CrucifixionYou understand the colors on the hillside have faded,we have the gray and brown and lavender of late autumn,the apple and pear trees have lost their leaves, the mistof November is often with us, especially in the afternoonand toward evening, as it was today when I sat gazingup into the orchard for a long time the way I do now,thinking of how I died last winter and was revived.And I tell you I saw there a cross with a man nailedto it, silvery in the mist, and I said to him: "Are youthe Christ?" And he must have heard me, for in hisagony, twisted as he was, he nodded his head affirmatively,up and down, once and twice. And a little way offI saw another cross with another man nailed to it,twisting and nodding, and then another and another,ranks and divisions of crosses straggling like exhaustedlegions upward among the misty trees, each crosswith a silvery, writhing, twisting, nodding, nakedfigure nailed to it, and some of them were women.The hill was filled with crucifixion. Should I not betelling you this? Is it excessive? But I know somethingabout death now, I know how silent it is, silent, evenwhen the pain is shrieking and screaming. And tonightis very silent and very dark. When I looked I sawnothing out there, only my own reflected head noddinga little in the window glass. It was as if the Christhad nodded to me, all those writhing silvery imageson the hillside, and after a while I nodded back to him.
Carruth, Hayden. "Crucifixion" The Best American Poetry 1990. Toronto: Collier Macmillan Canada, Inc., 1990.
Adventures in New Testament Greek: MysterionWhat our habit has attained for us appearsa somewhat meager view of mystery.And Latinate equivalents have faredno better tendering the palpableproximity of dense noetic pressure.More familiar, glib, and gnostic bullshitaside, the loss the body suffers whensacrament is pared into a tinypicture postcard of absent circumstancestarves the matter to a moot result, no?Mysterion is of a piece, enormousenough to span the reach of what we seeand what we don't. The problem at the heartof metaphor is how neatly it breaks downto this and that. Imagine one that heldentirely across the play of imageand its likenesses. Mysterion isnever elsewhere, ever looms, indivisibleand here, and compasses a journey oneassumes as it is tendered on a spoon.Receiving it, you apprehend how nearthe Holy bides. You cannot know how far.
Cairns, Scott. "Adventures in New Testament Greek: Mysterion" New & Selected Poems. Lincoln, Nebraska: Zoo Press, 2002.