445 Religion poems

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

When he had suckled there, he began to grow: first, he was an infant in her arms, but soon, drinking and drinking at the sweet milk she could not keep from filling her, from pouring into his ravenous mouth, and filling again, miraculous pitcher, mercy feeding its own extinction . . . soon he was huge, towering above her, the landscape, his shadow stealing the color from the fields, even the flowers going gray. And they came like ants, one behind the next, to worship him—huge as he was, and hungry; it was his hunger they admired most of all. So they brought him slaughtered beasts: goats, oxen, bulls, and finally, their own kin whose hunger was a kind of shame to them, a shrinkage; even as his was beautiful to them, magnified, magnificent. The day came when they had nothing left to offer him, having denuded themselves of all in order to enlarge him, in whose shadow they dreamed of light: and that is when the thought began to move, small at first, a whisper, then a buzz, and finally, it broke out into words, so loud they thought it must be prophecy: they would kill him, and all they had lost in his name would return, renewed and fresh with the dew of morning. Hope fed their rage, sharpened their weapons. And who is she, hooded figure, mourner now at the fate of what she fed? And the slow rain, which never ends, who is the father of that? And who are we who speak, as if the world were our diorama—its little figures moved by hidden gears, precious in miniature, tin soldiers, spears the size of pins, perfect replicas, history under glass, dusty, old fashioned, a curiosity that no one any longer wants to see, excited as they are by the new giant, who feeds on air, grows daily on radio waves, in cyberspace, who sows darkness like a desert storm, who blows like a wind through the Boardrooms, who touches the hills, and they smoke.

I was enriched, not casting after marvels, But as one walking in a usual place, Without desert but common eyes and ears, No recourse but to hear, power but to see, Got to love you of grace. Subtle musicians, that could body wind, Or contrive strings to anguish, in conceit Random and artless strung a branch with bells, Fixed in one silver whim, which at a touch Shook and were sweet. And you, you lovely and unpurchased note, One run distraught, and vexing hot and cold To give to the heart’s poor confusion tongue, By chance caught you, and henceforth all unlearned Repeats you gold.

The pearls, mere reminders. The ocean’s rapid recoil, a signal. The gulls appeared enormous in that way only things from above can— such is presentation of the sudden. If only this were worthy of a frame, the wooden gesture announcing a moment past were cherished. But it was too late for that, too late to answer the surf’s anxious Why? too late to decline the continuous life he had resigned himself, turning away from the grave, that plot being too familiar to so many. Of course immortality had its price: first his staff he had taped back together, then the sleeves of his robe he had reclaimed from the depths, then the magic leached nightly from his fingertips so that now his incantation for a storm brought only a slight breeze, a quick sun shower that frightened only the flowers struggling in the salt air. Now, showing his centuries, he insists: This is the wind out of which I bring clouds. These are my hands that gnarled though they be when lifted to the sky bring rain

Of 385 varieties, to make the simplest all you need are two sticks: one vertical; the other, horizontal. Call one time; one, space or life—death, good—evil, male—female. You choose. Any polarity will do as long as the cross-piece cuts across the one upright. Now, it's a human form with arms outstretched. Rub them together. A couple of sparks, a few more, a flash of light, a slow increase in heat, and radiating around you: uncontainable fire.

The man who married Magdalene Had not forgiven her. God might pardon every sin ... Love is no pardoner. Her hands were hollow, pale, and blue, Her mouth like watered wine. He watched to see if she were true And waited for a sign. It was old harlotry, he guessed, That drained her strength away, So gladly for the dark she dressed, So sadly for the day. Their quarrels made her dull and weak And soon a man might fit A penny in the hollow cheek And never notice it. At last, as they exhausted slept, Death granted the divorce, And nakedly the woman leapt Upon that narrow horse. But when he woke and woke alone He wept and would deny The loose behavior of the bone And the immodest thigh.

Conversations with a Muslim friend 1 So, if you don’t believe in full it means you don’t believe. Words tumble onto the rock. A book happens. Okay then tell me about heaven’s beautiful food and women. Who are these women?

Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air; Hungry clouds swag on the deep. Once meek, and in a perilous path, The just man kept his course along The vale of death. Roses are planted where thorns grow, And on the barren heath Sing the honey bees. Then the perilous path was planted: And a river and a spring On every cliff and tomb; And on the bleached bones Red clay brought forth. Till the villain left the paths of ease, To walk in perilous paths, and drive The just man into barren climes. Now the sneaking serpent walks In mild humility, And the just man rages in the wilds Where lions roam. Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air; Hungry clouds swag on the deep.

Indicative of the passion of the people on the 15th of April, 1865 Good Friday was the day Of the prodigy and crime, When they killed him in his pity, When they killed him in his prime Of clemency and calm— When with yearning he was filled To redeem the evil-willed, And, though conqueror, be kind; But they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness, And they killed him from behind. There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand: Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand. He lieth in his blood— The father in his face; They have killed him, the Forgiver— The Avenger takes his place, The Avenger wisely stern, Who in righteousness shall do What heavens call him to, And the parricides remand; For they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness. And his blood is on their hand. There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand: Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand.

tonight      I started walking back to you father it was meant to be a stroll but then I started walking faster      father      I started chanting all the names of all the men I ever went to bed with      father      my thighs were burning and my feet were heavy with blood but I kept the pace and chants of names up      father listed them to fence posts and the trees and didn’t stop and started getting younger father and walked all night till I was home just a spark in your groin again and told you not to bring me back to life told you I repented every name and had freed them of me father