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