| |
Somebody asked me
but I'm not going
to argue about
the topic of the soul,
deduce or repeat
inductive facts
for its evidence.
For me it's what
the Alsatian poet meant
when he wrote of
the 'precision of
the indefinable.'
And I've risen
in the plain rinse
of that precision
a couple times before,
and before that.
But I don't have any
depth for angels,
not Lawrence's angel
which he thought was made
when a man's soul
blended into
a woman's soul. And not
Rilke's angels-their beauty-
which he believed
was nothing but
the beginning
of a terror
he could just
barely endure.
I think there is
something somewhat
neurotic about
the prestige
and rarity
of angels-so,
I'll stay plain,
even crude,
a turkey buzzard
among herons
and ruby-crowned kinglets.
And I'd be cautious
of angels-Constantine the Great
for instance, contracted leprosy
after dreaming of an angel
pouring water on him.
Doren Robbins
Read poems about / on: angel, woman, beauty, water, women, believe, dream, rose
|
|
User Rating: |
|
8.0
/10
(4 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend