// creative //
May 18, 2015
I've seen the cross on the royal mount
Ben Libman
I’ve seen the cross on the royal mount;
Red with rust,
Blood congealed on the frame--
Tears for Saint Laurent.
I’ve seen the gentle cloth Draped dulcet
Over my father’s shoulders.
I’ve seen it—once;
Made to grasp at my frame,
Knotted fringes clinging to limp threads,
An old voice,
Whispering God with a graze--
Hollow words.
Now, buried inside some velvet bag, Inside
A lost compartment
Of a useless desk.
Prayer
Words from worried lips,
Cracked from endless, retreating
Breath.
Light is warm;
Breath is stale.
But grandmother told me,
On a long walk through the shadowy wood,
Where the leaves danced and spun forever up
To the grace of the wind
Soft on the mountain’s cheek,
That peace was in the trees.
(Our steps printing the soil)
That if people may see
Themselves in nature,
The canopy above
Swaying to the songs of the wind,
And the trunks of the trees groaned
With ancient pleasure
At the sweetness of the tune,
They would find themselves in conversation
With the universe.
But what can be called conversation
In speech from an earless speaker?
What warmth in lumber’s cry
That slides slick off the flesh?
Why compel my voice
To voyage without end,
To infinite death in the faint distance?
What presence in the wind,
But winter itself?
I’ve seen the cross
My father knew;
The gentle cloth, soaked
In creeping blood,
Frayed ends and moth holes
An old worn voice--
A warm voice—
No slot.
Yet the universe conserves:
A Word lives aloft in the breeze;
A river reflecting a distant cross,
A tallis for an island bank,
A kiss on the soft mountain slope.
I do not I said I do not
Believe in God
But I do believe
(A tallis of the earth)
That God is in the trees,
That He waltzes in misstep
To the orchestration of the wind.
Red with rust,
Blood congealed on the frame--
Tears for Saint Laurent.
I’ve seen the gentle cloth Draped dulcet
Over my father’s shoulders.
I’ve seen it—once;
Made to grasp at my frame,
Knotted fringes clinging to limp threads,
An old voice,
Whispering God with a graze--
Hollow words.
Now, buried inside some velvet bag, Inside
A lost compartment
Of a useless desk.
Prayer
Words from worried lips,
Cracked from endless, retreating
Breath.
Light is warm;
Breath is stale.
But grandmother told me,
On a long walk through the shadowy wood,
Where the leaves danced and spun forever up
To the grace of the wind
Soft on the mountain’s cheek,
That peace was in the trees.
(Our steps printing the soil)
That if people may see
Themselves in nature,
The canopy above
Swaying to the songs of the wind,
And the trunks of the trees groaned
With ancient pleasure
At the sweetness of the tune,
They would find themselves in conversation
With the universe.
But what can be called conversation
In speech from an earless speaker?
What warmth in lumber’s cry
That slides slick off the flesh?
Why compel my voice
To voyage without end,
To infinite death in the faint distance?
What presence in the wind,
But winter itself?
I’ve seen the cross
My father knew;
The gentle cloth, soaked
In creeping blood,
Frayed ends and moth holes
An old worn voice--
A warm voice—
No slot.
Yet the universe conserves:
A Word lives aloft in the breeze;
A river reflecting a distant cross,
A tallis for an island bank,
A kiss on the soft mountain slope.
I do not I said I do not
Believe in God
But I do believe
(A tallis of the earth)
That God is in the trees,
That He waltzes in misstep
To the orchestration of the wind.
// BEN LIBMAN is a Sophomore in Columbia College and a Staff Writer for The Current. He can be reached at bal2161@columbia.edu.