The Angel of your Birth

August 13, 2015

That he was still alive, he never doubted.
The heave and push of his pulse remained strong.
His eyes were aflame.
If he could only laugh,
he would fit his eyes inside a balloon,
so they could float over the countryside,
alive with spirits, and still—
still sing to the cathedrals
as they languished there under the sun;
still be fond of God even though
in all your confessions hating
only the sin and not God Himself,
and not yourself as the sun rose
and the roses rose—
each one an insufficiency
a finny thing, canned and creamed
and boiled and salted;
and still see the green boughs
of summer as they
become winter’s bare bouquet.

Can you see the circumference of
the tree? Can you see the light?

Remain still.

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2 Responses to “The Angel of your Birth”

  1. John Looker Says:

    As always Jim I relish the imagination in your poems. Where does it come from? Where will it take the reader?
    There is almost a subconscious or dreamlike process at work here and the object of the poem keeps changing (he? you? the cathedrals? the roses? those ‘finny’ things? the tree?). And where’s that angel? There is a metamorphosis. What’s it all about, one might cry! I guess it is about identity, existence, being.
    Sounds nice too.
    I’m glad you posted it.

  2. extrasimile Says:

    John, you ask some interesting questions. The first I will merely kiss and pass over. The second one however seems important and worth thinking about. It seems a justification for writing poetry. Or at least a justification for asking someone to read it. That it’s beautiful; that it has something to teach, that it’s a reflection of something only poetry can reflect—all seem promising answers. But that the poet’s imagination can take you some place you’ve never been, and didn’t expect to be there, has always appealed to me. Examples: Blake’s The Sick Rose and dozens of poems by Yeats. Does my imagination take you some place? It is probably not for me to say—but I think it does.
    The angel is the narrator of the poem.
    All those unassigned pronouns. It’s practically a poetics of mine.
    Thanks again John for sticking with me. One of these days—when I can—I will write up all my medical experiences. Talk about going someplace you didn’t expect


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