Pontifexing Heaven and Earth (First Attempt)

Trying my hand at the one thing necessary. Poetry.

When Jesus speaks of the one thing necessary to Martha, who had drawn attention to her sister Mary, content as she was to sit at the Masters feet and hear His words while Martha busied herself in all those things deemed necessary by the world, He says that Mary has chosen the “the good portion”.

Jesus the Imagination, as Blake refers to Him, is that good portion. Poetry made flesh is He and if we are to become little Christ’s then that means little poets. His is a religion of poetry, of 'making’. Making what? Of making our very lives into living poems. A bridge. A bridge between heaven and earth.

The Master Poet lays the foundation stone and bids us take up that good portion of Mary. That wonderfully superfluous essentiality. That beauty which is a necessarily needless.

This includes the simple and traditional form of poetry we all recognize. It has never been something I have done, afraid that I have no idea what I am doing. I have recognized, however, in my maturity (I like to think I have gained some in my 42 years) that such a notion is like never having children for the same fears. Having children teaches you how to be a parent. I’m hoping doing poetry teaches me how to be a poet.

Midnight Mass

Her's is not an altar made out of stone,
Her liturgy is the sundering wind.
I worship where it is blowing not blown,
Each confessed dogma I’m called to rescind.

She’ll not suffer the pious fool who kneels
Before her when she her form terrible.
And none into her inner sanctum steals
Away who thinks that place accessible.

I stand where faltering shore meets the sea.
Lo, the awful midnight-depths of her love
Wash and cleanse me, induce the theurgy
Of rosebud dreaming of angel above.

What refuge in a storm but that ye dance,
Heart to heart-sight bound, tethered by moonlight.
Such is the wedding ‘tween intent and chance,
Lightning flashing in the womb of the night.