NaPoWriMo - day nine

psalm three

somehow, the complaints multiply. voices

raised in three-part harmony. they declare

i am alone. there is no strength in me.

it is difficult not to listen.

i might sit here for a while, quietly.

where is my shield? where is my sword? where

is my helmet? what strategies must i devise?

i shall make an enemy of silence.

i shall raise my voice, my song

shall ring across the valley,

make its way up the mountain path

until it knocks at your door.

these are only the first notes.

you must be patient. as i will be.

i hear your soft steps as you walk in

the garden. you call my name.

your voice sustains me,

and there is no fear.

a wall of faces is only a wall.

a wall has no teeth.

i will rise with you. i will rise

to you body, soul, spirit.

so let there be music.

let there be a celebration.

let there be dancing.

If There Were Two Rivers by Jan Zwicky - NPM9

If there were two rivers.

If their water were clear gold.

If it were a flood, a homecoming, and where they joined, 

          a standing wave, its crest of white.

If you climbed the hill alone, returning,

          and the grass was golden in the evening light.

If the golden water leaked around your feet

          out of the earth.

If it was everywhere you stepped--gold, streaming,

          and the clear light going down.

If, in the other dream, the children ran away. 

If it were a ship, and the evening light at sea.

If it were a church, and the orange light of evening.

If there were no roof or walls.

If it was made of fire.

If it were radiant.

If it were massive, weightless, and a white fire

          misting from its centre like a breath.

If the rock was raw but glistening.

If it lit the foyer--if the light were all below and

          the other rooms were dusk.

If what happened was: you stood there.

If there was nothing to be said.

If it glowed.

If the glow was like a silent speech.

If the light was like a haze, a mist: if every detail

          were exact.

If it broke you open.

If your blood shone on the hearth.

If the silence deafened you.

If what you saw was the necessity.

If the hammer of it brought you to your knees.

If the hammer of it clove your heart.

If what lay below was light.

If what you could not find was there.

If its hard fire was a golden river.

If the golden river was a forge.

If the forge was rock, and if the rock was shining.

If the forge was love.

 

Zwicky, Jan "Absence" Forge. Kentville: Gaspereau Press, 2011. 39-40.

NaPoWriMo - day eight

psalm two (version two)

why so much anger? the nations rage over borders and rights and this mountain range and that city and let’s remember history because our tribe never forgets. all those gatherings, threads woven into schemes traded like family histories, accruing weight as they roll across fields and through rivers starting as whispers until the chorus resounds and can no longer be hidden. everything escapes its bounds when the story swells, and the body lays in the heat too long.

running from the warm embrace of hope into the memory of whatever it is you thought you needed and must have more than the desire of tomorrow and what if and maybe there’s more to this than you’re willing to admit. sometimes the rope is a noose and sometimes the noose is a handle and sometimes that handle is stronger than the grip of your fear. it is difficult to not say these words with anger that roils and bubbles and ravages the soul sick with longing for an answer it concocts itself but that offers little solace. there are times my wrath consumes the past and times it consumes the future.

i promise you that there is power in your hands to do great things, more than you have settled for, more than you dare to imagine. i promise you i will set you on a throne nestled in a mountain with veins of gold warmed by the sun. i set a seal upon you: you are mine, you belong to me, i belong to you, we are one and forever i will bless the ground you walk on as you walk along the edges of all the territory you have been given. i have been waiting for you. there are many treasures buried here and you have the tools to discover them if you are willing and have the strength to use them. be careful. it is too easy to crush a soul.

wisdom is not so easily won. you wear your mistakes like sandals as you hike through the valleys. you wear your confusion girded around your waist and you must keep on moving forward and cross the ranges until you crest into the sun. wear your authority as a cloak. let its weight inform each decision, let it be a light for your feet, let the ground be firm and the path a path. it doesn’t take much to fall. it is an easy thing to fail.

this is the hard work of trust. it can be easier.

this is the hard work of trust.

Good Omen by Lewis Warsh - NPM8

We study other languages, the signs and mirrors,
so that we can inhabit the conversations of people
we've never met. Lava comes down from the side of the
mountain: we say lava, in our original tongue, and
no one knows what we mean. The fire brigade is
waiting for the flames to die out at the end of
the tunnel. I see you, cornered at the edge of a
sentence, like a German verb, immune to criticism,
open to judgement, a blue shadow igniting a wall
of flame. In the empty restaurant you say: "My
tongue is on fire," but the only lights are the
flickering candles on every table. The contortionist
brought the audience to its feet, but we weren't
watching. We decided we could only do one thing
at a time without becoming an object of concern for
those who were observing us from a distance. Nights
without sleep, endless stamina, a hundred laps,
the long days ahead filled with words like "opposite
attract" spelled out in billboard letters across
the horizon. This is the correct spelling, the
proper verb ending, the appropriate declension.
We can tutor each other at odd hours while nervously
fingering the buttons and zippers of our shirts and
blouses. This flame is for safekeeping, the tail
of a comet as it crosses the sky.

Warsh, Lewis. "Good Omen". The Body Electric: America's Best Poetry from The American Poetry Review. Berg, Stephen, David Bonanno and Arthur Vogelsang, Eds. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2000. 722-3.

NaPoWriMo - day seven

psalm two (version one)

so much anger.

so much scheming.

so much positioning.

so much subterfuge.

so against.

this is to protect you.

this is to strengthen you.

this will elicit laughter.

this will give rise to mocking.

there will be wrath.

there will be displeasure.

there will be a king.

there will be a mountain.

there will be a declaration:

this is my son.

these nations are yours.

this is all yours.

there need not be crushing.

there need not be so many pieces.

so be wise.

so be a king.

so be teachable.

so be full of care.

so rejoice.

so greet each other with a holy kiss.

so avoid anger and judgement.

so little asked.

so blessed those who trust.