*
As I started writing this poem, I did not believe it was any good. In fact, I thought it was one of the worst things to come from my pen. It certainly is unusual. But as I persisted, I gradually discerned this piece was the opposite of what I perceived initially. I now think it one of the best things I have written. Be that as it may, the poem is too extreme at its heart to show it in it’s entirety.
*
Dedicated to Gerard Manley Hopkins
and to Anton Bruckner
*
*
Beginning:
My fourth retreat.
I step out to the grounds
And into a nest of old memories.
A breath of joy. Then, near my ankles,
The white wings of a butterfly
Start waving me forward frantically.
I follow its antics down the slope,
Down the mazy path through the sedge
To an edge. There,
A pike of wood is speared to the sward.
*
Facing it, I pick out the facets of a message
Encrypted into a foreign tongue.
Circling, I discover two more alien languages
Languishing unspoken.
Finally, on the fourth side, English:
*
“May peace prevail.”
*
In the shadow cast by the pike,
I find a fallen moth, hued black to blue.
Splayed open, it is struggling, suffering
The throes of a paroxysmal twitch.
*
I kneel to be close.
It’s wingspan black and broad,
Much of the one wing is missing
And even part of the other.
Were they eaten by a predator?
Broken off when seized by someone cruel?
What remains trembles with life before death.
A hint of blue beauty on the chitin
Mirrors the sky, marks the moth
As celestial, one of heaven’s own.
*
Angel, come. Unfurl
Cerulean wings….
*
*
Finale:
Here it is holy. Such questions affront.
I pray on my sorrow, this scepter,
Then will it to God.
Perhaps, I hear Him bid me heed the sky:
Colors are unfurling there like prayer flags
Of thanksgiving, the testament
To a day well loved. Days well loved? Yes.
Thus, may I die and know peace. But, for now,
Like a hobo alone, I shall whistle myself along.
*
*
THE HOPKINS CODA
*
I lope up the slope from the lake, greet the see
of eyes
In the grass, hear the scutter within, the flutter
above.
*
Below, in the clover, bees buzz-love my
sandaled feet,
Hold sway this swath of stubble. I distance the
day-star
*
Setting at my back, and every trouble. Ahead,
The hope of the horizon. It’s first faint stars are
a feint.
*
In an hour, a swirling blaze will hypnotize the
wary,
Leave them weary, wanting sleep. Then will
men
*
Lay down their staves, searching for a
choir-less quiet,
A quaff of dreams. What do I see on a cusp,
*
A man who is cupping his hand, beckoning?
His cassock is blacker than the sky of
blackening blue.
*
Beyond him lies the Milky Way itself. Should I
approach?
Only one above reproach dare place their hand
in his.
*
Suddenly, near my ankles, the white wings of a
butterfly
Start waving me forward frantically.
I cave.
*
*
THE BRUCKNER CODA
*
All walk their disparate paths, struck dumb
By an awe or a dread. But, if someone starts
to hum,
*
This simple hum becomes a song, sung from
the soul
To hear the soul live, when no one else is
listening.
*
Becomes at last a symphony for those with
wands
To wave into crescendo. Surely, God must
come
*
In answer. At death, when men lay down
their staves,
Most hope for a choir-less quiet, a quaff of
dreams.
*
What do I perceive on the cusp,
An elder in a frock coat staring out to see?
*
The sky is blackening from blue. Before him
Lies the Milky Way itself. Should I approach?
*
Only one above reproach dare speak or touch,
For he is holy. I imagine my hand at rest on
his back.
*
Bolder, the white wings of a butterfly
Circle all around him frantically.
*
It comes to rest, a white star pulsing on his
shoulder,
A speck so bright upon Forever.
*
*
Steven Golden
Franciscan Retreat Center
Prior Lake, MN
September 2017
stevengoldenpoetry 