Poetry

Resurrection 1

When I was young or nineteen years of age,

I took the train to Kent and crossed the sea,

To get as far away from that village

Where I was born, to escape reality.

But what had pushed me most over the edge

So that I had to leave, was the beauty

Of girls whose disdain caused me loneliness

And made me anxious to be a success.

A paradox: that so much loveliness

Can make a man do the most reckless things.

It took around four days to get to Greece.

And by the time I set foot in Athens

I had no money. Learning of Athos,

Alone, and homeless, I would use the trains

To reach the monastery and be let in.

My guidebook said that there was more than one.

The likelihood of never getting back

But dying somewhere at the hot roadside

Was high as I went north by path and track.

I never got there. I was turned aside.

The Balkans, Slobodan Milosevic,

And all that war had closed the northward road.

So, disappointed, I had to give up

And noticing Olympos on the map,

Westward of where I was, I started walking

To spend my last days with Homeric gods.

Near to Olympos, as morning was breaking,

I went back on my steps and those same roads,

To save my life. Today, with Spirit talking,

I ask: ‘The detours and the Western roads,

Led me to Kosovo and Bosnia.

I’ve been there, as a scholar of the war.

‘And followed, in Iraq, pagan ideas.

Should I give Mt Athos another shot?

And make my way toward the monasteries?’

Then Spirit says: ‘I want you to do that.’

I’d put an invocation, here, in verse:

‘Hail, Etc.!’ But let’s get on with it.

And if I fail or mix things up a bit

And later on restructure what I wrote

That’s fine, for First Isaiah, from the time

When Israel fell and Judah followed God,

Is mixed with later things not done by him,

But from around the Exile. So, I would

Expect a later draft to improve my theme.

My theme is: the eternal, our reward.

Eternity and what comes after life.

This gift is dangerous for me to give.

Few saintly writers tell you about Heaven.

For though few understand, many may hear.

The monks at Jordainville hold in disdain

The translators of the Philokalia.

They say: ‘Tom, Dick, and Harry try to learn

Stuff that is secret and interior

Like something hidden deep inside the earth

That has to be dug out with years of sweat

It’s knowledge which requires using a ladder

And can’t be snatched at by a jumping fool

Some Tom or Dick or Harry. It is better

For monks and saints to adhere to this rule:

“Don’t tell.”' Entering heaven is much harder

To do and do it properly and well.

But I will throw the seeds out all around

They’ll grow or they will fall onto dead ground.

For instance, you must not resist evil.

Tom, Dick, and Harry think that’s socialist;

And think they follow Christ when they allow

The law to die, men to do as they wist.

But Christ spoke to his brother, his fellow,

The saintly man, who knows how to desist;

Christ means: to reach the ladder’s highest tine

And step beyond, be silent and alone.

For there, not even evil is your friend

There is not even thought or temptation.

When mind is in the heart there is no mind.

To reach eternity leave creation!

I came through the destruction to the end,

Through the apocalypse as I have shown

And all the hierarchies and ranks I passed

Brought me to heaven’s eternal walls at last.

Black walls without light I could barely see,

A fearsome warrior caste was on the wall.

Like Harlech castle looking from the sea,

That’s how it seemed to me. And that loud bell

Which I described before tolled constantly.

I heard the watchers singing this as well:

“Blessed is our Lord, Blessed is his Kingdom, Blessed

To the ages, Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

I walked on. Then, the first thing that I saw

Was the opening of the door. I will show you

How I went through that gate. In years prior,

I used to go home tired, dirty and hollow.

My face was lined, and grey was in my hair

Before its time. The muscles at my elbow

Were big and ugly like the balls of meat

A mountain climber grows beneath his feet.

Ugly outside, and inside ugly, too

Thinking how hard it is working all day

Resenting it, labouring to make it through,

Outdoors in cold for insufficient pay,

Thinking that I should leave it all and go,

Blaming myself, blaming society

And so worn out most times. I used to ask

Should I survive? Why should I do this task?

But man survives. I will show you how it happened.

She never failed me, never let me down.

I boast about it, so you understand.

She never let me down. Tired, in the van,

I would park and slam the door to, confident

That once I had closed the gate of the garden,

And turned around to look toward the house

She would be there smiling. That is how she was.

She never let me down, calling me dad,

And coming for a hug and all the while,

Laughing and dancing. That’s how I survived.

She lead me over the threshold to the hall,

And that is love which led me through the gate.

For, deep inside me, in the heart and bowel

I went toward the gate or I was drawn

I found the door, and so I went within.