I Call to You from Time. Judith Sornberger

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ that God’s victory is ours.

      Ordinarily, I squirm through such words,

      not wanting to add my voice to them,

      but now I sing, Let the mischief of their lips

      overwhelm them! Let burning coals fall on them,

      stifling a giggle in the shame of recognition.

      Who isn’t more at home in this setting

      with the sentiments that follow: Too long

      I have had my dwelling among those

      who hate peace. I am for peace.

      The psalmist’s schizophrenia has always made

      me crazy, until today when I hear the words

      echoing each tone of my soul, see my

      ugliness and beauty mirrored there,

      asking along with everyone around me:

      If you, O Lord, mark iniquities,

      who would be left standing?

      Attempting Meditation

      First, I inhale: May I be . . .

      Then the exhale: one with You.

      I have no idea what this means.

      Thoughts flurry like birds come to feed.

      Seed’s tempting, and I chew.

      Now back to inhale: May I be

      sap pulsing through a sleeping tree

      a toddler’s crayon drew.

      I’m not to imagine what this means.

      Not supposed to think or dream.

      Not supposed to move.

      Just to inhale. May I be

      a fallen leaf riding the stream

      that lulls me toward Your womb.

      Why can’t imagination be the means?

      Metaphor’s the way I breathe,

      how I follow Your tune.

      When I inhale, may I be

      listening for all You mean.

      Vermeer’s Lacemaker

      There never is much light

      in these enclosures.

      Nor do eyes rise

      to spark a reflection.

      The light requires

      an eyelid, cheek, lace

      collar as palette.

      As thread relies on

      the sharp eye, the minuet

      of fingers, pins and bobbins.

      She doesn’t know

      how small she is—

      one of his tiny canvasses—

      or that she is detained,

      held still as a fly

      in the dried paint.

      If she tried to stretch

      her arms or stand,

      she might flutter

      into a tarantella,

      batter her composure.

      Patient as a spider,

      she works light

      into pattern, draws

      from her dark interior

      the single strand

      of her attention.

      What I Heard This Morning Filling the Birdfeeder

      You thought I said dominion?

      Oh dear. Let’s backtrack

      here a little. As each bird

      flew from my fingers,

      each whale and finny thing

      swam from my tongue,

      each beast of the earth

      crept into being, I remember

      quite distinctly saying,

      Welcome to your domus.

      They all seemed to get it

      and set out to find their rooms.

      I greeted you with the same words.

      Could it be that you misheard?

      Or were you already

      too big for your fig leaves?

      Or did the error come

      when I whispered your mission?

      That’s always the trouble

      with translation. Listen,

      If I’d made one creature

      king, wouldn’t I at least

      have installed wings?

      If I’d meant you to go on

      this way, would I have tossed

      wings down the dark avenue

      of early morning to wait

      in the arbor vitae for you,

      putting on, one by one,

      their sparrow voices:

      Wake up. Wake up.

      Wake up.

СКАЧАТЬ