Showing posts with label kingdom of God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kingdom of God. Show all posts

7.15.2020

Ides of July



MARBLE TOY

On this defunct St. Emperor Henry’s Day
the cavaliers of Christ broke down the walls
massacred the cityfolk, & found
the Holy Sepulchre.  & it was empty.
His midget kingdom was a bit of ground
6 ft. x 6.  Beneath Jo’s linen palls
that Body slept, 3 nights… then slipped away.

So Earth corrals the sun again (at mid-July).

Old Henry rotates his lugubrious clay
like cenotaph, or marble toy.  Through hells
of blinded crowds – mesmeric crown
for snobbish mobs, heartless autocracy –
deracinated tribes, bent for destruction.
So humankind spins round its Book of Kells
by fiddlehead bronze… on heaven’s way.

                                                          7.15.20


11.07.2019

I dream a general restoration




CONTRA-DANCE

The early ice on the Mississippi
forms a maze of frozen
eddies, a chaos of cotton-
wood leaves on glass, all dark & ripply.

Somber November drawing on
toward JB’s Janus-mouth.
Slight man, moth-
light, leaf-blown from iron span.

I dream a general Restoration
cousin, cuz.  Because
our love that never was
lies crypted in a deeper congregation

of earthworms... Earth-life...
this pumpkin-celebration
where each seed is someone
like a minuscule canoe (collective

buoyancy, anchored in agape).
Not that Cyclops-utopia
ice-locked with Satana
imperador del doloroso regno, nay!

Rather a contra-dance of Earth
& Sky, a balancing
of stillness with evolving –
clay vase molded into mirth

by humble presence of the king
(of servant-kings).  A single
molecule of brine (NaCl)
is tabernacle bread & wine (of everything)

                            *

& you will meet her in the ordinary courtyard
of the everyday (she’s Everywoman-
Everyman).  This is a vision
of figure & ground.  She’s walking toward

you, now... like Roger Williams, stepping through
twin pillars on the Terrace...
Providence, a place
of mercy & discretion (fair & true).

I cannot put it into words, this waltz
of swirling time & high
eternity.  It is the sky
spanning the sea.  It is the salt

in everything; it is the molten dove
dive-bombing into clay
who joins you in a sway
of hurtling dancers (Milky Way

a-sarabanding, up above).  I cannot
put it into words.
The brutal violence
(stone-hearted ignorance) surds in a knot

of self-destruction, planetary waste
& You must turn & repent
cries San Francesco, bent
upon his imitatio Christi (feet laced

with scars).  It is the Via Francigena.
You will walk back to the river
sped with such a pulse... her
springing from the graveyard (Magdalena).

11.7.19

7.13.2019

for washing Washington




GOLDEN MOSS

Before you can enter the realm of God
you must imagine it
& you can’t imagine it
until you turn & become a little child

again.  As a red-black monarch
dances over a mauve
milkweed cluster, like a hive
of honey – so the Ghost in her Ark

skims with light shadow wings
through unconscious nature,
& lifts, here & there
the heavy hearts of human beings.

Grace Truth is her name; Liberty
her gift; & the joy
that shines like equality
throughout the cosmos sets you free.

The Ghost courses through human veins
like shade of a rose,
like a prism of rainbows –
wherever Imago walks, listens, leans...

Like a Mississippi made of murmurs
or a clay flute molded
out of golden moss,
the Ghost in us surges toward a chorus –

a waterfall of sound, for washing
Washington – bringing
Vierge-Astraea, singing
from the Delta (milky monarch thing).

7.13.19


7.03.2019

on the 3rd of July




DREAM-WORK

On the 3rd of July, looking out of this
rain-soaked gazebo into
the yard, I’d like you,
cameradi, to digest my curious

thesis.  Because every moment is a choice
on an axle of light and dark,
& who knows?  Some dream-work
might lead a soul to Paradise.

Out of the Iron Age of infantile aggression
where malign honchos rule
by gun; out of the school
of bully shocks & clinical repression

locked tight by rapacity & fraud;
out of the surly tank parade
Czar Minotaur has made
his own amazement... into the wide

milk-meadows of a Golden Age.
But you have to recognize –
these lightning-bug sparklers
kids wave over mosquito grass image

some more graceful & inexplicable
coherence.  Someone breathing
nearby, in your ear.  A thing
beyond abstraction... elementary table

of an I AM dream-cosmos.  Someone 
Brother?  Sister?  Mary?
– calling you by name.  See?
Here.  Hearth-dance of Daniel.  Be reborn.

7.3.19

5.30.2019

moss-green lamb-rock




CHERRY PETALS

Anniversaries, conjunctions... Latrobe’s
bell tower in New Orleans
& a birthday (Walter Whitman’s)
twine reverberations, stellar probes.

This lone outcrop in far north wood
furred-over with green
& phosphorescent lichen
mimes in lime our original Head –

primordial earth-ram (sheepish lamb)
upon the adamant of Time –
Isis, or Miriam –
Virgin bedrock of the bright I AM.

Inexorability of violent history –
labyrinth of Minotaur –
wolf-trap for who we are
spooled out in filmy, rusty tragedy

after tragedy – the pile-up of ’68
the green redhead in Dallas
the blue blackbird in Memphis
& it all seems endless – infernal hate –

O brazen, obdurate Iron Age
of malice toward all!  Only
the slant eye of poetry
mourning on a misty Montauk stage

might warble a different kingdom comin’ –
chaste infant equality.
Your hummingbird infantry,
Walter – your cherry petals, Benjamin.

5.30.19

4.28.2019

just a particle of grit in the poetry gears




PAVEMENT SLIP

At the Arboretum today, the lightest
waves of pale green &
pink float over the barren
hills.  Pasque flowers make their violet

& furry nest.  Soft spring.  Far west
the Golden Gate flings waves
of steel over sea-caves.
A safety net shall be our rest –

all-purpose, drifting down from heaven.
From the Mother of Lights, from
Abba-Zero – coral hum
of Orizaba requiem (all the lost men

the sea shall render up again).
Ezra in the bughouse eyes
his Alexandrian apotheosis.
Spews hate & spite – riptorn

Osirian comedian, on glitter-stand;
& Henry has his Memphis
milkman : buried blackface
Pip-Pip (colonial ampersand).

The gravity-slide into darkness
is not so unavoidable.
Non spatio, sed sapientia
Anselm whispered; heaven’s kiss

is like a speech balloon, or Nile airship.
The kingdom’s for my child,
not for the Emperor, wild
Mary piped (basilica pavement slip).

4.27.19

2.25.2019

I'm only thinking of you




SIMPLE MUTTER

Snow-canyons decorate the streets
of staid Minneapolis;
sparkling crystals
coagulate in mountains, glacier sheets.

Ripe grain of whole, deep faith,
murmured epileptic
Osip – stamping his shtick
of shaman-Pushkinite (limpid wraith).

Tiny hexagons of Siberian ice.
The glowing eyes of thief-
wolves, killing for life.
Vast evanescent Paradise

in an infinite complexity
of human innocence
destroyed by violence –
Patmos St.-Vitus peripety

of mangled lambs.  I’m only
thinking of you, dear
spark (unknown Shakespeare
pebble-soldier... yearning mystery).

Gemstones of civilization glitter
through the drab darkness.
You are only weakness
squeezed into clay – a simple mutter,

oscillating like a reddish agate
in a muddy kid’s palm
(copper reunion-psalm).
Jamie discovered it – I won’t forget.

2.24.19

2.03.2019

in the end zone




MAJOR CHORDS

In the shadow of a song of songs
the anthems are always major
chords.  Mendelssohn... (our
home in Hopkins)... everyone belongs.

Tonight the rival city-states,
the patriots, blow
ram’s horns.  O
say can you see... big potentates’

eyes dilate... Vergo rolls out
Hail Mary feint (over
Washington Monument) –
Crazy Horse Rushmore... Touch-

stone!  The transfixated crowd
explodes.  Ghost dance
in the end-zone – Lance
Galahad will take the shroud!

The mob desires to crown a king,
a king of everything.
Sponsors oblige, with bling –
the glittering circlet is a diamond ring

for nubile Woody Berge Ouvrante
(Cheerleader from the Bronx
Will Marry Uncle Onx
Next Year).  Preview this fête galante!

Apollinaire heard the cicadas
droning in the oak –
of how the wind spoke
dry coracles of wheat to Colchis

                    *

& the streetlight in the snowy dark
zones a frozen cross
against the pavement (Loss
for Brady : Bells Will Boom for Belichick).

We’ll laugh about this tomorrow
(or maybe in 2020).
How the crowd, honey,
decides – & doesn’t care, somehow.

They insist on sacrifice – Sacre
du Printemps, ma chérie.
Tiptoe to thundery
finale... just before the war (nacre

& objets d’art, Guillaume).
Leap to the metronome
over the Metrodome,
Sophie – you will survive this doom

of frightened infants in their uniforms;
Thin Blade Societies
& Rudra puberty
sodalities... unconscious norms

(they know not what they do).  Thread
woven for a future prince –
hearts, purple sequins
imprint Valentine wreath for his head;

he’s singing of an anti-kingdom
where his anti-father
(shedding all that bother)
chords an unquenchable welcome home.

2.3.19

11.16.2018

serene Cosmopolis




CHASTE VISION

Imagination of the common good
gleams in the mind’s eye –
a gift from on high
to children of the neighborhood.

I remember Ellen Ryan, from Bridgeport
out of Holy Cross,
smoking under the asbestos
of the Henry Sharpe complex (fort)

off 95 – splitting Providence
just as in Bridgeport,
where her father (Mort,
the cop) & mother (Mary, since

deceased) instilled their sober sense
of ultimate innocence 
outwitting insolence
by grace (elusive fauna of experience).

Sheepish cabal of VISTA volunteers!
Bussed into Washington
to lobby Congressman
Boro Dolpawa (he’s “all ears”).

Chaste vision of the commonweal.
My strength in weakness
is perfected (witness,
black lamb rust-red wool).

Beyond transparent vanishings
serene Cosmopolis...
bright realm of kindness
radiating equilibrium (eternal things).

11.15.18

10.21.2017

rim of that heavenly Rome



COSMIC BATTLE

Inching back with my mother down
the nursing home hallway
from dining hall... hey ey
yo.  Keep her from falling (too soon).

Sprightly, amnesiac, brave.
We filtered burnt photographs’
international orange (‘70s
epitaphs).  Look – you still wave

from chilly distance, eldest one.
Your sister, brothers... your
father, meek & mild... War
obliterates peripheral vision, son.

Like game of hangman (simplified).
Figure out the letter
in the word.  Row, Edgar
Poe – enough rope be dangled

like that infamous platform
lifted out of season
like Francis from prison...
only to travel far from harm

along a single beam of light.
Real American creed
spooling through Voodoo
Queen Marie – gonna be all right.

Antithetical Poe held
his ivory casket
in a bird-basket –
row, row, coracle... spelled

               *

IONAH on the bow... over & out
for now.  The cosmic battle
between Caesar & that
measly songster (Stalin puttin’ Anna

into the hollow double-barrels
mimicking Utopia – everyone
happy in warehouse, hon)
becomes a set of Shaker castanets

or scallop-shells of Aphrodite;
– a skirmish in St. Louis
soars above Cahokia (she’s
us) into a supple Rimini-

design.  The poet, poison-pounded
pharmakon, cribbed out
his hazy Paraclete
in limestone layerings – founded

Apollinairy nothings on a pole-starred
pine.  Rose horizontal stripes
on snow led wayward ships
to Milky Way, somehow (the bard

might know).  Over the river E
(for equal sign) carry
me back to cosmic liberty,
Eurydice – united we are free;

like Sophie with P. della Francesca fan
loving galactic neighbors
stitch their laborious
light-canoe (twin Manitou of Man).

10.21.17

10.16.2017

stars of Jubilee



DARK PILLARS

The cottonwood leaves are golden,
beaten thin by frigid air.
Graphene hearts, everywhere
now (mid-October).  What is Man?

that Thou take heed of him?
Flesh tends to disappear.
To fade – but not before
these bright medallions of seraphim

sail swiftly from the autumn tree.
Invisible beehives
of honey-gold enclaves
cluster like galaxies, ring you & me –

it is that via media,
that midway midéwé
colloquy – humbly
clustering from 6-way

crystalline antipodes – path P
of Providence, the clear
circumference (here
now & everywhere) of high Sophie.

Nerve-center of the flesh-toned bridge
uniting matière, esprit;
Venn diagram, complete
ellipse of air, water & light – edge-

mingled man-&-woman bloom,
transmuting rage & fright
with wisdom’s calm delight
to reconcilement’s sun-filled room

                  *

from midnight Minneapolis
(by way of Providence)
into your honey-dense
dawn star-forest – Cosmopolis.

Stars in the deep blue flag echo
that secret Jubilee,
when all the nations will be
reconfigured from the roots of woe

into one level plain of soul
equality & liberty.
So Salvator Mundi
implies, through Leonardo’s ball

of crystal – meek & sheepish mule
of a Franciscan king
correcting everything
with one orthogonal gesture, one smile.

Jesus is for sale at Christie’s, now;
the Earth is up for grabs
as well, it seems; crabs
gather in their gaudy, gilded scow

to celebrate the arrogance of rule;
our men of violence
fill up sad prisons,
cemeteries.  Is Man a Fool?

No... just blind.  Tall cottonwoods
stand, lean together –
dark pillars, that weather
storms of gold in planetary neighborhoods.

10.16.17

6.20.2017

my circuit is circumference



HONEY-OAK

Sunshine in June – one whole note
melts into the chord
of summer.  In the old
garden of Time, the poet’s boat

extends its shade toward evening twilight.
The golden ratio of the sunflower
stretches to the nth power
(its perihelion); clay speeds to insight,

cartwheeling uphill into angelic life –
that bright-gated City
whose anti-gravity
magnetic North amends all strife.

Through this fan-feathered diapason
of a planet, the limpid figure
of a limping friend, your
sister-dove (gray pebble, midnight sun);

her hazel eye takes in mortality
as a grave garden absorbs
the one whose goldfinch orb
will bend, in parallax fluidity

as rivers from Paradise stream forth
or a mustard seed
flares – life’s high meed
a sunny gyroscope (balanced from birth).

So the Messiah-bloom of Israel
like Joachim Fiore,
Henry Flower (ey
hey yo) anchors goodness to the Pole

                 *

Star, steadfast over midnight waters;
so Infinite Presence
arcs into salience
turtledoves & fiery matières

de Bretagne (Arthurian hide-&-seek
the Once & Future King
resolves, into a ring
of riven oaks & golden fleece).

The One Who Rose from the Dead
lives in our midst –
Who left his Holy Ghost
as marigold, to blaze undaunted

Hagia Sophia (with a million eyes);
American peacock (turkey?)
or Aramaic poppycock (see
how archaic our ways – how wise!) –

only Phoenix-Turtle comprehends
how from dream-song flame
Reality revolves the same
again... as when a potter bends

her starfish over azure sand
& lofting clay from seabed
into galactic Roundhead
Cavalier (old Charley-Horse le Grand)

curling himself into green honey-oak
until the lightning stroke
flashes – where thunder spoke
the wheel that spun Ezekiel (Rose-Boke).

6.20.17

10.01.2015

Atlantic weather


HOME FREE

Set adrift down Providence streets,
blown along by chilly air,
this autumn Atlantic weather
in the Ocean State... gray cloud-fleets

follow birthday Hobo, his big-baby
muttering – a nonsense
tremolo from Jonah’s
whale-gut habitat (her kingdom’s maybe

someday).  Like Apollinaire slaloming
dolphin-rime atop a marble
door in Rimini, warbling
his trompette marine (something

about a Frisco treasure chest
in a hurricane eye) – or
Bluejay Slocum, Shaker
salt in pauper’s Dauphin-quest...

your sailor’s air, so fortunate
pipes down from the future
on Ariadne lure.
Hookline for deep sinker – bright

hand who flew from the poop deck
waving from waves his
palm-leaf radius
(JJ-pendant, octahedral speck).

Wisdom’s justified in all her children
plays out the line from high-
strung Miriam.  Sky milk-
train sounds – all home free then.

10.1.15

October periscope

12.19.2012

Jesus Thoughts (27) : massacre of innocence

The holiday-season tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut must give any scribe pause.  Especially someone writing a blog-diary called "Jesus Thoughts."  I began this thread around Halloween, going into the Advent season leading up to Christmas.  Now the news is filled with the funerals of little children, and with journalists floating Job's old question, what kind of God permits such evil, such grief?

As it happens, I've started reading another book by Carl Jung, called Aion.  I have very mixed feelings about Jung, as noted before - my final personal judgement is still out.  He begins this book by arguing that psychology can offer a path by which modern humanity can comprehend certain realities symbolized in traditional Christian faith and ritual - eucharist, heavenly beings, redemption, etc. - which in the course of 20 centuries, he says, have lost their meaning for everyday modern life; we no longer understand them, they do not touch us or help us.  Jung is writing around the time of WW 2, when it seemed that all vestiges of "Christian Europe" had been scattered, reversed - and modernity exhibited a truly "anti-christian" spirit (epitomized by totalitarian fanaticism and global violence).

Jung sometimes seems more of a pagan or Gnostic than Christian, but maybe his heart was in the right place.  In any case he posits a kind of Gnostic dualism of good and evil at the roots of reality, in which the spirit and doctrine of Christ would inevitably be confronted by its deflected, repressed opposite - absolute evil, the anti-Christ.  He sees this as working out historically in the culture of the West.  Fundamentally he understands this as a problem of the human psyche : how to acknowledge and integrate the shadow, the dark side, of human nature, into a more complete psychic and ontological wholeness (Jung's "Self")?

I think the fundamental problem I have with all of this is that, in the process of exploring the dark side of the human psyche, Jung reifies spiritual reality within his own architecture of fixed categories (animus, anima, shadow, self, quaternion, mandala, etc.) - resulting in a kind of timeless psychic domain which seems to bear more resemblance to Greek mythology or to alchemy than to the (perhaps more simple) truth of the Gospels.

I'm not ready to deny that there is a dimension of psychological truth in Jung's doctrine.  His idea that a basic quaternion - a 4-sided, cruciform geometry, which resolves the 3-sided Trinity by way of a 4th point (the personal, the individual, the singular, the excess, the shadow) - appeals to me, to a certain degree.

But I want something more.  I want a wholeness which is not simply a metaphysical or psychological construct "beyond good and evil."  I want a wholeness rooted in the fusion of divine and human consciousness : the fusion represented by the formula Jesus, Son of God.

It seems Jung's mistake might be that, in the labor of constructing his intellectual edifice, he loses sight of the primary reality : a divine and benevolent Mind-Person - a Creator-Spirit - from which we have come, and in whom we dwell (as "images" of same).  This primary reality is personal and relational : the geometry of such inter-personal affinity, sympathy, and fusion is the very ground of our existence.

One is called into a personal relation with the conscious Source of all goodness - and draws life and truth from this deepening bond. This is the communal "Body of Christ" we share.

So to return to where we began today : how can religion, Christianity, personal "spirituality" respond to, give an answer for, the enormity of evil which just happened in Connecticut?  Jung tries to re-interpret religious symbols from 2000 years ago in order to re-imagine their relevance.  But after immersing myself in John Meier's reconstruction of the historical Jesus, A Marginal Jew (see previous posts), I want to try to imagine the reverse : not "how do we interpret Jesus for today?", but rather : "how would Jesus respond to the Newtown tragedy?"

Obviously, neither I nor anyone else can "imagine" accurately, in its fulness and variety, how Jesus might respond.  But I will hazard an imperfect hypothesis.

For Jesus, the "kingdom of God" is a living, embodied, communal reality, which the coming of the Messiah has actually brought to earth, brought to historical actuality.  This, I take it, is one of the meanings of his mysterious Gospel saying : "the Law and the prophets were until John; and from the days of John until now, the kingdom of God has suffered violence, and violent men plunder it."  In other words, with the coming of the Son of Man, the eschatological age - the end-time - has irrevocably appeared on earth.  The kingdom of God is at hand, is "in your midst."  And precisely because the kingdom is no longer merely a hope of the future, but is here - is now embodied in Jesus and the people of God - it suffers violence : violent men attack it by force.  The struggle for the redemption of the world is now fully engaged : Jesus has come.

What was the witness to Israel of both John the Baptist and Jesus?  : that divine Judgement is at hand.  Jesus only differed from John in the unaccountable lovingkindness he offered - the healing ministry, the casting out of illness and evil - as signs of the presence of God's reign.

How would Jesus respond to the horrors and sadness of the massacre of innocents?  he would say come closer : come into the reign of God, into the rule of God's love.  Save yourself from the old human habits which open the door to evils such as this.

I think Jesus would look at the town of Newtown as a kind of Everytown, USA.   What happened in Newtown could have happened anywhere in the United States.  There is no special sinfulness to the place where this occurred : yet this violence might be a sign of spiritual sickness which the whole nation (the whole world) - and every person - needs to address.

What are the dimensions of this spiritual illness?  First, an attachment to the self and its pleasures - say, for example, guns, shooting, the collection of weapons of mass killing.  But these are not the only superficial, materialistic and selfish pleasures which corrupt the soul : they are only perhaps the most obviously dangerous (or seem to be, after this tragedy).  John the Baptist and Jesus both consistently preached the necessity for repentance and spiritual change - for turning toward a new communal life in God - if one hopes to see and experience the reign of God's benevolence.

A second dimension is related to the first : in our attachment to our selfish pleasures, our personal self-pleasing, we neglect those deeper values of charity, love and understanding, generosity, and justice - which are at the very root of both Judaism and Christianity.  What does Jesus call the Great, the central Commandment?  "Love God with all your heart; and love your neighbor as yourself."  Judaism (along with many other ancient faiths) emphasizes the great duty to welcome the stranger in our midst : to help the poor, to heal the afflicted.

And who is the stranger in our midst today?  There are many : but certainly one of those strangers was Adam Lanza.  The troubled, the afflicted, the mentally-ill young person.  The loner, the outcast, the self-outcast : like that sufferer in the Gospel, possessed by a demon, who kept hitting himself with stones.  Where were the helpers, the interveners, the welcomers for Adam Lanza - when he needed help?  Why was he living in solitude, at age 20, with his mother - and going to the rifle range?  Obviously it's too early for me to speculate on these matters : but the outlines of this situation are clear not only in the Newtown event but in other such recent tragedies all around the country.  And woe be to us, if we convert this moral crisis into some kind of mere surveillance or punitive control of the afflicted in our midst.  This would be merely the next anti-Christian, anti-Judaic step.  No : we must find ways to love the stranger, and heal the afflicted, and draw the loner into the circle of hope and joy.

We are all selfish; we have all gone astray.... like the wicked of the Old Testament, we are captured in the nets of our own wicked imaginations.  As Jesus said, when someone addressed him as "good rabbi" :  One is good, the Father only.  (This statement, by the way, is a very concise rebuttal of some of Jung's speculations about the "blind idealism" of Christianity).  We need to turn in charity - me, you, every one of us - to those in need, and cease treating life as a free ride for our own complacent hobbies and pastimes.

I think these are some of the things which Jesus might have said about the Newtown tragedy.  But he (along with Martin Luther King) would have summarized by proclaiming, again : the reign of a loving God is here.  God is my father and mother, and yours, too.  All things are possible through faith in God's love.  God is the creative Spirit who has brought all this about - to redeem the world.  Come into the living body of faith, into the community of the kingdom - and together we shall overcome.