Saturday, March 16, 2013

Early post-advent

Early post-advent                                                                         

I pray for this poem (which I intend) to be a prayer
trampled in a field of fresh snow,

making sense only when viewed from a great height;
not merely a shadow of life and death

but the difference between
solace and grief, hope and despair.

I pray for your poems, too, o lovers of God;
your prayers, too – ink, oils or clay,

eye, throat, shoulders, thighs. 
May you reach that purity

of breath, blood and bone  
beyond sound and form;

may your blood run its tireless course
from the moon’s blotched surface 

to the rich earth beneath the snow
and your bones, your bones -- may they turn up

in the spring in green fields,
bleached evidence of fallen soldiers

in these mad and turbulent,
early post-advent years of Meher Baba.

O child of God, say your poetry and your prayers
with precisely the same fervor and devotion.

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