SAINT JULIAN PRESS

 

DAVID BRENDAN HOPES ~ POET

 

 

PENIEL

 

      

       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.)

 

 

 

 

 

PENIEL

 

 

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