Monday, October 11, 2010


My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The psalm is sung to that Other we will never know. The knowledge of its imparting is sorrow and joy. It tells us only of what we cannot say, what will be revealed only when there is little left of us to know. The burning bush gave something that was not a psalm because Moses carried the tablets down and the people learned the meaning of fear. The other side of that same currency is where the psalm tunes its harp. These are ancient currencies, beyond the clock’s tock, the heart’s closing gates. If poems expressed a usefulness then these would be the suits brought against such an expressiveness. Perhaps the ideal reader these poems calls to has never been prepared by an understanding of poetry or song. And so one must go to that place where wonder sets the seas on fire. There set your final self down. There take up that golden light. Be some furrowed deep, a flame of inextinguishable beauty, a sword, a chalice, a tree upon which meaning crucified by song is given flesh once more.