I've leaned so much
On conchas and flechas amarillas,
I fear I may be lost
Without them.
So now
(Guided by no maps or marker stones,
Pricking no shelled and arrowed way,
No trail angel appearing mysteriously
At a crossroads in the middle of a prairie
To point the right path)
I'll try contact
Some benign spirit deep within
For comfort and counsel;
Though along the Way I learned,
All by myself, with sweat and tears,
That the more I'm lost, the more I'm found,
And that all roads lead to somewhere and to nowhere.
So tomorrow I will explore the heart.
ReplyDeleteA dangerous terrain. I have no chart.
Not till we are lost.. not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations. Thoreau
ReplyDeleteConchas flechas amarillas
ReplyDeleteMacBook Translation:
Shells you shoot with a yellow arrow.
I've been reading The Interior Castle, by Teresa of Avila, translated by Mirabai Starr. As well as a book by Carolyn Myss that encourages inner dialogue. Turning inward and finding contact with:
"Some benign spirit deep within
For comfort and counsel"
Thank you for posting your poetry along the Way. The eternal Way.
word verification: frumorr
Freedom + Rumors of Peace + Humor
The Interior Castle. Wonderful. I've always thought Kafka's novel was a 20th century interpretation of this.
ReplyDeleteWord verification: nonesses
nun (french)
nones (Roman calendar - day of the half-moon)
non esse (latin)
(non essential
no essence
not to be)
I read Theresa of Avila's "The Interior Castle" a long time ago. It is a classic in Christian spirituality. John of the Cross is also very good--especially his poetry.
ReplyDelete*****
"In my end is my beginning."
--T.S. Eliot
*****
Shiloh
By Tim Shey
Brutal deathdance;
My eyes weep blood.
Pharisees smile like vipers,
They laugh and mock their venom:
Blind snakes leading
The deaf and dumb multitude.
Where are my friends?
The landscape is dry and desolate.
They have stretched my shredded body
On this humiliating tree.
The hands that healed
And the feet that brought good news
They have pierced
With their fierce hatred.
The man-made whip
That opened up my back
Preaches from a proper pulpit.
They sit in comfort:
That vacant-eyed congregation.
The respected, demon-possessed reverend
Forks his tongue
Scratching itchy ears
While Cain bludgeons
Abel into silence.
My flesh in tattered pieces
Clots red and cold and sticks
To the rough-hewn timber
That props up my limp, vertical carcase
Between heaven and earth.
My life drips and puddles
Below my feet,
As I gaze down dizzily
On merciless eyes and dagger teeth.
The chapter-and-versed wolves
Jeer and taunt me.
Their sheepwool clothing
Is stained black with the furious violence
Of their heart of stone.
They worship me in lip service,
But I confess,
I never knew them
(Though they are my creation).
My tongue tastes like ashes:
It sticks to the roof of my mouth.
I am so thirsty.
This famine is too much for me.
The bulls of Bashan have bled me white.
Papa, into your hands
I commend my Spirit.
Ethos
February/March 1997
Iowa State University
Genesis 49: 10: "The scepter shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet until Shiloh come; and unto him shall the gathering of the people be."
www.wallsofjericho.50megs.com
Wow! That is some poem!
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