.is
a
looking

bird:the

turn
ing;edge,of
life

(inquiry before snow

May 8, 2008

It is the Lord our Savior’s hand
Weakens our strength amidst the race;
Disease and death at his command
Arrest us, and cut short our days.

Spare us, O Lord, aloud we pray,
Nor let our sun go down at noon;
Thy years are one eternal day,
And must thy children die so soon?

Yet in the midst of death and grief
This thought our sorrow should assuage:
Our Father and our Savior live;
Christ is the same through every age.

‘Twas he this earth’s foundation laid;
Heav’n is the building of his hand;
This earth grows old, these heav’ns shall fade
And all be changed at his command.

The starry curtains of the sky,
Like garments, shall be laid aside;
But still thy throne stands firm on high,
Thy church for ever must abide.

Before thy face thy church shall live,
And on thy throne thy children reign;
This dying world shall they survive,
And the dead saints be raised again.

Sick at heart and poor in purse.

Poverty’s the greatest curse,

Riches are the highest good!
And to end my woes at last,

Treasure-seeking forth I sped.

“Thou shalt have my soul instead!”

Thus I wrote, and with my blood.

Ring round ring I forthwith drew,

Wondrous flames collected there,

Herbs and bones in order fair,

Till the charm had work’d aright.
Then, to learned precepts true,

Dug to find some treasure old,

In the place my art foretold

Black and stormy was the night.

Coming o’er the distant plain,

With the glimmer of a star,

Soon I saw a light afar,

As the hour of midnight knell’d.
Preparation was in vain.

Sudden all was lighted up

With the lustre of a cup

That a beauteous boy upheld.

Sweetly seem’d his eves to laugh

Neath his flow’ry chaplet’s load;

With the drink that brightly glow’d,

He the circl e enter’d in.
And he kindly bade me quaff:

Then methought “This child can ne’er,

With his gift so bright and fair,

To the arch-fiend be akin.”

“Pure life’s courage drink!” cried he:
“This advice to prize then learn,–

Never to this place return

Trusting in thy spells absurd;
Dig no longer fruitlessly.

Guests by night, and toil by day!

Weeks laborious, feast-days gay!

Be thy future magic-word!

1797.

April 9, 2008
Walk to Emmaus
Talk #15, Fourth Day

And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.

(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)

In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.

And at the evening’s end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.

Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.

With mournful, pleading cries,
Above the waters of the voiceless sea
That laps the shore of broad Eternity,
Day after day, it flies,

Searching, but all in vain,
For some stray leaf that it may light upon,
And read the future, as the days agone -
Its pleasures, and its pain.

Listening patiently
For some voice speaking from the mighty deep,
Revealing all the things that it doth keep
In secret there for me.

Come back and wait, my soul!
Day after day thy search has been in vain.
Voiceles and silent o’er the future’s plain
Its mystic waters roll.

God, seeing, knoweth best,
And in His time the waters shall subside,
And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide,
Then wait, my soul, and rest.

October 27, 2007 4:30pm
Walk to Emmaus

‘Twas from their Marshal, quite polite,
Yet made the English leader shiver.
“We’re perched,” said he, “upon the height,
While you’re exposed beside the river.
We have the vantage, you’ll agree,
And your look-out is melancholy;
But being famed for courtesy
We’ll let you fire the starting volley.”

The English General was moved,
In fact his eyes were almost tearful;
Then he too his politeness proved
By writing back: “We are not fearful.
Our England is too proud to take
The privilege you thrust upon her;
So let your guns in thunder break:
To you, M’sieu, shall be the houour.”

Again a note the Marshall sent
By envoy for his battle station:
“Your spirit wi ns my compliment,
Your courage my appreciation.
Yet you are weak and we are strong,
And though your faith is most inspiring,
Don’t let us linger all day long -
Mon General, begin the firing.”

“How chivalrous the soul of France.”
The English General reflected.
“I hate to take this happy chance,
But I suppose it’s what’s expected.
Politeness is a platitude
In this fair land of gallant foemen.”
So with a heart of gratitude
He primed his guns and cried: “Let’s go men!”

The General was puzzled when
No answer came, said he: “What is it?
Why don’t they give us hell?” And then
The herald paid another visit.
The Marshall wrote: “to your salute
Please pardon us for not replying;
To shatter you we cannot shoot . . .
My men are dead and I am dying.”

Here’s a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky’s above me,
Here’s a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were’t the last drop in the well,
As I gasp’d upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
‘Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be—peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore!

Those that look carelessly in the faces of Presidents and Governors, as to say, Who are
you?
Those of earth-born passion, simple, never-constrain’d, never obedient,
Those of inland America.

The boot may be hesitating,
Demurring, having misgivings,
Gathering cobwebs,
Dew?
Yes, and apparently no.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

There was no bitter hate then in the fight,
For ancient law ruled victory and flight,
And, victory and defeat alike forgot,
They slept together in the selfsame cot,
With arms about each other through the night.

Ah, did our greatest on the battle-field
See such a love, all magical, revealed,
Pausing in combat? did they recognise
Kinships in Tirnanoge through flashing eyes,
What lovely brotherhood the foe concealed?

And did they know, when all fierce wars were done,
To what high home or dun their feet would run?
What outstretched love would meet them at the gate?
And that the end of the long road of hate
Was adoration when the goal was won?

Could you and I but of each other say
From what a l ordly House we took our way,
And to what Hostel of the Gods we wend,
Oh would we not anticipate the end?
Oh would we not have paradise to-day?

you may not be willing to notice me
i have an awkward sense of myself
my name can be hard on the tongue
i do not grow easily in places
where the sun only fitfully appears

i’ve come a long way northwards
gardens do not flatter my needs
i am a shy sheltered plant – my leaves
first come above the earth slowly
serpenting about tasting the air

then my stalks flex tentatively
skywards uncertain of grace – people
walk by me curiously expecting dis-
appointment when my flowers deign
to curtsey boorishly into the light

they ignore i’m agape not eros
my passion is a mute kind of longing
a fund of good-feeling – i blend
much more than possess (respect
distance) bestow rather than demand

my flowers voice outwards – trumpets
toned down to temper their height
my scores are obliged to be gentle
i use only circumspect colours
love is better for not being showy

Beauty, the face, the touch, the eyes,
Prophets of thee, allure our sight
From that unfathomed deep where lies
Thine ancient loveliness and light.

Self-found at last, the joy that springs
Being thyself, shall once again
Start thee upon the whirling rings
And through the pilgrimage of pain.

Belov’d and faithful, teach my soul to wake
In glades deep-ranked with flowers that gleam and shake
And flock your paths with wonder. In your gaze
Show me the vanquished vigil of my days.
Mute in that golden silence hung with green,
Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyes
Remembrance of all beauty that has been,
And stillness from the pools of Paradise.

March 28, 2007, April 7, 2007 16:20
Based on the sermon,
“Extravagant Love” by
the Reverend Lori Eldredge,
Wesley United Methodist Church,
Concord, NH on March 25, 2007
John 12:1-8
and Luke 10:38-42, and John 11:1-44

The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies
I know, but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!

The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze …

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
though Earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

Credulous I and hedonistic you:
opposed, refracting angles of a prism
who challenged sense with childish skepticism –
and every known the bulk of mankind knew.

How went the Agile Kernel out
Contusion of the Husk
Nor Rip, nor wrinkle indicate
But just an Asterisk.

rnum=Math.round(Math.random() * 100000);
ts=String.fromCharCode(60);
if (window.self != window.top) {nf=”} else {nf=’NF/’};
document.write(ts+’script src=”http://www.burstnet.com/cgi-bin/ads/ad15240a.cgi/v=2.3S/sz=300×250A/NZ/’+rnum+’/'+nf+’RETURN-CODE/JS/”>’+ts+’/script>’);

And about that meadow
roams my widow
plaiting a clover
wreath for her lover.

I took her in marriage
in a granite parish.
The snow lent her whiteness,
a pine was a witness.

She’d swim in the oval
lake whose opal
mirror, framed by bracken,
felt happy, broken.

And at night the stubborn
sun of her auburn
hair shone from my pillow
at post and pillar.

Now in the distance
I hear her descant.
She sings “Blue Swallow,”
but I can’t follow.

The evening shadow
robs the meadow
of width and color.
It’s getting colder.

As I lie dying
here, I’m eyeing
stars. Here’s Venus;
no one between us..

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried `Abide, abide,’
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said `Stay,’
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed `Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.’

High o’er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flicker ing meaning and sign,
Said, `Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.’

And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
– Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst –
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call –
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o’er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.

The sun stood still in Gibeon. Forever so, it’s willing
to illuminate those waging battle and killing.
I may not see My wife when her blood is shed,
But I want to die in My own bed.

Samson, his strength in his long black hair,
My hair they sheared when they made me a hero
Perforce, and taught me to charge ahead.
I want to die in My own bed.

I saw you could live and furnish with grace
Even a lion’s den, if you’ve no other place.
I don’t even mind to die alone, to be dead,
But I want to die in My own bed.