I have not one prayer.
Alone now, the edge of infinity
seems lonelier, cooler.
Stars that pierce the night
accentuate the difference
between us.
Carols seem inadequate
to bridge our gulf of meaning, of being.
The space between whole and broken
sits sullen and proud, as authoritative
as a wicked monarch,
like iron bars in a cold place.
A ferocious, silent, unfelt comet,
the advent breaks blazing forth
a million miles away, distant theology.
Yet sometimes suddenly
two thousand years seems short.
The news seems real.
And so the story goes:
a thunderclap of glory roars
across the silent gulch
of wasteland expectancy
to break this silence
between us.
You come. You come to give,
give of yourself to me,
my self-destructive self-exaltation
notwithstanding:
captives freed, mute idols flung away
like iron bars in a cold place.
The violent news creeps tenderly inside.
I might have seen it coming;
your glory-brazen scheme began
much sooner.
Virgins and old ones singing
city walls rebuilt, remnant preserved,
unfaithful wife redeemed,
kings convicted, peasants noticed,
tabernacles, slavery,
dissension, strife,
a couple hides in shame:
the news seems real.
Bob, I don't know if I've ever told you this in person, but I have always enjoyed, no, been moved by your poetry. I especially liked your Napkin poem in one of the previous Thorns. This poem is fantastic... personal and universal seem to meet in unexplainable ways. You've got a gift.
Posted by: KornSt@r at October 28, 2004 01:46 AMYour poems always pierce
Like deep roots pricked by warm rain.
Not to be a mutual admiration society or anything, but seriously I really like what you've been doing lately. I think you have a depth of vision beyond mine, or at least express it better.
Posted by: Evan Donovan at October 28, 2004 03:35 AMReally?!
Wow. Thanks, friends. I guess I've come to the place where crafting a clever turn of phrase no longer seems totally honest. At least, not when I'm doing that just for the sake of having cleverly turned phrases.
Right now I'm writing just because on an unarticulated level, I need to name the things I'm thinking. No praticular audience or reaction sought. No content but what I've been given to think about. Real writers don't have these luxuries, I think.
Unless they're filthy rich, of course... any donors out there willing to support a poetry fix?
Posted by: bob at October 28, 2004 10:59 AMActually, I think writing what you feel is the best way to success as a writer. People don't pay for inauthenticity.
Posted by: Evan Donovan at October 28, 2004 01:25 PM