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Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning



Sunday, September 16, 2018

Hungry


“I want to see the thirst inside the syllables
I want to touch the fire in the sound:
I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want
words as rough
as virgin rocks.” - Verb.”
                               Pablo Neruda
_____________________________________

In the cool autumn morning
the day half formed

a paler sun struggling to crest
the horizon

if flaming summer brilliance cooled
to a softer hue

I walk

the road rough beneath my feat
dusty and unfriendly

in this discreet moment
thoughts rage and feeling roar
and I notice

that in that inner fire there is life
and hope

how seducing it is,
the idea of simply sliding into apathy
and yet

if all minds quieted
if all voices were stilled
if the rough edges of life were to ease

we would slide slowly and gently
into evil and into death

here is to the thirst, the fire, the darkness
here is to living on the rough edges
here is to risking, loving, speaking
life

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