04-30-2013, 08:30 PM
Remembering a walk beneath the pier,
supported by posts like Grecian columns
rotting deep within a silent forest,
then when I stepped onto the beach beyond,
where huts in the distance blurred in a light
that mocked their wooden objectivity,
I realise that I don't need Jesus.
Dead men and women have done more for me
than Jesus, the saints, and all of their troops.
Poets gave hope when Sunday school could not.
I writhe in nature, like a Romantic,
record its tensions, like an Imagist,
lament its silence, like Confessionals.
Poetry is what lies beyond mankind,
poems the violent oneness with God.
They are the birth, death and resurrection.
supported by posts like Grecian columns
rotting deep within a silent forest,
then when I stepped onto the beach beyond,
where huts in the distance blurred in a light
that mocked their wooden objectivity,
I realise that I don't need Jesus.
Dead men and women have done more for me
than Jesus, the saints, and all of their troops.
Poets gave hope when Sunday school could not.
I writhe in nature, like a Romantic,
record its tensions, like an Imagist,
lament its silence, like Confessionals.
Poetry is what lies beyond mankind,
poems the violent oneness with God.
They are the birth, death and resurrection.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe