Thou Hast Made Me


32

Thou hast made me, a holy poet
What is this work, to observe and not despair?
And all these pleasures are mere words
Of yesterday, dim eyes any way
Of visions that run to death, from self to self –

But I rise again, in new forms
With poems that can myself sustain
Like breath and proven art
Thou has made me, a grand imitator
Of names in history, of verse

That contributes repair, spiritual repair
Repair me then, my little words, until
My end doth haste and in terror of feeble flesh
I must part, saying goodbye to all I was –
What is this work, to entertain and listen

Listing all that is below, without knowing
What is above, or how adamant drew my own heart
These are not holy sonnets, but all titles I must resign
Even being published, only a loose
Temple of my spirit divine, ravished in thy sight

For all paths that do converge I have found
Are found in uniting words, language pure
That I might in holy discontent simplify
For all coming ills have been pre-ordained
Though hast me thus, a poet at last
Alive at least in my own idol-making sympathy.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Peace-402773282

Who never lost, cannot win


103

Who never lost, do not know –
The thirst that will never be quenched
Plato’s fires in the weary league of Shakespeare
The Greatness that stretches

To the Revolutionary Day?
Who never lost, are unprepared
For the tragedy of a dull life
The cooling tamarind, the gazing tumeric

A legion of spices sought, in vain?
Who never knew, the Royal scars –
The lovers who left, loved in vain!
We are all soldiers in our hearts

With love on our brow, and not always
The Will to overcome, common ruins;
Who never lost, do not fathom more.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/sleeping-on-the-cold-dirt-392663547