More like sub-aqueous rumors that only he
could hear, than like bubbles that did not rise,
except to his ear; more like words in an alphabet soup—
not swimming, but suspended, like he was, too alive
to be here, but here anyway—than a baby, fat in the sink.
For he had been promised birth. Even above
the ancient song that sang, Stay, little one, stay.
He had been promised birth, and he would get it,
but not with the name he wanted to use,
for how could they know his real name?
There was no prophecy about his name.
He was the sign, the bubbles, the origin of space.
Stay, little one, stay. Listen to us just this once.
‘No, sisters, nothing can stay, not here, not anyplace.’
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May 10, 2013 at 8:06 pm
Yes, they are.
May 6, 2013 at 9:43 pm
Thanks Anna. I am getting to the end of Middle School. (I think.) They are a rather precious bunch, aren’t they?
May 3, 2013 at 8:52 pm
Sub-aqueous rumors, bubbles, soup, words, suspended not swimming, prophecy and the origin of space…all at Middle School…? I need to be in Mr. Madden’s classroom, I think. And hints of a saviour in this one, too, he was the sign, and the wisdom the poem leaves us with: No, sisters, nothing can stay, not here, not anyplace.’ All this to say that I am enjoying your poems though I find them difficult to grasp. I also enjoy how this one echoes (of course) with the poem before it.
May 2, 2013 at 9:45 pm
Wordsworth? Huh.Anyway–I have no Christian theology exams to take in my immediate future. thanks, John. Wordsworth, eh?
May 2, 2013 at 12:08 pm
“he had been promised birth, and he would get it, / but not with the name he wanted to use …”
The theology here reminds me of Wordsworth’s “trailing clouds of glory”. I don’t suppose it would get a high grade in orthodox Christian theology exams, but your lines (like his) run very smoothly and beautifully.