Easter Poem

[poliphilo]

On Being Asked For An Easter Poem

The body once dead is- within four minutes I think- so much unusable carbon and water.
I don't like to think of that body on its ledge degrading.
I wouldn't have turned up three days later like Mary Magdalen.
I'd have been thinking- eugh gross!

So that miracle doesn't fly for me. I cannot feel it here
(thumps chest.)
I cannot think that anyone met Christ in a garden after his death.

I believe in ghosts but that's another matter.

In a churchyard in Kent there was a gravestone with a carving of the Noli Me Tangere.
It was dead clumsy.
Mary had huge hands and Christ, mistaken for the gardener, was leaning on a spade.
Last time I paid it a visit Mary's face had sheared off.
Loose knit stone, Easily carved, easily un-carved. Rub it with your thumb and you get a smear of Ordovician mud on the skin.

Nothing comes back as it once was. Nothing. That's the economy of Terra. There are only so many atoms whizzing around and they are continually being reconfigured. Nothing is lost but everything is remade. And the new thing is not the old thing come back. Does it remember what it once was? Does it hell!

Never before
Never again.

That's the song the midges sing, twirling under the overhang. How long do they last- minutes?

The body drops into dust and the dust is good for something- I don't know what.

It makes the weeds in the garden grow.

Yes, why not!

It makes the weeds in the garden grow.

Comments

[jenny_evergreen]

Oh, I like that one, I do.

[halfmoon-mollie.livejournal.com]

Never before
Never again.

That's the song the midges sing, twirling under the overhang. How long do they last- minutes?

The body drops into dust and the dust is good for something- I don't know what.

It makes the weeds in the garden grow.

Yes, why not!

It makes the weeds in the garden grow.

I really like this one, as well. States your views, no apologies.

I love the way you use your words...

[jackiejj.livejournal.com]

A poem with a song inside it:


Never before
Never again.

That's the song the midges sing, twirling under the overhang.

Hidden in the center of this poem about never is the quiet

I believe in ghosts but that's another matter.


Midges and gardeners die, and we breathe in the atoms of wings and the last words of Christ, while ghosts watch us who
are afraid of their own dead bodies and who want to eat lemon pie.

[tamnonlinear.livejournal.com]

I quite like this. Thank you.

[strange-complex.livejournal.com]

Hello! I found you via some mutual friends and some common interests, and thought you looked eminently friendable, so I have. This comment is just me popping by to introduce myself, and to say that if you want to friend me back that's great, but if not, no worries.