Saturday, June 11, 2011

Donal Og

It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;
the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.
It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;
and that you may be without a mate until you find me.
You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.
You promised me a thing that was hard for you,
a ship of gold under a silver mast;
twelve towns with a market in all of them,
and a fine white court by the side of the sea.
You promised me a thing that is not possible,
that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;
that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;
and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.
When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,
I sit down and I go through my trouble;
when I see the world and do not see my boy,
he that has an amber shade in his hair.
It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;
the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday.
And myself on my knees reading the Passion;
and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.
My mother said to me not to be talking with you today,
or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;
it was a bad time she took for telling me that;
it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.
My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,
or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;
or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;
it was you that put that darkness over my life.
You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!

Monday, June 6, 2011

The weight of remembering-

The past comes to those who have chosen
to take up the burden.
It becomes a tangible thing
It’s weight unable to bear it’s self.
And it’s loss,
Though often unrecognized,
No less a wound born by the living.

It comes at times a comfort.
It asks of us to enter,
To remain and to be steadfast.

When we are equal to it’s measure-
There is a joyous stirring in the graves
Like a child turning in the womb
Those unseen, gone from us, and unborn…
Those whom we are looking toward,
Those to whom we belong;
Are freed from their eternal bonds
And with joy they wait…
Or in peace they rest.

Offten it comes a burden-
when unequal to it’s measure
We are haunted by the ghosts
Of those who bore our same burden,
Or burdens of greater weight;
With greater patience,
Or with greater humility,   
Or both.

But the dead make no judgment.
What rest could we have, with contempt in our hearts?
And those who will come after us
Bear no ill regard for our failures.
Who would sow seeds in hope that they might fail?
Who would not hope
That after a time in darkness,
What they had planted
Would not be made
One day
see the light?

Surely no ghost haunts the alleys,
Nor the doorstep, nor forests, nor the night.
No phantom stalks the dawn,
Or our rest.
Only the fear that we be unworthy
Of those whom we have loved....  
Can keep us from our joyous sleep.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Very Late

I am awake because I can not sleep. I have no desire to sleep, I have been awake for over twenty hours, I will pay dearly in the morning (for this) but it is beyond my control. I can not sleep.
  I am looking at my right foot. Once I sold my right foot. There is a curve to my right foot, while my big toe is straight, the other four toes seam to have their own ideas. Once I sold my left foot. I sold each hair on my head. I sold every thing in between. The cost was nothing.... I gave them away. To dispel the notion that ownership carries with it some inherent and just stewardship, I would like to offer my right foot...