Everything, yes, is God, but tread
very carefully with that idea.
Knowing it doesn’t mean you need
to stop at every toad to kneel, repent,
or spend a more than average time
staring at a forest or a dinner plate.
When I was young the masters said
only Spaniards or Arabs could use
the word God in a poem, and those
only of a certain age and reputation.
They were wrong. Use God unsparingly,
in everyday speech, like the old sage who,
having forgotten all other words, requests
food and clothing and death with the same
Ram, Ram, Ram that is his entire language.
Or maybe better drop the word and hear
music as music, wind as wind, you and him
kissing as you and him kissing. Evolve
beyond naming, the fetish to divide.
Deep inside and silent is the thread
that links each thing together, but tread
carefully when you find you know. Knowing
places no compulsion on action or belief.
Be the monk you are or the hedonist. Remain
the friend, the brother, the frightened idiot.
Knowing this requires no change. If it
is not known softly then it is not known.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC
Everything, yes, is God, but tread
very carefully with that idea.
Knowing it doesn’t mean you need
to stop at every toad to kneel, repent,
or spend a more than average time
staring at a forest or a dinner plate.
When I was young the masters said
only Spaniards or Arabs could use
the word God in a poem, and those
only of a certain age and reputation.
They were wrong. Use God unsparingly,
in everyday speech, like the old sage who,
having forgotten all other words, requests
food and clothing and death with the same
Ram, Ram, Ram that is his entire language.
Or maybe better drop the word and hear
music as music, wind as wind, you and him
kissing as you and him kissing. Evolve
beyond naming, the fetish to divide.
Deep inside and silent is the thread
that links each thing together, but tread
carefully when you find you know. Knowing
places no compulsion on action or belief.
Be the monk you are or the hedonist. Remain
the friend, the brother, the frightened idiot.
Knowing this requires no change. If it
is not known softly then it is not known.
B.T. Joy is a British poet and short fiction writer living in Glasgow. He has also lived in London, Aberdeen and Heilongjiang, Northern China. His poetry and short fiction has appeared in magazines, journals, anthologies and podcasts worldwide including poetry in Yuan Yang, The Meadow, Toasted Cheese, Numinous: Spiritual Poetry, Presence, Paper Wasp, Bottle Rockets, Mu, Frogpond and The Newtowner, among many others. His debut collection of poetry, Teaching Neruda, was released in 2015 by Popcorn Press and his 2016 collection Body of Poetry is also available through Amazon. He can be reached through his website: http://btj0005uk.wix.com/btjoypoet