December 30, 2012

Last Light

lastlightww2.jpg

How, when my emerald voices pray
In the crystal heart, and the bright chimes
Sound along the shoals of day,
Shall I not hunt among the stones
To touch Your shadowed silent lips,
And listen in my vaults of bone
To those wave-shattered psalms of sea
That promise soon, O my bright shade!,
The flame that bends my soul to Thee?

For is not prayer that trace of flame,
That sign seen once in silhouette
Between the edge of stars and earth,
That place where winds on water step?

And if I read in heaven pale
These ancient signs, these lines on slate,
That in translation tell Your tale
As if Your tale was burned in bone,
And kept in halls of bronze and stone,
Would I then touch Your fading face
No man can read or waking see?
Would you emerge from stone to say
Our history begins today?

I speak, I know, I know, at slant,
And seldom cleave the circle straight,
But Your geometries enchant,
While I stand frozen at Your gate.

Yet still I sense such centers touch,
As deep as senses hope to know,
In this rose room that hovers high
Above all memory of snow.

And so above the ocean I,
Released from life, from earth entire,
Relive within this room of steel
The ashen memory of Your fire.
That in such mansions once I slept,
Most fortunate of all blessed men,
And breathed Your breath,
Embraced Your heart,
That my stilled heart might beat again.

Posted by Vanderleun at December 30, 2012 2:21 AM
Bookmark and Share

Comments:

HOME

"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.

"That my stilled heart might beat again."

You've written a beautiful poem of faith and wonder of life. Oh what tiny dying gods we are.

Thank you

Posted by: Denny at January 30, 2010 4:18 PM

Such a thing of beauty! It gives one pause, halting between envy of a soul that could inspire such words, and the scribbling thrall that could give them voice.

*sigh*

Men do well to fear the poets.

.

Posted by: Joan of Argghh! at January 30, 2010 4:46 PM

Yes! I'm certain that the spirit that found home in Dag Hammarskjold beats its wings again and sings again within you.
As that spirit, 55 years ago, spoke about YOU, "Thou takest the pen--and the lines dance. Thou takest the flute--and the notes shimmer. Thou takest the brush--and the colors sing. So all things have meaning and beauty in that space beyond time where Thou art..."

Posted by: FamouslyUnknown at January 30, 2010 5:30 PM

This is just the kind of mischief that sets back mens rights. If my wife ever sees it, she'll draw the inevitable comparisons with the new Weed Whacker I got her for Valentine's Day.

Posted by: Gagdad Bob at January 31, 2010 7:35 AM

just beautiful -- my elderly mother is fighting to live, even now on her death bed, having lost her basic abilities to eat and drink -- only God can convince her of her life's worth now... I pray he speaks to her heart and releases her from her earthly service.. she's trapped in her failing body, her weary, confused mind searching for "the right things to do".. this poem is beautiful... a true expression of the mystery of Faith and Love ...David, the psamlist, would have been envious of this talent... thank you for this poem.. how timely -- certainly an act of God Himself, at least in my mother's case...inspires me to pray for her, and I haven't prayed since I was a child...

Posted by: RedCarolina at January 31, 2010 7:41 AM

Lucky gal.

Posted by: Cathy at January 31, 2010 8:57 AM

All our deepest prayers are today with your mother, Red.

Posted by: vanderleun at January 31, 2010 9:16 AM

Oh yes. I'd missed your comment, Red. Prayers for peace - for you, for your mother.

Posted by: Cathy at January 31, 2010 10:04 AM

thanks for the words of support -- I imagine her at her Last Light, between the edge of stars and earth...that promise soon, oh my bright shade. that flame that bends my soul to thee.. I may be stretching here, but I can't help but think of her longing to see her true love, in her case, God...I hope the poet doesn't mind...thanks again...

Posted by: Red Carolina at January 31, 2010 4:01 PM

To envision the slim silver thread that is broken
between heaven and earth, allowing the soul to
flee.

Posted by: merrymary at January 31, 2010 4:59 PM

This is just the kind of mischief that sets back mens rights. If my wife ever sees it, she'll draw the inevitable comparisons with the new Weed Whacker I got her for Valentine's Day.
Posted by: Gagdad Bob at January 31, 2010 7:35 AM

Still a few days til VD. Run out and get a big red ribbon, and tie it around it to underline your empathy.

Posted by: Rob De Witt at February 4, 2010 7:29 AM

Perfect...sigh.

Prayers with you and your Red Caroline.

Posted by: DeAnn at January 1, 2013 5:14 AM

Perfect...sigh.

Prayers with you and yours Red Caroline.

Posted by: DeAnn at January 1, 2013 5:14 AM

Perfect...sigh.

Prayers with you and yours Red Caroline.

Posted by: DeAnn at January 1, 2013 5:14 AM