prophets awake exhausted from their dreams. their beds soaked in sweat.
with the ebbing fever of their visions still ringing in their ears,
they arise each morning in love anew with our broken world.
while we, fearing the wounded, the other, the lost, make the sign of the Cross
and send the world away in the collection plate.
blessed are the prophets’ eyes for they see and their ears for they hear:
those in love. those crushed by debt. by earthquakes.
those with child. those with enough. the wedding banquet.
the killing fields.
they taste the sweetness and the sweet bitterness of this life.
they see the glory in the least of things. they hear the poor,
no matter how loudly the pharisees might rage.
they see the oppressed, no matter how well their ghettos are hidden.
in the thin space between heartbeats, between the threads of the veil of the temple,
between the last breath and the dying, here is where prophets harvest their words.
yet, when they feed the starving, we call them deluded.
when they bear witness, we call them liars.
what they taste and declare to be sweet, we spit out as poison.
little honor is there for prophets, and I am not a prophet, but if I were
I might speak these words to you:
“Why are you here?”
I might say to you: “Did God cradle you in your mother’s womb
just so you could be born and repent of your sins?”
I might say to you: “Did He give you life just so you could have your demons cast out?”
If I were a prophet, I might say to you: “In this perfectly broken world,
you must see that which strives to be hidden,
hear those voices others would deny,
taste the bitterness of the forgotten,
and yet love all of it without exception,
as if your life depended upon it –
because it does.”
.
Showing posts with label prophet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prophet. Show all posts
28 January 2010
16 June 2009
parable
in church this week,
charlotte read my poem out
loud as part of the liturgy,
which was, like the poem,
a flawed attempt to describe
the unseen.
“he did not speak to them except in parables.”
it was disconcerting to watch charlotte
take my words by the hand,
and guide them through the church,
one by one, like small children.
in a voice as steady as rain,
she spoke of denial and loss -
how bitter they lie on our tongues –
and redemption.
“they ... may indeed listen, but not understand”
words have meanings - many found in webster’s -
though for poets and prophets there
are always meanings known only to them.
ciphers that beg the listener
to bestow coins of understanding into
their tiny, outstretched hands.
“but he explained everything in private to his disciples.”
“words are not just words,” He must have said to them,
“they have consequences.”
something
poets already know, and whether prophet or poet,
we will admit, in private at least,
that all poems are, without fail, prayers
beseeching god to restore
what we never had.
charlotte read my poem out
loud as part of the liturgy,
which was, like the poem,
a flawed attempt to describe
the unseen.
“he did not speak to them except in parables.”
it was disconcerting to watch charlotte
take my words by the hand,
and guide them through the church,
one by one, like small children.
in a voice as steady as rain,
she spoke of denial and loss -
how bitter they lie on our tongues –
and redemption.
“they ... may indeed listen, but not understand”
words have meanings - many found in webster’s -
though for poets and prophets there
are always meanings known only to them.
ciphers that beg the listener
to bestow coins of understanding into
their tiny, outstretched hands.
“but he explained everything in private to his disciples.”
“words are not just words,” He must have said to them,
“they have consequences.”
something
poets already know, and whether prophet or poet,
we will admit, in private at least,
that all poems are, without fail, prayers
beseeching god to restore
what we never had.