Sunday, 9 June 2013

BY CANDLE LIGHT ON A SUB-ZERO WINTER'S NIGHT


I awake out of terribly real dreams,
drowning
in a sea of loneliness
where memories are ghosts
and God takes on such a fearsome aspect that He is afraid of Himself.

Being becomes panic and I am alone in my self-made
20th Century dungeon,
this wintry, northern, carbon-monoxide night of cold madness
in our civilized nirvana.

After Eden we scream to run free
-such winedrunk anarchy!-
to escape our self-imposed shackles
which we accepted like beasts of burden,
destined to end our servile days without ever questioning.

I stagger in the haunted Hereness
bang on the walls of the cell I made
through cleverness and knowledge:
"Is this what everything amounts to
in Final Sum Totality, is this what it's about, God?"

But God does not answer and the Northern Dawn is unspeaking.
"O sub-zero dawn, why don't you speak?"

I am its unwilling prisoner
and the night, not satisfied with mastery
of fleshly dimensions, hints at monopolizing my soul;
those softer memories, so elusive,
its frozen nature demands a negation of life.

Here I am then, a sleepless wreck
trying to disown my muttering ghosts
and a final rhyming of knowledge.
The eternal skypilot tries to save his airplane
from a drop into chaos: "I need to stay high!"

O gentle, magic man who walketh on the waters,
your soul so light it defies earthly gravity,
I cannot ask your help because I must find you tomorrow
again and again,
And you must have another name.
Bringer of the Light,
I'm not sure how to understand you.

Yet, everytime I turn away in hopelessness,
your mythical figure returns and the clinical silence
is full, once more, of your remembered Name.

At last, the secrets are lived out
though there are only the sounds,
coming from the headphones of my friendly hi-fi,
where Roussos sings, rich with Greek meanings,
and brings the Message to life
through a most unlikely electronic source.

My rational mind still gibbers on about
the Occidental Myth,
superstitions and cult figures.
Yet, my heart responds and asks no proof,
no explanation of the mysteries.

Already, the educated shriekings are gone
and the idiot returns to the sound of water flowing
and life which is happening
like the flame in the candle which flickers slightly
but stays clear this cold night.

How good the welcome is!
I am quietly returning to the silence
which knows how to speak without ever making meanings.

The Wise Man inside me says:
"Friend, you were never alone,
you just played your clever little game of hide and seek.
Now, go to sleep until it's time to wake again."

I find I can sleep now
and blow out the candle, feeling glad in a quiet way.




RW, 1st draft, c.1977 - 2nd draft, 17.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

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