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felix-char
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For years, God was as reasonable As any other immaterial thing. He was in the mornings and evenings. He was in the washing and in the sleeping. He was in the walls and the dirt; He was in the blood. But as with all things perfect, infallible, Symmetrical, Time will only wear Away your sureness of them. This unfaith creeps on us As a dream does. We are assured against illusion if we will not investigate. (You could run through it For years, not letting it end.) But when we see the trees' reflection Glinting off the frozen lakes in winter, Or else read the words of a Frost or a Keats, We find, He is no longer in any of these things. Whether we are then numb or stricken, His absence will be hollow, unavailing: "In the depths all becomes law." If it is possible, We should not be terrified; Though we are always terrified, And if not, Then blissfully mistaken. We must slake our lust, At least first, In the physical and close at hand. We must burn with the mornings and evenings. And be borne in the unravelling of Washing and sleeping. These dutiful rituals, ephemeral and eternal, Are in each who've walked before us, Who've learned and hurt, Who've breathed our air. It is here we find The solace of our ancestry. And when these, too, become tiresome, And we are stretched thin By the weight of the metaphor of all things, Wholly in those most simple, Be sure that even this Deepest gravity Invents itself from within us. So trusting are we that The breaking of our chest Is reasoned through; That we are meant for this pain Or that joy. Is the parting of the grass made; is it designed? Even from the tides, We demand divinity! We must strive to divorce From these assumed perceptions: Become the science, sterility. Be as simplest machines, dividing cells: No use of colours, No shades, No God. Then, When we are yearning from The meanest seed, Quickening and suffering, For now we can not be reduced But unto death, The greatest truths lie herein. Now, we can suppose longing Onto handshakes, And let each small weight upon us be Sisyphean. We may let, too, jubilation be in The sun's rising, and in all Things of measured confidence. In each fleeting moment, We can appreciate that we will live For an infinity of moments, And also not even one. Suddenly, He is in these things. We can be sure He is no corporeal being, Willingly given up by our tabula rasa. And we will know that His visage is made of our fathers And we are in Him: nowhere. But He is in our questing And too, in our need for Him. And He bends backward, Head over heels, twisting like our own anatomy, To meet us, to free us. We have felt Him each second we have yearned, And each second we are bloodied by this yearning, By these moments. He is in our most procellous highs, and in the damp wake of loneliness. When we hurt most, We know, with instinct, to let pain in, To lay bare and be torn, And torn again. Why should this be? Because He is there, too! He is in tears but So is he in love! And love is in the *** Love is in the burdens. Love is in our greatest triumph And hiding still in our writhing panic. In our joys and fears, Our surrenders and our suffering. We are made of the stuff. And if one of us should fall in His name, They will then be immortal. Not in the sky, nor beneath the Earth, But in the hearts of humans; In the mortal, frail, beating hearts Of those who still bleed for them, Still ache for them, Every morning, Every evening. He is love. And, as ever, So are we.
0
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
felix-char
"Hamartia" or "Illusions of the Atheist"
For years, God was as reasonable As any other immaterial thing. He was in the mornings and evenings. He was in the washing and in the sleeping. He was in the walls and the dirt; He was in the blood. But as with all things perfect, infallible, Symmetrical, Time will only wear Away your sureness of them. This unfaith creeps on us As a dream does. We are assured against illusion if we will not investigate. (You could run through it For years, not letting it end.) But when we see the trees' reflection Glinting off the frozen lakes in winter, Or else read the words of a Frost or a Keats, We find, He is no longer in any of these things. Whether we are then numb or stricken, His absence will be hollow, unavailing: "In the depths all becomes law." If it is possible, We should not be terrified; Though we are always terrified, And if not, Then blissfully mistaken. We must slake our lust, At least first, In the physical and close at hand. We must burn with the mornings and evenings. And be borne in the unravelling of Washing and sleeping. These dutiful rituals, ephemeral and eternal, Are in each who've walked before us, Who've learned and hurt, Who've breathed our air. It is here we find The solace of our ancestry. And when these, too, become tiresome, And we are stretched thin By the weight of the metaphor of all things, Wholly in those most simple, Be sure that even this Deepest gravity Invents itself from within us. So trusting are we that The breaking of our chest Is reasoned through; That we are meant for this pain Or that joy. Is the parting of the grass made; is it designed? Even from the tides, We demand divinity! We must strive to divorce From these assumed perceptions: Become the science, sterility. Be as simplest machines, dividing cells: No use of colours, No shades, No God. Then, When we are yearning from The meanest seed, Quickening and suffering, For now we can not be reduced But unto death, The greatest truths lie herein. Now, we can suppose longing Onto handshakes, And let each small weight upon us be Sisyphean. We may let, too, jubilation be in The sun's rising, and in all Things of measured confidence. In each fleeting moment, We can appreciate that we will live For an infinity of moments, And also not even one. Suddenly, He is in these things. We can be sure He is no corporeal being, Willingly given up by our tabula rasa. And we will know that His visage is made of our fathers And we are in Him: nowhere. But He is in our questing And too, in our need for Him. And He bends backward, Head over heels, twisting like our own anatomy, To meet us, to free us. We have felt Him each second we have yearned, And each second we are bloodied by this yearning, By these moments. He is in our most procellous highs, and in the damp wake of loneliness. When we hurt most, We know, with instinct, to let pain in, To lay bare and be torn, And torn again. Why should this be? Because He is there, too! He is in tears but So is he in love! And love is in the *** Love is in the burdens. Love is in our greatest triumph And hiding still in our writhing panic. In our joys and fears, Our surrenders and our suffering. We are made of the stuff. And if one of us should fall in His name, They will then be immortal. Not in the sky, nor beneath the Earth, But in the hearts of humans; In the mortal, frail, beating hearts Of those who still bleed for them, Still ache for them, Every morning, Every evening. He is love. And, as ever, So are we.
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