Cento VIII

Torn fire glares,
the barest rune of ruin
on a stretched out throat –
No loss is token,
this charade of not-death.
All of me is ancestor.
Let us resurrect!
Let us resurrect
free now to move forward.
We cannot live on cold blood alone.

Ancient, iron-grey King of Glory,
King of warriors:
without Him I scarcely breathe.
I offered Him all that I am.
All fire passes through me.
Brutality blossoms into something beautiful.
Light wolves and dark wolves howled through the day,
Taking in the storm,
Doing holy things to the ordinary.
There is a holiness to exhaustion.

My own mouth is dreamed to thirst the long desire-ways;
now barefoot I tread on shards,
so mastered by the brute blood of the air
and madness, madness,
the space of a sigh.

I carry Your heart with me.
I am never without it,
Heroically lost, heroically found.
I have lived in the midst of Gods.
I am content.
I am content.

I am proof of the power of the Gods.
Selah.

 

cave painting hand

[With respect to Monica Youn, Brenda Shaughnessy, Louise Bogan, Annie Finch, Kay Ryan, Ezra Pound, Beowulf/Seamus Heaney, Mirabai, Cecilia Llompart, Geffrey Davis, Alma Luz Villanueva, Elizabeth Willis, Pamela Spiro Wagner, Carrie Fountain, Natalie Diaz, Vera Pavlova, W.B. Yeats, Angelina Weld Grimke, e.e. cummings, W.B. Yeats, Book of the Coming forth by day/Normandi Ellis.]

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Posted on April 15, 2016, in Art, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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