the youngest farmer

 

the lambs are in the fields

the youngest farmer rubs hands

chapped like dry leaves

in a life that never ends

you will not find his tale

in any tract of erudition

but in the dull trochaic verses of the bible

is found the course of his living

he stands and does not hear

the echo from Mount Zion

resound through Cnoc An Oirthir

by the shores of Old Kilcullen

and perhaps it's for the best

it would plague him at his rest

eastertide

 

The tough man had recounted to me a few of the sensation scenes from his life.

He obviously wanted me to say something.

My face was Shakespearian grim.

What on earth could I say without wandering into cliches?

I have long laboured under the awareness that people who come to me, even people who hate me, expect me to come out with something good.

It wouldn't matter so much bold readers, only at odd moments, I have the unsettling feeling that the Deity expects the same thing.

I said: "Some of the mystics claim to have seen Jesus. They say he still has the wounds of the crucifixion. He is in glory. He  has conquered death. But he still has the wounds. His wounds are no longer what they were. They are no longer the signs of a murderous violation. They are a sign of his triumph. The evil that led to the infliction of those wounds has been entirely washed away in victory. So yes some of the mystics who claim to have seen him say the risen Christ who is all powerful still has the wounds from his earthly torture. And I'm saying the wounds have been transformed into a part of his glory.  He doesn't have to have them. They are there to tell us something about suffering and the cosmic battle and the true nature of things. My testimony to you is this. You've told me some things. I cannot make those things okay. But I know that no matter what you've suffered if you turn to God your wounds will become a part of your glory."

kilcullen easter

 

the lambing time

evanescent leaves

provincial poets stitching worn out rhymes

into patchwork quilted semaphores of praise

all of these

mist like matting on muddy fields

old men rejoicing in campaniles

all of these

everything that breathes is on its knees

for the coming of the lord

peace