Friday, March 07, 2008

Three Poem Drafts


Blushing, confused,
I do not know what to say;
to be regarded as someone else
is awkward in a way,
and I wish the earth
would swallow me whole
like Korah, or the sea
would pour in and take its toll.
And the worst of it all
in this strange, muddled rush?
I can't keep composure,
I can't stop this blush.


All human kind on earth
in glorious renown,
at least unto yourselves,
are planted in solid ground
of your own fancy;
and, infused with special worth,
as special as might be had,
because of your sacred birth
out of your own heads,
rejoice! A mirror to your face
is set to reflect your light,
to catch your splendid beauty.
Its name is antichrist.


Bring out against me Sennacherib's host,
all the resource and reason your legions can boast;
the wind and the wave and the fish of the sea
will fight all the armies that fight against me.

Your words made of razors and forceful with rage
will die on your tongue, will die on the page,
will fall like felled oaks and snap like frail cords
through the gnawing of mice and the word of the Lord.

You may bring out your words by twos and by threes
your weapons of paper, but I shall not flee;
my kind and my people the promise shall see:
the stars in their courses fight those who fight me.

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