When I have no words, it seems the poet rears his head in me and invites me to choose a backstair – to havens where new language and strong feelings reside.
on hatred
this anger rises
airborne fume
so thick with years
and quick to find
the fault that begs
for justice meted
no contrary voice
nor weapon’s fire
can quick befall
this aged mist
the wound to close
from which it spews
and so this need
a heat to rise
so thick with years
and quick to find
the gaping tear
within the cowled
to burn and curse
that morbid strain
that feeds, infects
the heart extinct
dispels the stench
and heals the rip
within the hater
and the hated.
08.08 Dan Wilt
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P.S. A quote for my poet friends:
“The vocation of the poet, rather like that of the priest, is to recognize to point others to the often imperceptible grace of God; that divine grace that holds everything and everyone in being, and which alone can bring creation to its true fulfillment.”
From The Art Of God by Christopher Irvine (Liturgy Training Publications, 2005) 53.
