SAINT JULIAN PRESS
DAVID BRENDAN HOPES ~ POET
This winged thing, this spirit
with the hard hands–
whichever way I turn it stops me.
I would go forward. I would be stopped.
That I should be a god enfolded by the wings of god
was not told me in my infancy.
I was not prepared. I turn to the east and to the west.
I have a red stone for pillow.
That deep I could not pierce
but fold around me like a blanket
That feast not to be considered yes or no
but to be lapped like honey
That food which is a body,
and the eating is a further hunger
That dark not evil nor ignorance
but the covering veil
And the light which walks before him where he walks
and the light which walks before me where I walk
(Who is turbulence and who is peace
can never now be known)
That the body of light come forth
from the body of fire
flame from the shadow of flame,
light from the calamities of light
from the breath of wrestlers,
from the murmuring of bones
from the pits of corruption
this one pure thing.
Before thee fled I from my own voice.
Before thee I was nothing.
(Peniel is this place, where we wrestle until daybreak.
I will not let you go even should you bless me.)