Poetry

A SOUL INCOMPLETE

by Walter Boswell
01/25/19
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A Soul Incomplete

Suddenly, with sleep in tow, it no longer matters

                                where couched emotions lie.

Let this be an end to it,

                to ungainly sights and halo shapes

                                fitted to the moon.

My heart awaits with all kin gone,        learning

there is no wetness to the dayspring of life,

                or in the Jordan some fortunate baptism.

This, then, is the God,      the God (that is)       God alone.

                Saying as much,        a very lonely God;

                still shedding his robe and back-staining his shirt

                in a struggling climb and vicarious march

                                to reach his own high places.

And I pride myself in being              very, very far away …

                since not a holy image do I carry,

                                nor even the Shroud of Turin,

                just a stained image painted

                in a lost veil of infected blood.

False Bravery

Declaim now the perpetual language of Auschwitz –

                                                                only now.

Your presence there           then

                would have only added another soldier,

                                another guard, another oven operator.

For             you reason what you feel and fail to reason,

                and know what you are closely exposed to know,

seeing truth as a mere adherence to fantasy logic.

And there is very little natural in your nature

wherein yourself has not been also contributive

                                to all the international misgivings:

                agitating of interclass repression,

                inflammatory of interpersonal prejudice –

docking it now in obstinacy

                of this corrupt participating forum.

As if favoritisms were gifted from God

                                and written upon stone; such as

                no amount of facts can dissuade you,

                no body of evidence ever convince you,

no appeal for compromise can bring ease of moderation

                                to the tensions of your taut ideology.

                Thy convictions convict you

and mallow your standing in the Karnak of true reform.

                                Deluded and diluted,

how can you criticize creatures of the past

                who were no more enthralled by perversion than you?

Dr. Walter Boswell

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