Sunday, March 17, 2013

Three Poem Drafts


Anticipating resurrection,
I am here in quiet calm
as brightest breath of benediction
rests on me like soothing balm.
Alas, O Lord, what hard religion
as a yoke you ask us bear,
not consolation but derision
marks this ever-winding stair;
and yet another count of failing,
yet another task is laid,
as all is hidden in a veiling
woven with an iron braid.
But you, O Lord! in all your glory,
you alone are worth it all,
and all the promise of your story,
however often I must fall.
From you, O Lord, I ask remission
of my never-ending sins
and rise anew in grand commission,
taking up the tasks again.

In you my weak, my failing, side
soars to do the wondrous thing;
this weariness breaks only pride,
so that this humbled heart might sing.


I must be silent, friend;
the secret must be unrevealed.
To you my will might bend,
but fate my word and voice have sealed.

As fish beneath the wave
must swim, or drown in violent air,
within my heart I save
the burden of an oath of care.

In silence I remain
taht none my oath held secret hear;
no matter what the pain,
still God alone may see my tear.

De Hebdomadibus

From the starry peak Olympus
to the tarry, earthen mass,
the circles of the different
encircle mental hebdomad
proceeding from the one alone,
as monad's image recreated
in its entering itself,
for thus the gods are born.
And hebdomadic splendor
then births new hebdomadic law,
exuberant in number
yet coming from the one.

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