Thursday, September 09, 2004

Two Older Drafts

Two older poem drafts I came across when I was going through some papers.

Love's Madness

The kiss of love is three in part:
the lips that press, the mixing breath,
the union of the souls that love
with bond as grave and strong as death
(for love is death; it frees the soul
by wounding it with ecstasy
so that it, languid, sick, aflame,
rejoices in its fever free).
The lover and beloved, two,
are one in gift of beating heart;
each to each gives person whole,
becomes for each a living part.
Insuperable impulse, blessed wound,
immutable act of ardent will,
that burns away all lesser things
and with bright blaze the spirit fills!
O peace more mighty than still death!
O wound from but a lovely look
that pierces every shield I make;
O blow from single hair drawn down
that snares me and my heart then takes!
O, multiply your sacred glance,
destroy the link 'twixt flesh and soul:
O love that separates like death
the closest binding of the whole!
O peace destructive! Severing bond!
O leap into the darkness bright!
I see your power becoming blind
in infinite radiance from your light.
Propriety protests; I cannot heed;
headlong I rush for good or ill,
bewitched in reason's moving thought,
captive in my most free will!
The heat of love has made me mad
with reasons beyond reason's reach,
and in my madness I understand
those things that reason cannot teach.
This love is pure and stretches out
from soul to soul, descending Dove
upon the waters of my heart,
and then love I that I may love!


The Battle

God came to me, rebuked me for my life of sin
and showed to me a way in which we both could win;
I heard out His offer, and in the summit of my pride
I chose to win alone; God I crucified.

I hanged Him on the tree, and on the tree He died.

But God does not just die; He rose to live again,
and came to me, rebuked me for my life of sin,
and said that if I chose Him new wonders would begin.
Frustrated with His returning, that He remained, tho' He had died,
Instead I chose myself, and Him I crucified.

I hanged Him on the tree, and on the tree He died.

He returns and comes again, each time so vital, bold,
that I can only crucify Him if each time I grow more cold.
Where we all end up is where we did begin;
we either taste of glory or crucify with sin,
and we crucify forever unless we soon give in.

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