CM
PRAYER
Approaching
ninety, and still with a hope
That I could
tell it, say it, blurt it out.
If not
before people, at least before You,
Who
nourished me with honey and wormwood.
I am
ashamed, for I must believe you protected me,
As if I had
for You some particular merit.
I was like
those in the gulags who fashioned a cross from twigs
And prayed
to it at night in the barracks.
I made a
plea and You deigned to answer it,
So that I
could see how unreasonable it was.
But when out
of pity for others I begged a miracle,
The sky and
the earth were silent, as always.
Morally
suspect because of my belief in You,
I admired
unbelievers for their simple persistence.
What sort of
adorer of Majesty am I,
If I
consider religion good only for the weak like myself?
The
least-normal person in Father Chomski's class,
I had
already fixed my sights on the swirling vortex of a destiny.
Now You are
closing down my five senses, slowly,
And I am an
old man lying in darkness.
Delivered to
that thing which has oppressed me
So that I
always ran forward, composing poems.
Liberate me
from guilt, real and imagined.
Give me
certainty that I toiled for Your glory.
In the hour
of the agony of death, help me with Your suffering
Which cannot
save the world from pain.
LATE RIPENESS
Not soon, as
late as the approach of my ninetieth year,
I felt a
door opening in me and I entered
the clarity
of early morning.
One after
another my former lives were departing,
like ships,
together with their sorrow.
And the
countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas
assigned to
my brush came closer,
ready now to
be described better than they were before.
I was not
separated from people,
grief and
pity joined us.
We forget-I
kept saying-that we are all children of the King.
For where we
come from there is no division
into Yes and
No, into is, was, and will be.
We were
miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part
of the gift
we received for our long journey.
Moments from
yesterday and from centuries ago-
a sword
blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror
of polished
metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel
staving its
hull against a reef-they dwell in us,
waiting for
a fulfillment.
I knew,
always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,
as are all
men and women living at the same time,
whether they
are aware of it or not.
An Alcoholic Enters the Gates of
Heaven
What kind of man I was to be
you’ve known since the beginning,
since the beginning of every
creature.
It must be horrible to be aware,
simultaneously,
of what is, what was,
and what will be.
I began my life confident and
happy,
certain that the Sun rose every
day for me
and that flowers opened for me
every morning.
I ran all day in an enchanted
garden.
Not suspecting that you had
picked me from the Book of Genes
for another experiment
altogether.
As if there were not proof enough
that free will is useless against
destiny.
Under your amused glance I
suffered
like a caterpillar impaled on the
spike of a blackthorn.
The terror of the world opened
itself to me.
Could I have avoided escape into
illusion?
Into a liquor which stopped the
chattering of teeth
and melted the burning ball in my
breast
and made me think I could live
like others?
I realized I was wandering from
hope to hope
and I asked you, All Knowing, why
you torture me.
Is it a trial like Job’s, so that
I call faith a phantom
and say: You are not, nor do your
verdicts exist,
and the earth is ruled by
accident?
Who can contemplate
simultaneous,
a-billion-times-multiplied pain?
It seems to me that people who
cannot believe in you
deserve your praise.
But perhaps because you were
overwhelmed by pity,
you descended to the earth
to experience the condition of
mortal creatures.
Bore the pain of crucifixion for
a sin, but committed by whom?
I pray to you, for I do not know
how not to pray.
Because my heart desires you,
though I do not believe you would
cure me.
And so it must be, that those who
suffer will continue to suffer,
praising your name.
Comments
Post a Comment