Opening King David. Brad Davis

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СКАЧАТЬ line about Christ being the only

      just critic. I write because it takes little

      to spark my rage, and Saint Paul said we must

      toil with our hands for the end of anger

      is murder, and if any would be saved,

      they must, with fear and trembling, work it out.

      I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me.

      Psalm 13:6

      Among Luminous Things

      In this ocean of ordinary light,

      we are reef dwellers. Whether brain coral

      or parrot fish or moray, we all do

      our bit, then die. The ocean teems entire,

      a whole we believe by faith, wrestling

      with the darkness and sorrow in our hearts.

      I will never regard as wise the fool

      who would have me slap a muzzle on

      the voice within, small and still, inspiring

      praise of whoever it may be who holds

      all this in brilliant fullness. I say

      let fly with adoration, thanks, and more,

      for if this is not the deeper reason

      we are here, then there is no reason.

      God is present.

      Psalm 14:5

      Shortsighted

      for Bill, believer and photographer

      You shoot the glorious—a crimson leaf

      clinging to a bare branch, a snow-gray sky—

      yet hanker for glory, that pure essence

      of the uncreated Father of lights.

      Though not one to say there is no God,

      I am stuck on the quip about the bird

      in hand being better than any two

      that may be futzing about in the bush.

      No doubt heaven’s great, but this here’s amazing.

      Go ahead, call me shortsighted. It’s true:

      I’m happy camping in light’s gallery

      and praising the hard, full-spectrum effects

      of here—now—ahead of me, a red fox

      on the pond trail taking her own sweet time.

      Lord, who may dwell in your sanctuary?

      Psalm 15:1

      Eucharist

      Never have I felt a natural draw

      to work anywhere close to an altar,

      though, with this loose pile of sticks laid neatly

      on a bare patch of earth, the ambition

      to live quietly, minding my business,

      becomes oblation, an ordinary

      work of hands in service to grace. No priest

      required, no victim, knife, or temple tax.

      To this ground may a sweet, heavenly fire

      descend. Here, where air sickens with the stench

      of war and the perfunctory smoke

      of religious ceremony, I turn—

      keep us safe, O Lord our God—

      to collect windfall for the coming night.

      The sorrows of those will increase who run after other gods.

      Psalm 16:4

      Rush Hour

      I saw troops patrolling Grand Central,

      teams of police boarding trains to

      and from the universe. In the name of

      Code Orange we station gun-bearers

      wherever, whenever we feel exposed.

      On the train ride out, I draw attention

      to a piece of luggage by itself.

      The porter assured me the owner

      asked to put it there, but I worry

      the foreign-born porter was lying.

      Is no one, nowhere safe? Hours later

      turning onto campus, I wave to Sarge

      in his pickup keeping watch by night.

      Not even the faithful. . .

      As for the deeds of men—

      Psalm 17:4

      She Said

      Let the Spirit write the poems through you.

      Yet the Spirit I know works in us as we

      work on things like love—putting out the trash

      without having to be reminded—which

      I am very far from getting right. Poems

      may serve love, but it would not be God’s way

      to bypass our humanity to make

      texts pleasing to him. Otherwise they might

      emerge in meadows like rocks urged up through

      topsoil by freeze and thaw. To hell with poems.

      What matters: some help with love, for we who

      frame laws and build flimsy arguments

      resist at every turn the Spirit’s work

      and shut our hearts against the gentle friend.

      He СКАЧАТЬ