OMEGA

OMEGA

. . .that which is sought transcends all knowledge, 

being separated on all sides by incomprehensibility 

as by a kind of darkness

~Gregory of Nyssa

 

Light through the grisaille illuminates

Omega on the shabby wooden altar.

What we’ve called “God”

or something like, is disappearing

into a cloud of galaxies

and unanswered prayer, or devolving

into fire and air and trees.

 

Some of us are here, bound in ritual.

Who knows what we believe?

Some of us have been around outside

and turned, or turned back,

hearing the echo of a name.

We murmur the ancient creed.

The psalms are full of mercy and blood.

 

Angels have descended and grown small,

their voices turned to syrup, or tin.

Shall we yet fear not?

A dead Jesus hangs on his cross,

between the guttering candles.

The cup is emptied and filled.

We make our humble offerings to the dark.

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A STITCH IN TIME

A STITCH IN TIME

. . .saves nine.

Can you stitch time? Catch

the threads and pull it together?

Mend the little tears that happen—

the morning you killed

irritated by a broken gizmo,

the hour lost cursing at traffic,

that meeting—all those meetings,

those obligatory parties—

great rips in sense and grace?

Is there a patch or stitch or weave

that can redeem those moments

that might have been salvaged

but because you didn’t even notice,

leave you with tattered scraps

not whole enough for rags?

 

 

May 2017

NOTES CONCERNING THE PETRIFIED INDIAN BOY

 

This is another of the poems that I wrote for an exhibit at the Henry Sheldon Museum. And here’s a link to an article about the exhibit.  

 

 

NOTES CONCERNING THE PETRIFIED INDIAN BOY

Henry’s Accession Book. . indicates Leland gave it to museum for safe keeping —

“It was left with him by Woodard. . .

who sold it to parties near here.”

~email from Liz Bless, Middlebury College

History is a cob-web,

a tangle of strands,

flakes and pigments, letters

and scraps stashed in

baskets and chests of drawers.

It’s a pellet of feathers and hair.

Pick it apart with a finger bone.

 

Here, in the file concerning

the Petrified Indian Boy, we find:

bird tracks at Turners Falls,

a rabbit hole, a dog name Boz,

George Parsons the carriage painter,

credulous crowds,

a great deal of money,

a hundred barrels of whisky,

a flight to Canada, the law,

and Mrs. Sarah Henry Cross of Brandon

who saw it at the fair.

 

Was it a broken-off toe, or a crack in the ankle

that revealed the truth?

Did Mr. Parsons know of the Cardiff Giant?

Why did Mr. Harwood visit Newfane?

What happened to the whiskey?

Who brought the Boy to which express office?

Who was Mr. Douglas, who

bought the image for an immense sum?

Did Mr. Brainerd, scientist and historian,

president of Middlebury College

know the local men who raised the money

and did he himself contribute?

Where did Mr. Leland get it?

Safekeeping from what?

How much did Henry Sheldon know?

 

In the meantime, the Boy

in his coffin in the Museum

has slept away the years,

keeping his secret silent as stone,

or plaster, or pigmented clay.

KEEPING–a Sheldon Museum Poem

Three years ago, the Spring St. Poets wrote poems about objects in the Henry Sheldon Museum in Middlebury, Vermont. The items were then exhibited, along with the poems, and we did a reading. I wrote this one about a chunk of woodwork that Henry Sheldon had rescued, presumably from some renovation done at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church.   

 

KEEPING

~the carving from St. Stephens, found in a cupboard in the barn

One autumn day many years ago I stole

an antique book with a tan leather cover

embossed in gold. The thin pages smelt of mice.

It was in a pile of many heaped

in a corner in a muddled room

on the condemned third floor of a gothic

sandstone castle awaiting remodeling

including–and this is important–new wiring.

It was a building I loved.

When spring came, it all burned up.

Nothing remained but a stone shell and they

bulldozed that into the foundation hole

and built a garage on the spot. I wish

I had taken all the books.

Henry Sheldon would have–

and a juice glass from the dining room and

a candlestick and the pump organ and

a chunk of the chapel window woodwork

and the horsehair sofa from the library

and the doughnut jar from the kitchen and

the mantlepiece from the common room and

the shield that hung above it and the tower

bell that fell and no one ever found and

a railing from the front porch where we used

to sit in the moonlight and sing or kiss.

What is this about? —

to love places, to care about things, to care

what happens to them, to be wary of change,

to want to remember, to want everyone

to remember, to believe that history

matters, to want to keep something, keep many

things, the everyday bits:

shoes and razors and appleboxes and doorframes,

chairs and violins and cupboards and spinning wheels

and dishes and cannonballs and hacksaws and drums

and books that no one will ever read.

 

TO MY SISTER SUE

TO MY SISTER SUE

November 29, 1955—June 27, 1993

After you died, I determined to live

more worthy, left work I was not

sure about, took up my pen.

 

It’s been twenty-four years.

I’ve spiraled back toward something

maybe like god, but not

 

the one I thought I knew,

for how could that one

have let you die despite

 

our prayers. How could it

allow so damned much pain.

The pottery monk you gave me

 

stands with his folded hands,

beautific smile, next to a jade tree

in a green pot. Your photo hangs

 

on my study wall, your face

pensive, dark eyes gazing

toward something I cannot see.

 

June 27, 2017

WHAT IS TRUTH?

WHAT IS TRUTH?
 
Truth has a tranquility to it,
a kind of ease that no artifice
can equal. There is nothing frantic
about truth, nothing bombastic.
Complex now and then, but not
so hard to untangle, not so hard
to recollect. It doesn’t make
itself up for preservation.
As comprehension grows,
there is a duty to correct.
It listens for clarity.
It can look you in the eye.

A NAME

A NAME

. . . Surprise is a  name of God.

~Brother David Steindl-Rast

 

Who else would bring a pair of owls

to circle my head on New Year’s night?

Or a fox to the front step

just at sunset yesterday? Who

could have handed us a little child

with round cheeks, his mother’s mouth,

his daddy’s smiling eyes?

In the gray and icy drizzle of winter,

who else would have sent a foot of snow,

north wind to slice through our dismay?

Or gathered us together

and crowned us with roses,

taught us how to sing?