I have come to recognise God in a violent song,
played in the evening with broken forks and knives.
If I refuse to kneel, the winter starts at the end of September,
on Tuesdays, when I pass by the Jewish quarters.
My road to confession starts, just the same, in the morning chill.
The stones, the trees, the sky have a message,
of that I am certain, arrived at the wooden door of the hermitage.
And I knock and I knock.
A raven finally opens the white background.
The raven says with calculated words that, at present,
this government is busy.
Important wars need attending, in a land like no other.
I am given a form and I hear the padlocks.
I jump on the treadmill to keep warm.
Photo: copyright@John Stadnicki, 2016
I covered my face with black ink
Gathered all my possessions in one small bundle
And set fire to everything
At the top of the hill.
Look this way
I waved my burning hand
As you walked in your imaginary map
With a preoccupied stare
But nothing disturbed your pace,
The door shut behind with an incredible force.
The thin walls echoed.
The island went silent again.
My half shut eyes were able to reach
At the seed of the poem where god left
A freshly baked bread
Just for me.
The white crust had my initials on it
But I could not bear to eat it
In case I had nothing else left
For the rest of my days.
You weep tonight like the hunter weeps
Alone in the forest with his own rifle and
Listen to my whispered, faraway story.
You refuse to sleep.
While we share the same meal,
The shooting goes on in the city,
A revolution happens without us.
But too much heavy rain makes the music impossible,
Therefore we keep by the fire.
The flames project your shadow on the opposite wall.
From where I sit you look like a black continent
With borders engraved on the silent bricks.
We will be at sea in the morning
Embarked on the wooden boat.
None of us cruised before
You suggest we could learn to sail by dawn
Before we depart.
So I draw the armchair closer.
The heat is burning my feathery back
But in the absence of pain
I agree with everything you say.
In a random act of kindness
I do not stop but continue to write my final dispositions
With furious fits of laughter.
The ink dries out on the stone which I place in your hand.
The token we need for the big passage.