Poetry

He would pull a chain on a broken clock and a small door would

Swing open and an ornate little bird would sing to him until he

Understood the bird mechanical and had no song to sing 

And it was only himself pulling a chain and his

Hand had grown weary and after

That he only pined for, while resting, legs crossed, 

A bird crashing his window crowing, "I want you."


BEING SHAPED BY WILDERNESS (9/5/14)

Is I. Is complicity shedding
First felt as anxiousness. Recoil.
But now welcome absence.

Absence welcome. Beheld in common with few.
Compañero? Drink of this cup? De café.

Cultivated in difficult/ path/ building.
In rest broken (awake?) as unknown
Sniffs, examines and scrapes
Intruder/ or venturer/ who takes nights away.

Though unnecessary by some measure
Still nights/ unstill nights, a/way are chosen.



“A Responsory, 1948”

Suppose the dead could crown their wit

With some intemperate exercise,

Spring wine from their ivory

Or roses from their eyes?

Or if the wise would understand

And the world without heart

That the dead are not yet dead

And that the living live apart

And the Wounded are healing,

Though in a place of flame.

The sick in a great ship

Are riding. They are riding home.

                                             Merton