[Disciple]
O Father, how fortunate you were!
The desert’s silent ***** was your mother
You were reborn pure from the cave’s barren womb
Solitary, the Spirit alone was your Master

[Anthony]
No, my son, you are the blessed one
You need not seek shelter amidst the shifting dunes
Nor pursue proverbs in the echoing cave
For you hold the key to your earthly prison

Your demons have an “off” switch

[Disciple]
The pagans you fled sinned more nobly than I
For their gods of copper, gold, and stone
Were as grave as graven, stern and austere
They took first fruits and wine libations

My household gods of wire and screen
Are profligate faeries, far from divine
They glut themselves on only one sacrifice
No fruit nor flesh, but precious time

My enemies do not bind me with iron
My hands and feet are all too free
But my heart is void of empty space
Neurons and blood by media shackled

At a touch I can summon angels of lust
Phantom ****** to make Bacchus blush
Daring Venus turns away, ashamed
At our new religion of utter abandon

I am a pauper, suffocated by luxury
Industry poisoned by comfort’s surfeit
I carry idols in my pocket
And the neon glow never fades

Father, save me

[Anthony]
My son, you ask a hard thing,
But you will have it.

So long have you laughed in atmosphere absurd
That your lungs are too weak to breathe fresh air
So long have you danced with abandon in flight
That your feet are too soft to tread the coarse earth

But pretend at angelic fancy no more
Cut off your wings, and plummet
Plummet, with ultimate abandon
And break against the bedrock of reality

Crawl, crawl, ***** in the darkness
Drag yourself until your soul learns strength
Walk, walk, the narrower path
Climb, climb, the perilous ladder

The water from these streams is true
It will seem icy, hard, rude to your throat
But drink, drink, until you’ve learned wisdom
Till your poisoned palate learns again to taste

Courage, my son

The real world, the right way, the good life,
It will not grow softer
But you will grow stronger, alive
Till your heart learns to sing again

Courage, my son

The good God who made all things that are visible
Being good, formed not only mere rock, tree, and bird
But placed in their midst the man, who is risible
So that he may delight even in the absurd

For man, wand’ring the antediluvian wood
Buried in the swaddling shade of the ancient trees
Consumed with wondrous awe, all reverential should
Doubtless alone fall idolatrous on his knees

But lo, beautiful mirth, a sweeter, gentler law,
Makes him rather roar, as into laughter he’ll burst
Humor inescapable once kneeling he saw
That the bashful old forest did laugh at him first

It is time, from hearth and home to depart,
For you to fill your pack, shoulder your load,
To walk alone now that gray wintry road;
Where you will wander I can have no part,
Before you leave you shall cut from my heart
The brotherhood which we together sowed
Gath’ring from ours what you feel you are owed
Making of our end your own fresher start.
I cannot fault you for this your hard choice,
No more than I can follow where you go,
But if I may here one thing only stress
From halls now absent your echoing voice
Let it be this: always trust, ever know
That daily I’ll pray the Lord you to bless.

The Earth has run another race round her star
The Two Thousand and Seventeenth year (give or take)
Since the Creator drew breath in history
And now the manuscript is bound, it is sealed
Soon to be sent to the Printer

The Editor-in-Chief does not delegate this task
He leafs through the pages Himself
Though newly-bound, they are not white and fine
There is no fresh crispness, the binding is broken
They are musty already with age, and not only age

It is as if they had been soaked in a tea of human filth
A quarter of it printed in red, blood is cheaper than ink
A quarter of it stained with jaundice, sweat is cheaper than ink
A quarter of it wrinkled illegible, tears are cheaper than ink
A quarter of it, alas! - dreams are cheaper than ink

The Editor reads on, impassive, unfazed
He has long been familiar with Adam’s work
This sequel follows well upon its parent
Consistent in a thousand fires and slaughters
Consistent in a thousand lies and eruptions

Every chapter is headed with a dedication:
“For Death, the only mother I’ve ever loved”
In the foreword the author declared himself immortal
In the afterword he declared mortality an illusion
But the body was an essay on how much he dreaded his demise

Adam sat, nervous, across from the Editor’s desk
He had worked so ******* this
And yet it seemed to write itself
This was his life’s work
Though he never seemed to call the shots

The year Opinion Popular declared secession from the union
And Reality Objective became a Prisoner of War
And we resold our birthright for whatever was on the menu
The old had questions that nobody questioned
And the young had answers that nobody answered

And the Editor looked at Adam with tears in His eyes
And Adam asked if his draft would be published
And the Editor said that there was no alternative
And Adam asked, “What next, then?”
And the Editor told Him, with a sad smile

He told Adam to start work without delay
To begin immediately the next sequel
Because he only had a year before the deadline
And no extensions whatsoever would be granted
And Adam got up to leave, to write -

“But before you go -

“Look here, look close, you may have to squint
But look what you’ve scribbled here, in the margins
Read the footnotes very carefully
And every word in parentheses
And all these that you’ve bracketed”

There is hope scribbled in the margins
And they loved in the footnotes
They were embracing inbetween parentheses
Some of those sobs were even tears of joy
And in the brackets, O, what he had bracketed!

He had bracketed all those who labored to rebuild
The bridge-builders, the peace-makers
The dream-builders, the light-seekers
The school-builders, the truth-teachers
The home-builders, the wound-healers

He had bracketed numberless beautiful births
He had bracketed charity of mother and father
He had bracketed heroic sacrifice, all selfless
Men and women who loved family and country and God
Far more than they loved themselves

“Let’s make this the focus of the next edition.”

There! In the hill country! Can you not see?
Behold the swaddled babe, God in the flesh!
Compose new hymns and new psalms! It is He!
Write an icon! Paint the scene! Build a creche!

Carve a statue of the mystery great,
Chant aloud the heav’nly consummation
Spill oceans of ink in tomes to debate
The metaphysics of incarnation!

Record it, however you are inclined!
For He has spoken, the Lord above you,
He shan’t take it back, He’s spoken his mind,
Through the infant He declares: “I love you!”

Men lift their heads in wonder, shivering
Travelers halt, in fearful awe they stand
Crowds of nations in cities, quivering
As thunderous rhythm shakes every land
The Mountains are singing, they croon, they chant
Arousing poor surprised man’s mortal fears

Avalanche shrug of titanic shoulders
Dismisses the lethargy of ages
The throaty joy of caroling boulders
Carves new lyrics in history’s pages
The Mountains are singing, Earth is enthralled
Climbers, Skiers, and Poets lend their ears

Brave Matterhorn’s signal awakes them all
Kilimanjaro with full voice bellows
Everest, Chimborazo heed the call
Quandary Peak, bright-eyed, joins his fellows
The Mountains are singing, in grand chorus,
Majestic lyrics of tectonic tears

The cliff face shudders, leaping ecstatic
Landslides mark the beginning of the dance
Earthquakes become great frolics dramatic
Amid the refrains of stony romance
The Mountains are singing, a newborn song
To echo unto the end of all years

A rocky deluge of glorious verse
The Alpine cantata rumbles splendid
A true Canticle of the Universe
Whose beauty radiant shan’t be ended
The Mountains are singing, O, what a song!
Rejoicing each thunderstruck heart which hears!

O Patricius Magnus! Patrick, bold apostle
Who ran courageous back towards slavery’s chains
Unwilling to disappoint your Master, rather
Seeking, striving, with great sorrows and countless pains
To see a new song sung unto Him in a strange
Land, to offer Him a sacrifice pure, a gift
New and unblemished. You won the victory and
Did the bless’d Cross in the Emerald Isle uplift!

Behold, O Christ, timpan and feadan together
Raise a hymn of joy to Thee; see, bagpipe and horn
Sound Thy glory echoing through valleys and fields
Where once druidic festival laughed and poured scorn
Upon the Gospel! Behold! A people once wrapped
In pagan ways now wrapt in monk’s habit with chant
Gregorian offer praise to Thy name, and tribes
Once lost shall ne’er the apostolic creed recant!

See Thy brave Apostle, clover-armed, advances
Fruitful at the head of a mighty, saintly throng,
Together with fair Brigid, Thy bride, and countless
Woolen-mantled saints who to Thee alone belong!
Receive, O Christ, from Patrick Thy ****** Ireland
While her children dance for Thee a jig, and they sing
Psalms of faeries and hedgehogs and badgers to make
The Kingdom of Heaven with Irish magic ring!