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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=573630" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>St. Maleu sequence</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Saint Maleu Sequence <br>I.<br>Once we were all tourists<br>seeking on foot, <br>by horse or boat, <br>by plane and camera, <br>some other place - <br>by book, museum, library, <br>some other time.<br>But now “Was it Portugal or Ponsonby? ” <br>we ask. “Is everything on tape? ”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I too once wandered everywhere, <br>by foot and thought, <br>in marriage and in war, <br>searching for other minds<br>and freedom from my own.<br>One thing only I have learned, <br>kneeling inhuman on and on, <br>hearing the soft lament<br>that others left for me, <br>at Gavrinis, <br>among its dreaming fingerprints<br>carved 5,000 years ago -<br>to raise this tiny index, <br>regard its intricate design<br>and ask it write a single line<br>to touch a silent lip<br>5,000 years from now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>Think no more, dear mind; <br>the dissected brain has lost your delicate design<br>somewhere along its neural paths.<br>I loved you so for winning Plato’s praise.<br>But now I rise towards the Druid’s angel frame, <br>where your sweet categories fade and merge<br>into that One, through which the senses float, <br>receptacles of others’ dreams, <br>to touch the unreasoned truth, <br>man’s greater heritage.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III.<br>Where is cruelty: a bacchic diptych</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Indiscriminate<br>Eva’s maenad dance demands<br>real man her lunar due.<br>In what dark human enthymeme<br>do we become her bestial sacrifice? <br>To satisfy her need last Adam<br>goose-stepped these steps before.<br>Carve no more his cruel glyphs<br>upon my disabled wrist.<br>The oven door swings free to Calvary, <br>the tortured body drifts as wraith<br>within the unremembering night, <br>to dream in the infinite stillness of death<br>lie shattered the knife of her desire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No.<br>THERE is cruelty, <br>where<br>indiscriminate<br>the crashing sea demands the rock her lunar due.<br>In what slow dying enthymeme<br>do I become undeduced <br>the unchained sacrament? <br>His son was made to climb this rock before.<br>Its summit door swings free<br>beyond Calvary’s<br>tortured flesh<br>victorious<br>(Euoi! Euoi! The slain goat’s cry.) <br>man, as God, <br>beneath the entombed night<br>floods in the the light: <br>in the infinite stillness of love<br>lies shattered<br>the sword of human will.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Saint-Maleu<br>October 2002</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV.<br>Paul’s Rule of Thumb<br>(Epistle to the Ephesians, ch.5) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Husband and wife, Christ and his church -<br>no simile or vision that, a mystery indeed<br>but of a busy Zionist, protecting from Gentiles<br>and false messiahs soil proclaimed holy<br>sometime, somewhere, by some poet, <br>now converted to a church in need of social <br>rules by men like him to tell men what to do.<br>And yet from it we learn the sacrament of married life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No God the fatherless and celibate girl child’s dream son, <br>conceived in an empty temple when the usurers went home, <br>raised by a carpenter, a good man, Joseph, <br>all like you and me, all guided by and to the Christ.<br>I should not mistake my role, Paul’s rule of thumb, <br>nor make myself God’s lonely representative, <br>mocked and cheated by pubescent glands in flower.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh to learn the patience that forgave<br>Peter’s abnegation, Mary’s wide embrace, <br>Judas’ capital, John’s passion for a smile, <br>to understand the animal response<br>and thieving weka’s love of gold, <br>to make redemption no hard thing<br>and pardon no act of arrogance, <br>but to give inspiration a gentle breeze<br>and stand unshaken by the noisy waves, <br>asking a little service when the meat is raw, <br>aware crucifixion is no lasting thing<br>and faithlessness no token of lost faith.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>V.<br>Saint Maleu</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some cottage in an empty field, <br>no special place, some cows, <br>a little palace in the empty woods, <br>a chapel too dark for aught but candles, <br>a rivulet en route to make a Breton port, <br>some barking dogs, the stench of milk<br>sheds in the flush of autumn rains: <br>a place to talk to God, alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rob+Dyer">Rob Dyer</a><div class=q>
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I.
Once we were all tourists
seeking on foot, 
by horse or boat, 
by plane and camera, 
some other place - 
by book, museum, library, 
some other time.
But now “Was it Portugal or Ponsonby? ” 
we ask. “Is everything on ..."></div>
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