I found her
there was this monk,
unknown, unpublished, unheard, unseen
but whom many claimed was God
they printed words she’d never said
spewed, printed her image they’d never seen
to suit a needful gender
then built bright domes and glowed charismatic
in their own sweatful confusion
and all laid down and donkey-like brayed
for salvation, theirs, and reckoning for their enemies
and made wars holy and justice moneyed and slaughter a gusto
and they drank the blood of jingo jives
then moaned for their wanton heroes who cursed them in death
and in whose names they poured sand in the eyes of children,
stuffed dead babies down throats of their mothers,
and stole sons, daughters dead parents might have given,
and the poetry they might have become
these thieves, the heroes who tremble
when others, as they are, with their own gods approach
and the one called Jesus they have disgraced,
turns his back and walks away
I found her
I found this monk
frozen to death
in my backyard
brought her inside
on that hottest day
worst August ever known
stuck a small daisy, simple and white, to a frozen hand
and watched the monk melt away ...
except for the wound on her soul
wherein the daisy remained suspended
and I liked it very much
but all the bees,
the bees of the world
it drew
so I tore my house down to give them room
and my garden prospers as children play
where I used to live
and these all notice the daisy in air
but for their wise elders, it must have a lack of glamour,
though I like it very much
even behind their new bright dome
they built where I used to live,
how they keep the bees away
but this ancient daisy grows
for the bees of all the murdered are coming home
coming out of the wound
A contest entry
- God Enters Through The Wound by Envelope.
2600 points, ended September 16, 2008, 11 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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never enough i could say.
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awesome
wherein the daisy remained suspended
and I liked it very much
but all the bees,
the bees of the world
it drew
...honesty of a floating soul....
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Stunning
This is absolutely brilliant. What can I say that hasn't already been said so eloquently by other commenters? I thoroughly enjoyed this. I'm speechless. -
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i looked at your author page and the way you care for animals and love them with tenderness and capture their hearts, even the titanic love within a small, beautiful little creature such as a doormouse ...
i am the one who is speechless
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A masterful poem. What I find many young and beginning poets do is strive for perfection of a set technique, such as rhyme or structure, or what not. And those things are fine and excellent. However, I think as a poet grows and matures, especially in this age, they aim more at expressing a repulsion, or protesting against a villainous action. Their voices grow into something that aims to move all humanity into a more sane direction, and imagine with all their heart that it can accomplish the goal. I don't know if it can or will, but it is always exciting and riveting to see it. This is the best way I can describe it. But I think it is how we distinguish masters from beginners. And I certainly place you in the first. This poem is wonderful!!
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I'm stunned, I'm shocked, I'm unsure of what to say. I'm just in awe!
Rose -
accordian style...
home-grown taboo. a slough full of burgeoning religious guavo. but you slam the django dang ding system home with the blood of jingo jives line. "Never leave 'em thirsty," I always say, even if they have to shiver through an evening balanced on a pin tip - a shank of modern refusal. You ruckin' fock, GACKMASTER!
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This is a stunning piece of work--there is genuine moral power here, reinforced by words of unflinching honesty. Excellent.
Best wishes,
Bill
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oh my, well how do I follow that up with a comment hmm?? aside from what manner of thought resides behind that steely pen? that ending was hauntingly horrific, it echoes so long after, i havent been affected by something like this in a very long time, i feel haunted
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