One of my favorite poets of all time, these are absolutlely stunning pieces..
THE WORD
A pen appeared, and the god said: "Write what it is to be man." And my hand hovered long over the bare page,
until there, like footprints of the lost traveller, letters took shape on the page's blankness, and I spelled out
the word "lonely". And my hand moved to erase it; but the voices of all those waiting at life's window cried out loud: "It is true."
ANN GRIFFITH
So God spoke to her, she the poor girl from the village without learning. "Play me," he said, "on the white keys of your body. I have seen you dance for the bridegrooms that were not to be, while I waited for you under the ripening boughs of the myrtle. These people know me only in the thin hymns of the mind, in the arid sermons and prayers. I am the live God, nailed fast to the old tree of a nation by its unreal tears. I thirst, I thirst for the spring water. Draw it up for me from your heart's well and I will change it to wine upon your unkissed lips.
THE COMBAT
You have no name. We have wrestled with you all day, and now night approaches, the darkness from which we emerged seeking; and anonymous you withdraw, leaving us nursing our bruises, our dislocations.
For the failure of language there is no redress. The physicists tell us your size, the chemists the ingredients of your thinking. But who you are does not appear, nor why on the innocent marches of vocabulary you should choose to engage us, belabouring us with your silence. We die, we die with the knowledge that your resistance is endless at the frontier of the great poem.
ALIVE
It is alive. It is you, God. Looking out I can see no death. The earth moves, the sea moves, the wind goes on its exuberant journeys. Many creatures reflect you, the flowers your color, the tides the precision of your calculations. There is nothing too ample for you to overflow, nothing so small that your workmanship is not revealed. I listen and it is you speaking, I find the place where you lay warm. At night, if I waken, there are the sleepless conurbations of the stars. The darkness is the deepening shadow of your presence; the silence a process in the metabolism of the being of love.
One of my favorite poets of all time, these are absolutlely stunning pieces..
THE WORD
A pen appeared, and the god said:
"Write what it is to be
man." And my hand hovered
long over the bare page,
until there, like footprints
of the lost traveller, letters
took shape on the page's
blankness, and I spelled out
the word "lonely". And my hand moved
to erase it; but the voices
of all those waiting at life's
window cried out loud: "It is true."
ANN GRIFFITH
So God spoke to her,
she the poor girl from the village
without learning. "Play me,"
he said, "on the white keys
of your body. I have seen you dance
for the bridegrooms that were not
to be, while I waited for you
under the ripening boughs of
the myrtle. These people know me
only in the thin hymns of
the mind, in the arid sermons
and prayers. I am the live God,
nailed fast to the old tree
of a nation by its unreal
tears. I thirst, I thirst
for the spring water. Draw it up
for me from your heart's well and I will change
it to wine upon your unkissed lips.
THE COMBAT
You have no name.
We have wrestled with you all
day, and now night approaches,
the darkness from which we emerged
seeking; and anonymous
you withdraw, leaving us nursing
our bruises, our dislocations.
For the failure of language
there is no redress. The physicists
tell us your size, the chemists
the ingredients of your
thinking. But who you are
does not appear, nor why
on the innocent marches
of vocabulary you should choose
to engage us, belabouring us
with your silence. We die, we die
with the knowledge that your resistance
is endless at the frontier of the great poem.
ALIVE
It is alive. It is you,
God. Looking out I can see
no death. The earth moves, the
sea moves, the wind goes
on its exuberant
journeys. Many creatures
reflect you, the flowers
your color, the tides the precision
of your calculations. There
is nothing too ample
for you to overflow, nothing
so small that your workmanship
is not revealed. I listen
and it is you speaking,
I find the place where you lay
warm. At night, if I waken,
there are the sleepless conurbations
of the stars. The darkness
is the deepening shadow
of your presence; the silence a
process in the metabolism
of the being of love.