Mystery

Here is a bonus for today–a little gesture of contrition for keeping all the interesting news to myself.

Before Epiphany, I was in a state of nervous exhaustion because of noise in my neighborhood and the unpleasantness of dealing with those who were causing it. We had received word that the main problem would be resolved at the end of January, so a friend and I planned to observe Epiphany together at my place. That day, during a very solemn conversation, the noise blasted us again–but no matter; this time they had disrupted not only our personal activities but something sacred, and we are praying that it will protect itself and us along with it.

This is part of how the Parings project began–with the need to protect sacred space and those who require it. This need is a contemptible thing to the sort of money-driven people who love to drive others to distraction. The idea is nothing new, and we’ve all thought of it in some way before; the point is to bring it all to more conscious attention and actively watch for these tiny, brilliant windows. It’s not so much adding a new lens to one’s way of seeing as removing lenses put there by others in their own interest, not yours. The tiniest of windows reveals a World.

When I feel a little steadier about my own part in this project, I will have more to say. In the meantime, I am returning to thoughts of the Poetic Mysteries as I once obsessed over them. From my current level of experience, I can state with assurance that they are even realer than I wanted them to be.

This small lyric has the happiest of all possible endings, if you know where to find it:

14 February 2021

19

What’s Become of You

Smaller words come falling after

larger ones have spent their force.

She lay in the solemn midnight

darkness with another horse

and when they both fell sleeping faster,

faster dreams attended them.

In the morning, both were women

soaked from lifted veil to hem

and not alive nor had been ever.

Such a pity, but it’s done.

Everywhere outside, no moonlight;

only drenching-daylight Sun.

Above the body of the lover

no one wanted till she died,

a spirit utters love becoming

silent as her nightmare bride–

smaller words and smaller ever

after till they disappear

and all the midnight air lies empty.

Lovers, but there’s no one here.

About J

formal verse poetry and commentary at rainharp.com
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