445 Religion poems

As I drew nearer to the end of all desire, I brought my longing's ardor to a final height, Just as I ought. My vision, becoming pure, Entered more and more the beam of that high light That shines on its own truth. From then, my seeing Became too large for speech, which fails at a sight Beyond all boundaries, at memory's undoing— As when the dreamer sees and after the dream The passion endures, imprinted on his being Though he can't recall the rest. I am the same: Inside my heart, although my vision is almost Entirely faded, droplets of its sweetness come The way the sun dissolves the snow's crust— The way, in the wind that stirred the light leaves, The oracle that the Sibyl wrote was lost.

I am afraid after reading all these so-called initiation books that some cortege of boot lickers will enter my room while I am sleeping and suck my eyes out with soda straws they will be older men and women much like the amanuenses with bad breath in the principal’s office who call up and tell on you the Unferths of the world better beware I know Jesus would have kicked your teeth in you couldn’t pull that shit on him he was telling his buddies one night boys I’m glad y’all decided to come on up and eat supper with me I hadn’t got much there’s a few things I’d like to say at this time Matthew says to Simon I sure as hell don’t know what he’s got us here this time for I’m beginning to wonder you talked to him lately yea I was shooting the shit with him on the mountain but I want to tell you this Matthew don’t never come up on him when he’s alone he jumped on me I thought he was going to kill me he was just walking around just talking to himself waving his arms like he does he’s worse than John Jude put his hand up to his mouth and said down the table I think Jesus is going off his rocker get Simon to tell you what he asked me Simon says he didn’t want to talk about politics or dreams or nothing he just said Jude next time y’all are over in Mesopotamia why don’t you pick me up a few bottles of that wine they make over there sure thing Jesus I says well now the boss is talking he is saying I asked y’all up here because frankly I’ve been feeling a little sick lately and I want to make sure y’all know what to do in case anything happens I know one of you is going to do me in I know that but goddamnit y’all know those people in town are after my ass the other night I walked down the streets in a disguise and I seen a couple of you messing around and drinking with the soldiers what’s going to happen if one of you gets drunk and lets it slip where I’m hiding out then I’ll be in a fix you know if they was to find me they going to cut me y’all ever think about that and Peter ain’t you ever going to get it straight what you’re supposed to do give me one of those biscuits Judas and go outside and take a look-see I got you Jesus Judas says John leans over he says been catching any fish Peter oh well I been getting a few of a morning they ain’t biting too good now you know on account of this blamed weather nobody is even listening to Jesus he’s just talking to himself like he was crazy Matthew says I believe he’s been hitting that wine a little too hard don’t you reckon Jesus says another thing I told all of you it’d be better if you didn’t get involved with women now just listen to that little two-faced bastard James the Lesser says we all know what he’s up to shacking up with all those town girls the other night he was dressed fit to kill and drunk as six hundred dollars a rolling around in the mud like a hog kissing that whore’s foot why shit I wish he’d let us in on what he really does Thomas spoke up for once he says I know what you mean the other day Andrew and I asked him about some scripture he said leave me alone I don’t know nothing about that shit and then we seen him cussing out a priest over at the temple he knew more about it than the elder did another thing Matthew says I wish he’d start writing what he wants done down and do it so I can read it you know as well as I do that damned Peter can’t keep it straight he won’t get anything right Bartholomew says don’t make no difference atoll cause Paul is going to tell it like he wants to that’s for damned sure all the time Jesus just mumbling to himself wine spilt all over his robe the rest of them chattering and cussing trying to figure him out John the Baptist about the only one Jesus can count on except for crazy John is banging his goblet on the table he is saying now ain’t this a sight spitting in the lord’s face at his own birthday party I’ll swan Brother John why don’t you tell Jesus what the real problem is the crazy one says everyone of y’all is chickenshits you are afraid to look those elders in the eye and tell them what you think ya’ll get up on a rock to talk and you see a soldier coming and you say anybody seen a stray mule Jesus is saying to himself I’m going to pull those temples down if I have to get me a rope and tie it to a pillar and a jackass and do it myself wake up Jesus Philip says Paul who hadn’t touched a drop gets up and gets his paper out and says the nature of the problem Jesus is this the people don’t believe you those fellows in the temples have got it all organized all they have to do is send out stooges and hire a couple of rednecks who make out like they’re crippled they have a big gathering they say the same things you say they pull off a fake healing the redneck’s wife stands up she says LIE he ain’t lame he’s just drunk and so all the people go home saying those christians what a bunch of wind see Jesus they are using your material but they ain’t coming through so that is making you an enemy of the people we just got to get organized as is proved here today by your followers carrying on as they did so I’m getting sold down the river by the elders and their hirelings uh that’s right Jesus ask anybody here why I didn’t think they’d do that he says I told you a long time ago not to keep talking with them temple people John says you should a know’d what they was up to ain’t nobody going to understand you why you ought to know that when we first run on to you we had second thoughts we thought you was crazy there’s probably still some sitting down here right this second that still thinks you are a crazy one but Jesus you should a known we been through a lot together we go a long way back you should a listened all they wanted was you they liable to get you yet then they won’t have no competition they want to keep feeding the hogs the same slop they the ones that want to get fat man you listening to me Jesus he says ok if that’s the way they want to do things at the temple I’m going to change my tactics I going out after these chillun more than I have been they’ll know I’m telling the truth I still got a few things up my sleeve left what’s that Paul says I’m going to do a few things can’t nobody follow we could always go back to biting the heads off fish and chickens Peter says why don’t you let us in on it for a change Paul says we follow you around like we were a bunch of sheep picking up your tab bailing you out of jail coming up here all the time for supper and what do we get to eat nothing why can’t you have a little faith in us Jesus ok this is what we going to do he says hold on who is that walking up the steps it’s just Judas how does it go boy Jesus says and the other one answers just fine Jesus just fine and John the Baptist turns around he says to the one who has just slipped in boy didn’t I see you talking to some white folks the other day here endeth with a chord on the guitar that’s how the men did Jesus like he was old like he was young just like Elvis did to Big Dad Arthur I know just like another blind singer the men come down to see with their equipment they get his song they pay him twenty dollars and he don’t hear from them ever again except sometimes in the mail on Christmas when one of them might send a five dollar check there won’t nobody cash oh tell me brother how do the old men feel who were young as purple flowers from Hawaii once when they listen to their songs coming in over a borrowed radio tell me don’t they take up a notch in they belt don't they tie another knot in they headband don't they wring that sweat out have mercy Jesus deliver me from the lawyers and the teachers and the preachers and the politicking flies can’t you hear them buzz can’t you hear them bite another chunk out of me oh brother I am death and you are sleep I am white and you are black brother tell me I am that which I am I am sleep and you are death we are one person getting up and going outside naked as a blue jay rolling our bellies at the moon oh brother tell me you love me and I’ll tell you too I want to know how do they like it when the ones who sung shake they leg on the Television I want to know Jesus don’t a blind man count no more some by signs others by whispers some with a kiss and some with a gun and some with a six bit fountain pen whoa lord help me and my brother help us get through this tookover land

I. The people who watch me hang my coat on a peg at the office don't even know about that other life, the life when there was you,it, however briefly. To them my body is a fact casual as the weather. I could tell them: That day it rained the way it rains in the New World. Leaves struck the window like daggers. I didn't think about God but the ones we used to worship the ones who want your heart still beating, who load you with gold and lure you to sleep deep in the cenote. II. A girl, he said, and I nodded though we couldn't have known. I would have left him then for ten thousand pesos. I don't know what world you inhabit, swimming there, baby, not-baby, part of my body, not me, swept aside like locks of hair or toenail parings. It's ten years today and you who were never alive pull a face in the leaves of jacaranda, the only tree that lives outside my window. It must be your voice whistling through the office window, though I can't understand your words. Comfort or accusation, I can't understand your words.

That the dead are real to us Cannot be denied, That the living are more real When they are dead Terrifies, that the dead can rise As the living do is possible Is possible to surmise, But all the stars cannot come near All we meet in an eye. Flee from me, fear, as soot Flies in a breeze, do not burn Or settle in my sight, I’ve tasted you long enough, Let me savor Something otherwise. Who wakes beside me now Suits my soul, so I turn to words Only to say he changes Into his robe, rustles a page, He raises the lid of the piano To release what’s born in its cage. If   words come back To say they compromise Or swear again they have died, There’s no news in that, I reply, But a music without notes These notes comprise, still As spring beneath us lies, Already something otherwise.

Let me tell you about my marvelous god, how he hides in the hexagons of the bees, how the drought that wrings its leather hands above the world is of his making, as well as the rain in the quiet minutes that leave only thoughts of rain. An atom is working and working, an atom is working in deepest night, then bursting like the farthest star; it is far smaller than a pinprick, far smaller than a zero and it has no will, no will toward us. This is why the heart has paced and paced, will pace and pace across the field where yarrow was and now is dust. A leaf catches in a bone. The burrow’s shut by a tumbled clod and the roots, upturned, are hot to the touch. How my god is a feathered and whirling thing; you will singe your arm when you pluck him from the air, when you pluck him from that sky where grieving swirls, and you will burn again throwing him back.

The Dying Words of Goethe “Light! more light! the shadows deepen, And my life is ebbing low, Throw the windows widely open: Light! more light! before I go. “Softly let the balmy sunshine Play around my dying bed, E’er the dimly lighted valley I with lonely feet must tread. “Light! more light! for Death is weaving Shadows ‘round my waning sight, And I fain would gaze upon him Through a stream of earthly light.” Not for greater gifts of genius; Not for thoughts more grandly bright, All the dying poet whispers Is a prayer for light, more light. Heeds he not the gathered laurels, Fading slowly from his sight; All the poet’s aspirations Centre in that prayer for light. Gracious Saviour, when life’s day-dreams Melt and vanish from the sight, May our dim and longing vision Then be blessed with light, more light.

Let the light stand for nothing but illumination. Let the naked man and woman out for air. Let the curtain hide only another side of the curtain. Let the food consumed be consummated. Let the consommé be a dish. Let the dish into the bedroom because she is there for the cat. Let the cat be cool as Miles. Let it all happen again if you can. Let it happen again if you can. Let the first word spoken during intercourse be the only definition you require. Let need be need. Let love be need also, if need be. And let it all happen again because it can.

The poets are going home now, After the years of exile, After the northern climates Where they worked, lectured, remembered, Where they shivered at night In an indifferent world. Where God was the god of business, And men would violate the poets’ moon, And even the heavens become zones of war. The poets are going home To the blood-haunted villages, To the crumbling walls, still pocked With a spray of bullets; To the ravine, marked with a new cross, Where their brother died. No one knows the precise spot where they shot him, But there is a place now to gather, to lay wreaths. The poets will bring flowers. The poets are coming home To the cafés, to the life of the streets at twilight, To slip among the crowds and greet their friends; Thee young poets, old now, limping, who lean on a cane: Or the arm of a grandchild, peer with opaque eyes At the frightening city, the steel and concrete towers Sprung up in their absence. Yet from open doorways comes the odor of grapes Fermented, of fish, of oil, of pimiento… The poets have come home To the melodious language That settles in their heads like moths alighting, This language for which they starved In a world of gutturals, Crude monosyllables barked by strangers. Now their own language enfolds them With its warm vocables. The poets are home. Yes, they have come back To look up at the yellow moon, Cousin of that cold orb that only reflected Their isolation. They have returned to the olives, the light, The sage-scented meadows, The whitewashed steps, the tubs of geraniums, The sere plains, the riverbanks spread with laundry, The poppies, the vineyards, the bones of mountains. Yes, poets, welcome home To your small country Riven by its little war (As the world measures these events), A country that remembers heroes and tears; Where, in your absence, souls kept themselves alive By whispering your words. Now you smile at everything, even the priests, the militia, The patient earth that is waiting to receive you.

I don’t know when it slipped into my speech that soft word meaning, “if God wills it.” Insha’Allah I will see you next summer. The baby will come in spring, insha’Allah. Insha’Allah this year we will have enough rain. So many plans I’ve laid have unraveled easily as braids beneath my mother’s quick fingers. Every language must have a word for this. A word our grandmothers uttered under their breath as they pinned the whites, soaked in lemon, hung them to dry in the sun, or peeled potatoes, dropping the discarded skins into a bowl. Our sons will return next month, insha’Allah. Insha’Allah this war will end, soon. Insha’Allah the rice will be enough to last through winter. How lightly we learn to hold hope, as if it were an animal that could turn around and bite your hand. And still we carry it the way a mother would, carefully, from one day to the next.

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned— Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only—this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.