Sunday, October 07, 2007
Lord, when the clock strikes
Telling the time with cold tin
And I sit hooded in this lectern
Waiting for the monks to come,
I see the red cheeses, and bowls
All smile with milk in ranks upon their tables.
Light fills my proper globe
(I have won light to read by
With a little, tinkling chain)
And the monks come down the cloister
With robes as voluble as water.
I do not see them but I hear their waves.
It is winter, and my hands prepare
To turn the pages of the saints:
And to the trees Thy moon has frozen on the windows
My tongue shall sing Thy Scripture.
Then the monks pause upon the step
(With me here in this lectern
And Thee there on Thy crucifix)
And gather little pearls of water on their fingers' ends
Smaller than this my psalm.
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to firstname.lastname@example.org (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com).