Poetry
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A Word To-Ward Heaven
Gua’d no God, cry us no Chris’;
wince in the loss of from whence we came.
I am what you made me, subject to its own faults.
I am what you made of me,
subject to the social stream wherein I was cast.
There is a flatterer in heaven who says,
“They are their own Gods:
competitors to providence who must be eliminated.”
Witness this,
a self-awareness I can neither practice nor complete.
Glimpse the fire, and bring it home;
capture the love, and heart-store it:
driving away the contaminated,
preserving me from the spoil.
Where goest God in the evening!
Every day I must pursue the sun across the sky.
Every night I must find lonely bedding
on the trail of your darkness.
Staying
Smile bemusingly,
as a farmer whose bones grow weary to the marrow
over rains that durst not come,
and floods that durst not cease;
over the still hot sun, and the high merciless storm,
frost out of season, and fire out of hale.
Cross forehead and shout!
Again, this, too, being vanity –
fighting the losing cause.
Perhaps it will all right itself in the end –
given this newly-created writing table
resisting its final finish.
Perhaps I will yet join my maker.
Or perhaps I will join my father,
who lies with his father
upon the hill.
The only inevitable victory:
that this soil so often upon my hands
will stake its final claim upon my soul …
if I stay with the earth.
Beaten
A horse galloping in the night
like a heart beating out its lifetime
fervently and worried, passionately and scurrilous:
since true flight is
altogether broken, altogether lost, altogether gone.
Dr. Walter Boswell
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