Wednesday, July 30, 2008

In the Province of Saints

Nay, pass me by
thou burning angel, thou furious god-ridden horse!
I will not run barefoot through the pine hills with you.

Abandon is the province of saints,
a land without signposts, a country of no return
where the only direction is forward.
Abandon is a narrow land under an infinite sky.

Burning is the province of saints,
a realm fragrant with the hazy glittering
smoke of cedar and myrrh
where fire walks no more than a step ahead.

Miracle is the province of saints,
where glass flowers burst from dry soil and ring
like shattered praises on windless air.
All the lands of earth are the province of saints:

the god-horse stamps and champs at every door
on every street
in the province of saints-to-be sleeping
like mushrooms in dark earth
beside the glass flowers and the burning cedars
under an infinite sky!

Collection available! Knocking from Inside


Whirling Dervish said...

Hi Tiel,

It's been awhile since I've visited--as always, I love coming here. Your poetry is peaceful. Thanks for sharing the skeleton of your poem for RWP- I took you up on it, here:


throwshiswords said...

"Peaceful", WD? :-) This one, at least, is bursting-full of action and energy -- I felt swept up in the passion of the hot winds driving me from stanza to stanza.

I really admire this poem. To me it feels like the prayer of a reluctant prophet, asking not to take up the burden but knowing full well the necessity. Beautiful.