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Clinging To A Shrine I Could Only Imagine
[after Nguyen De's poem, "Passing By The Wave-Calmer's Shrine," translated by Red Pine]
In those last months before the onset of adolescence---
that would have been Autumn, Nineteen Seventy, my
seventh grade year, I imagined---yearned for---a
shrine to the Glory of Christ; a shrine in some
place of vines, thick stems, and wildflowers
(far from the oppressive clutter of suburban townscapes),
surrounded by ancient, wellplanted stones of unsculpted
shapes, and near to some narrow, shallow branchlet of a
local creek---with the sound and shimmer of pure, limpid
water, counterpointed by birdsong and cricketchirps.
Once in a while, fine mist would envelop and encircle the
shrine, like a veil the dawn and dusk might put on. And the
shrine would be open to the three lights---Sun's, Moon's. and
Star's. But, first and foremost (although I could not then
articulate this), the shrine would be a sanctuary forbidden and
utterly inaccessible to the apparently endless intrusions of a
fairly numerous assortment of bullies, haters, and thugs whose
penchants for cruelty, intimidation, and assault seemed to be
always offended by my spindly, clumsy limbs, my pipsqueak
voice, and perceived thickness of my eyeclasses. At my
shrine to the Glory of Christ, these threateners would have no
admittance---as they did at my church, school, and various
venues in our small, somewhat rural village. My parents and
teachers often said that I either antagonized others, or
imagined their attacks upon me. So, in my junior high school
naivete, I concluded that if I could imagine bruises, scrapes, and
damaged schoolbooks into reality, I should also be able to
imagine my own, private, and sheltering shrine to the Glory of Christ.
Starward
The inspiration you draw from
The inspiration you draw from Nguyen De is like a transporting breeze, and this is no exception; the vibrant winds resulted in excellence in purity, emotional impact and execution.
It's lines like these that glisten and hum long after the last line is read:
". . . So, in my junior high school
naivete, I concluded that if I could imagine bruises, scrapes, and
damage schoolbooks into reality, I should also be able to
imagine my own, private, and sheltering shrine to the Glory of Christ."
Quiet magnificence.
Thank you for this comment;
Thank you for this comment; my delay is no reflection of a lack of gratitude, just a reflection of my own incompetence during a (hopefully temporary) bad time.
I found this poem a little difficult---hard to articulate the chaotic thoughts of a twelve year old. I find that, despite my expectations, I am not much wiser about myself then as I thought it would be. So this poem made me a little nervous, but your comment, your understanding of my intention, keeps this poem from being deleted. I am very grateful for your comment; my delay in response is a reflection of my own incompetence right now, and not in any way a reflection of ingratitude or apathy. I am, have been, and shall always be grateful for your words---whether in your magnificent Poems, or your always wise and encouraging comments. You are a great Poet; your words, in whatever form they take, always---always---constitute an event.
Starward
Thank you for that brilliant
Thank you for that brilliant boost of confidence! It's a joy to read and comment on your diverse and evocative work.
Subliminal glyphs AGLOW here
Subliminal glyphs AGLOW here, specialized, like scoring a rare card in a Pokemon pack; something happens in the snap of your fingers, as you clack down courage upon the keyboard, and navigate us through a powerful pastlife with a flattering, matter-of-fact, lovely language.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitues
Thanks.
Thanks.
Starward