The world of gods and ziggurats
Of sacred snakes and elephants, Clings to clams and mountains, To all of nature’s ravishments And nature staggers with her lees Her health hampered by degrees, In stacks of knowledge and of gain, And gnawed by evil and disease, The cosmos that envelops us Until the end of time and space Is merely a floorboard at The bottom of the grand staircase. And we are either here or there, Until we turn and we are both And we are on the Dolomite And in the scrubby undergrowth.
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The kind of life we’re leading
(Not just the books we’re reading) Is radiating light (Even if sweat is beading) Upon our recognizing God. And the lines reach up But they remain Clustered in the narrow cup, The cup is our mind, Our core and our facade, Our heart, and from my flesh I will see God. And we must scrub The upper windows, we See the Godly waves That rise upon the quay, Because polishing the windows Is itself life and all of its Moods. So we see where the mud Seeps down into the pits, We see the falcon swept On an unending rise, We hear the praise Of the faithful and wise. There are a few, here and there,
Sprinkled or folded in This country, county, A fire wrapped in skin, Volcanoes rise, Pyroclastic rivers flow, And still these souls appear Immense and slow, But they are filled With ideal good That rages threatens Their neighborhood, Such forests are bursting Within them, bristlecone Pines, foaming streams, Cougars, glistening limestone, Day to day speaks, crow And whippoorwill. And they do God’s will: The firebell and the daffodil. I have an idea. It looks like
Two black holes colliding Or like an orange or like Tectonic plates sliding. These lines of longitude These galactic filaments Distress the soul and Only show her lineaments. Before there were atoms, There was plasma, The molecules emerge From the miasma, And after the chains Of the the swing Of my thoughts smear Beyond patterning Their soul is freed Flying above the shale, The volcanic rock, The sedimentary trail, But here we may err, And with our heart swollen We spoil the fruit, our Actions accidents or stolen And we think that we shall free The taste of the berry, And advance its growth, we think That we are visionary, Only the power of creation Dissolves the grain, Frees the soul, Releases the crane. It dances in the orange Dawn. Chase away the fox That gnaws the grapes And terrifies the peacocks. Everything we make
That reflects Who we are With our moods and dialects Comes from the source Of the soul and comes From the littered streets Of decaying slums. They call each other Without cease, Until their longitudes Meet and release Light: of being alive Or of being—being, Or of wisdom, of Far sight’s seeing, Or of singing, or of The “is” that emerges And that shines. And The blue sea surges And reaches the sky With sapphire glints. They leave indigo traces And cobalt hints. An empty hole is filled
By substance that is true, Which is a web of light, Which is a bed of dew, Which ties together galaxies In strands and spatter And mysterious connections From the nest of dark matter. Every deviation and travail Every ruin of a one-time trail Or an abandoned road Are the shell of the snail. When the islands align with the sea And the rivers with the hills And the van Allen belts Create curtains of aerial rills, The falcon pulls itself up in the sky, And the Coriolis effect Creates every whorl on this world Of gladness and intellect. It may be described
(if it may be described) As pain, or strain, An elixir imbibed, The tearing away Of the mind from the flesh Where the bond is alive, Sensitive and fresh, To a planet that is pale And noble and pure, Where the soul walks freely Through an open door And it may be described (for it may be described) As peace and flight, As an elixir imbibed, These pangs of love When you wish to create, Lead to its sights That levitate, And the scraping of skin And blind, dark guessing, And clumsy intent Will lead to blessing “Enlightened” lozenges Without any ache, Lose the light of the morning And crack and break. The contours of the earth
The wrinkles of the sea With their arthropods Contain infinity. Within the gut and liver, The enzymes catalyze, And acids come to life Before the cosmos dies. The scent of wisdom floats, Encompasses the earth. We mix them both together, The boundless and the girth, Of Einstein and of Bohr, Of heaven and of ore, Of galaxies and crystals, And ships pull from the shore. I must wait, and wait,
When will the spirit drop On me like a bag of sand, And I’ll produce a crop Of new fruits, I’ll Contemplate, I’ll think, I’ll sing, my light Is in the clink. Why, from the cave Halfway up the cliff, The soul is singing Its ongoing riff, She’s wearing Colorful clothes That look good in action Or happy repose, She has an extensive View, a sunshade, An afternoon breeze, An orangeade. How can I scramble up To meet her, to See if not her, Her steps, pursue The whoosh of wings, To hear her Speech, to smell Her lavender? Because it is not At this or that Hour, wearing This or that hat, That she is creating Wisdom and thought, Song and speech, Swift or taut, But it’s all the time That rivers, that streams, Of milk and honey Of unceasing dreams Are flowing, are talking, Are shining, are singing, From an infinite source Their echoes ringing. The whole world takes up
A coffee cup, red or Blue or yellow, and in it Are the gecko and the monitor, Also photons, amplitude, The earth of the tabernacle, The line of a foggy horizon, The eye of the common grackle |
Yaacov David Shulman
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