A reading from the Book of Exile Poem by Pádraig Ó Tuama

hapter one

there are no chapters



chapter two

he has been moved beyond belief



chapter three

and he is inching toward glory
with only his own story on his back
he has patched up holes that opened
where his coverings have cracked
and some shoes were never meant for hiking so
he left them far behind
there are simple things he needs
on journeys such as these
foodandloveanddrinkandwarmthandcomfort
and a bag that's small enough
to carry all the failures and the idols
that he's picked up on the way

there are some days
he only moves
an inch or two

this is the pace of glory here in exile



chapter four

there are some things too meaningful for talking
and even feeling leaves us full of grief
at all we touch and need and
can never speak of

we are living lives that we can‘t state the name of
we are loving things that
we can never bear
we attempt belief in things that we can not explain
and we rest uneasy in this
sometimesseemingcruelgame

and we rest with tension so
beautiful
its heartaching



chapter five

he has grown older here.

the body speaks its own
language
and
he has started listening



the unwritable chapter

and the place of
pain
is the place of
survival
(and sometimes barely that)



chapter six

there is no ending.
everything is here.
(so pitch a tent that you can live in
and find a friend to whom you'll give
in
times of telling
times of testing
times of listening
times of resting)
there is no ending.
everything is here.