Saturday, October 10, 2009

Poetry Year October 2

Love is a strange tree,
on which we are crucified,
made sacred.
The blood of the world flows from us,
breaking forth from our hands.

Twisted like a trunk,
spreading out to reach a sun,
whose light is the light of the world.
Tangled the hands and bloody mat of hair,
mingled with sweat, tears,
and the toil of an age.

In a place of art the other day,
a sculptor placed the corpse of a horse,
above which read the sign INRI.
Fat volumes are sold, now
for comforted scribes,
who posit stale riddles,
beyond which there is some trapse and trace,
of the questions beyond.

Love is a strange tree,
it grows from strange roots.
Your God, that God,
that very God of very God,
begotten and not maid,
looks down from every turn and corner.

It is a myth,
but is is the myth:
the myth of a man,
who for one day,
bore pain as women
bear agony that twists in childbirth,
or in loss of child.

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