds:
awaken, spirit; transform flesh.
When patterns threaten, dead songs groan:
listen, heart, to Spirit’s song.
Turn the sounds of self to silence;
lift up selfless praise.