Oh Lord, I have terrified
my soul at your graveyards
where the spirits of your people
thought to rest
for an over-flowering morning
to recall the world in,
regale themselves with memories in,
tremble in the glory of their souls
at what they please to call your throne.
And all these yearning spirits
who have tumbled half-asleep
into their deaths, or taken them
with eyes blighted,
or been numbed into their graves
with violence and fear,
or wanted death
and still been unprepared:
all these have framed
a way of outward thinking
and even something to look at, Lord.
And it has served a purpose,
kept both eyes in focus
from their separating ways
past your infinite divinity
to an infinite blur
in infinite space.
And this they called your grace,
lest it should seem a little strange
that any God would take such pains
to stand well in their sight,
seeking approbation,
adulation,
in exchange for dubious delight;
almost cap-in-hand
to woo the happy band
to a fitting consummation
with all creation in reverse
absorbed in Him.
A whim which only an invented God
could think
and not also think it odd.
But it has served a purpose
this deterrent
for our eyes,
and would do still
were we not now content
to fix our sight
still closer
along the street
that’s in the mind
on the first thing that we find,
still closer,
almost at our own feet.
Or lost in contemplation
of a footprint,
sacrificing sense
to sensation,
retreating further from the older dispensation,
Lord.
Footprint and foot,
past and present too,
equal mind rests
to consent to.
If only to avoid the tiny terror
of where foot touches ground,
the small silence where a
thing in finding becomes found.
Were we better bound
with your cord, Lord?
Our knot.
.
BLONDIN Poems 