Poem: The Layers

Credit: Fabien Belcourt/Favim

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

~ Stanley Kunitz

Poem: The Layers

Credit: Fabien Belcourt/Favim

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

~ Stanley Kunitz

His God

Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com

After six days of diligent labour

he’d done it, he’d made his God.

He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,

wiping the sweat from his brow,

looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.

But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much

about as perfect as he could make him.

Though there were disappointments.

His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,

almost a falsetto,

instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots

voice he’d intended.

Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.

He never really got around to actually doing anything.

And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.

But then again, they seemed to happen

no matter whose God was pulling the reins.

He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket

they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.

They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.

His God could be a bit crass at times,

an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,

burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,

gawking at bums and breasts.

He had his good side though.

He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.

His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.

He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.

But he kept his creator company

on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.

His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.

But he was his.

And they grew old together.

The man and his God.

They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things

that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.

The man died.

His God looked down on him,

thought I’ll be damned!

And died too.

~ Bill Fewer

His God

Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com

After six days of diligent labour

he’d done it, he’d made his God.

He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,

wiping the sweat from his brow,

looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.

But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much

about as perfect as he could make him.

Though there were disappointments.

His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,

almost a falsetto,

instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots

voice he’d intended.

Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.

He never really got around to actually doing anything.

And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.

But then again, they seemed to happen

no matter whose God was pulling the reins.

He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket

they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.

They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.

His God could be a bit crass at times,

an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,

burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,

gawking at bums and breasts.

He had his good side though.

He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.

His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.

He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.

But he kept his creator company

on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.

His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.

But he was his.

And they grew old together.

The man and his God.

They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things

that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.

The man died.

His God looked down on him,

thought I’ll be damned!

And died too.

~ Bill Fewer