A Song alone

February 15, 2016

 

 

I once sang a song alone,

the strings of my throat avibe,

the plectrum of my heart in place.

No one listened, no one heard,

yet the very walls inclined.

I once chanted a psalm unwritten,

the zither of my spirit wrung tight,

The dusty air with sonor

left the antiphon unsaid, unvoiced.

I once composed a dirge,

the chord of my tongue in D-minor,

for no one

and they didn’t weep.

I once rejoined a wedding hymn,

the organ of my lungs billowed,

like the descant of royal flute

played by none

yet answered by spring’s bloom.

I once tuned the tympanym of my lips

to twirl,

dancing like heavenly spheres

lost in the blink of an angel’s eye.

Advertisements

Ein Klein Nachtmusik

February 15, 2016

 

nyx.jpg

 

At last, falls the curtain,

still, dread velvet weaves the quiet,

a flurry of feathers, ancient tracks,

Aqua regia and wheaten witches’ moons.

How can I connect

the sacred and profane, the lofty and lowly,

the many strands of soundless symphony?

Do the trees answer life and death,

motherhood and loss?

Do lunar phases mark love’s mood

both tragic and elated?

Can the eloquent calligraphy of frost

record seasons, longings and sighs?

Is she Diana who births the night,

or Nyx spreading her inky cloak?

Is it the she-wolf, wraith or sprite

who strikes the danse macabre entwined?

Is this the lesser time of God,

or the penance to repair what’s lost?

Of snow and ashes, would I be remiss,

of that noiseless time when destroying angels pass.

In the lightless underworld,

do owls hymn thee?

When fearsome things tramp afoot,

does the unknown, unseen, unremembered cry?

There is appointed the time to awake

and to die.

After every day surely comes night

on rodent feet

singing the unsung requiem

taps on a graveyard bugle,

Nunc dimittis in velvet black

because the white of dawn may wake them.

Psalm of Lament

March 24, 2013

Image

 

Psalm of Lament.

 

Why, my Lord must this hurt?

 

Because my child, this world is thorns…

 

Was I ever a fair child?

Injured from my youth, tossed away, maimed.

After the long tunnel of darkness, I entered the light

where the Lord’s children are maimed.

 

I said:

Lord did thou rescue me from sin, my own self-inflicted death,

so I may become as a dog despised?

 

They once hated me because I was lost, sick, cursed.

Now they conspire against me, my family,

because I am found, healed, blessed.

 

Lord, I trusted you…

The shell of my former soul, left behind like dross

sunken on the bottom of an iron-smelt.

Rising, a phoenix, I cried out to the world.

Instead, they ignored me, clipped my wings, cast me away.

 

“One of them” mocked and defiled…your child.

Lord, look at your own, beloved firstborn,

there cut, bleeding…esteemed not.

 

Was he the fairest of the fair?

He who cried: Why God hast thou forsaken?

Because my child, the next world is a Kingdom…

 

I said:

Hope in you still, my Lord…

for your lead rod is perfect, laden in gold.

 

Take me from these thorns.

Lick my wounds; count the bones that were crushed,

and lift me from this dark vale.

 

From wild gusts, God made thee.
made thee to stomp and kick the iron-black dusts of battle.
Yeah, did the Lord coil up the west-most winds
and blow into your blood red nostrils.

A beast with trumpet-call
wearing flesh of felty silk, yet stony white as new-carved marble,
You survey the vast fields and cover them in hoof-beats.

Flashing lightning,
meets the pitch of battle, singing swords, clamor-calls
whence you emerge forth.

Puffing smoke, clawing the earth
you bear up the warrior, dragon-like, stare with armored-eyes.
Your mane is a flag, high-flying, your tail a banner streaming
and fearlessness your champion.

God himself, foresaw you
and granted thee the swiftness of his winged-messenger,
so that earth caresses the heavens
beneath your churning feet.

by Rachel M. Gohlman (me)

 

Image