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In this experience of place and moment / is a knowing of timelessness / offering persistent invitation into a deepness of silence / Silence knowing and living out / the roots of a self-aware becoming / sometime known as eternity
Once again we’re forced to think about the ones who’ve kept us going, doctors, nurses, nurses’ aides, swallowing their fear and knowing masks, however good, can never be sufficient, those who check each other’s PPE, all suited-up as if they planned a landing on the moon.
Stopped at two stones, I languish beneath this vault tarnished with heaven. The tangle of these paths are in possession of my blindness. Nothing is more squalid than my monotony.
From my third-floor hotel balcony I could reach out almost to touch the mountain. It seems such a good neighbour. When I walk out by the Li River, the mountain follows me, shadowing my footsteps. I watch the river-boats working their ways across the current towards night-moorings, the fisherman homeward-bound with his cormorants.
I'm standing before the portrait of a woman with closed eyes, her hands delicately cupping, almost, her tilted head. In her face, in her composure, a flower-like serenity that speaks of care, reverence.
The green of your garden. A white box. Hive of bees. The colour of you.
Father’s hands of finer metal. Chisel, bandsaw, axe and mallet. Bone on wire and flesh on steel. He wore your scars and jabs and cuts. Your friction burns by grinding wheel.
You only have a road before you. It looks as if it has no end, stark, like the country it weaves through. It is beautiful like that. It should not matter to you, whether or not it has an end.
Into the sky, black and blue visitation by which we are blessed, or warned. Screaming like lovers en route, regal, snapping for nuts and dominance in the clattering trees.
Like the best religious poetry, Dylan’s works resists easy interpretation and remains open to endless meditation. Dylan’s overtly political songs — ‘Hurricane’, ‘Political World’ — and love songs — ‘Idiot Wind’, ‘Tangled up in Blue’ — have often been challenging. It’s the same with his religious output.
On the day of the millionth case and half million deaths I drink coffee in a warm, morning living room, walk a small dog at our national Arboretum, eat lunch of seafood and avocado at a local outdoor café, buy two likely looking books on Amazon, tune into a Zoom poetry reading and listen to podcasts from America. I realise it’s the end of the world, as we know it.
It is no coincidence that white ‘settler’ theology in this country has barely begun to engage with Indigenous people. Arguably, it has only begun to do so because the Indigenous citizens of the churches have begun to cast off the imaginative shackles made for us by our white gubbas and find our own voice.
97-108 out of 200 results.