To His Ever-Loving God

Unknown

To His Ever-Loving God

Can I not come to Thee, my God, for these

So very-many-meeting hindrances,

That slack my pace; but yet not make me stay?

Who slowly goes, rids (in the end) his way.

Cleere Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles,

Remove the barrs, or lift me o'er the stiles:

Since rough the way is, help me when I call,

And take me up; or els prevent the fall.

I kenn my home; and it affords some ease,

To see far off the smoaking Villages.

Fain would I rest; yet covet not to die,

For fear of future-biting penurie:

No, no (my God) Thou know'st my wishes be

To leave this life, not loving it, but Thee.

Robert Herrick

“I kenn my home; and it affords some ease, to see far off the smoaking Villages.” 
 

Such a satisfying poem – that image of a road full of frustrating obstacles, and the smoking chimney of home drawing us on in spite of our tiredness – the expressive choice of words, “so-very-many-meeting hindrances”, “future-biting penury” - the rhythmic back-and-forth of his pleas, do this or this, help me this way or else another - the sure-fit of the rhyme balanced against the uncertainty within his journey – all of this moves me, nevermind the last line, the line that stops the swish-swash of thoughts, yanks me from the earthosphere and back into the eternal. I know my home. My home is God, not the house but the Him-everywhere-and within.

Horseman in Rain

Unknown

Horseman in Rain

Primordial waters: clover and oat striving, water-walls,
a meshing of cords in the net of the night,
in the barbarous weave of the damp, dropping water,
a rending of water-drops, lamenting successions,
diagonal rage, cutting heaven.
Steeped in aromas, smashing the water, interposing
the roan of their gloss, like a foliage, between boulder water.
The horses gallop in water,
their vapor attending, in a lunatic milk,
a stampede of doves that hardens, like water.
Not day, but a cistern
of obdurate weather, green agitations,
where hooves join a landscape of haste
with the lapse of the rain and the bestial aroma of horses.
Blankets and pommels, clustering cloak-furs,
seedfalls of darkness
ablaze on the haunches of brimstone
that beat the considering jungle.


                         Beyond and beyond and beyond
And beyond and beyond and beyond and beyoooooond:
the horsemen demolish the rain, the horsemen
pass under the bittering hazelnut, the rain
weaves unperishing wheat in a shimmer of lustres.
Here is water's effulgence, confusion of lightning,
to spill on the leaf, here, from the noise of the gallop,
the water goes wounded to earth, without flight. 
The bridle reins dampen; branch-covered archways,
footfalls of footfalls, an herbage of darkness
in splintering starshapes, moonlike, icelike, a cyclone of horses
riddled with points like an icicle prism -
and born out of furor, the innocent fingers brim over,
the apple encompassing terror
and the terrible banners of empire, are smitten.
Pablo Neruda (translated by Ben Belitt)

What just happened?!!

What was that?

A kind of list? Of how water can fall or be smashed or be spilled, how it weaves and shimmers and spits - or this, "here is water's effulgence" (effulgence, what a great word - "a brilliant radiance, a shining forth")? I haven't come across many lists with the action and movement in this one. The horses galloping, stampeding, hooves flying - the smell and the sound of them - wonderful! This is the magic of Neruda.