Rite

...and in an inflamed sky
the sun bled light,
and the ground opened
its lips in parched
voiceless protest.

Trees are lungs
are gasping for
breath, and my thoughts
are phlegmy and ancient
in concept:– I must
be naked and
prostrate in serving
this god by the
edge of waters that
taste of salt; Man's part,
Primeval ... the
Sun's merely divine.
 
 

I make a big thing these days about the fact I don’t have a spiritual side. I think, I feel and that’s it. I’m not saying those who do find a place for the spiritual in their lives are wrong or misguided. I’m really not in a position to do so. It would be like a blind man commenting on the tones in a Rothko. I was brought up in a Christian faith and it was a very academic upbringing. Faith was a product of reason even reasoning as basic as looking at the night sky and seeing it as a product of an intelligent mind. The evidence is compelling and yet I lack whatever it is spiritual people have. I’m like a blind man in Rothko’s Chapel. It’s nice and quiet. Seats are a bit hard. And it’s a bit chilly if I’m being honest.

I have no idea where this poem came from. It was written just after ‘Stray’ and so there’s definitely a vibe here. The ending’s weak which is a shame because it has a strong rhythm until the penultimate line. It’s the extra syllable in ‘merely’ that ruins it or the ‘the’ in the line before it.

I always liked the image of trees as lungs because sans leaves that’s exactly what they look like.