This curiosity has emerged over the past couple of weeks, drawing my attention away from the magnum opus (in terms of sheer bigness rather than aspirations to deathless verse) on which Iíve been working for some months now. The smugness of a Jehovahís Witness trying to deliver certainty on my doorstep was the cause. The choice was either rolling up the copy of Watchtower that he proffered into a tight tube &, with a series of deft movements, inserting it or writing a long, rambling poem. The Jehovahís Witness walked away unencumbered; a long, rambling poem got written instead.
"You may not be looking for Him, my friend, but He is most certainly looking for you!" Jehovah's Witness, July '04
CREDO
Hallo. Sorry to
have missed you
once again.
I understand that
youíve been trying
to track me down.
I wish I could provide
a permanent address,
but Iím forever
on the move,
as youíve found.
So here
are some pointers.
Not quite
an itinerary,
more a guide
to places of
the heart and mind
where chance
or desire
might take me.
Youíll find me
at the fig-shaped
wound, the cave
your minions sought
to seal as
too far from
the light. No
light maybe,
but a hot,
ungodly fire no
holy waterís
coming near.
Youíll find me
at the pulse-
place of the
Theme and Variations,
deep where calculus
and heartbreak cross,
where gold and silver
coalesce, where the
lexicon has no power,
where we dance
and, lo, the walls
of the city shake.
Youíll find me
high on Pendeen
Watch, where falling
water chains
the rocks to
the sea below;
where a cataract
of flowers ñ cinqfoil,
tansy, vetch and
fuscia, chamomile
and forget-me-not
drowns the old year
in a single
disordered wave
all along the clifftop
reaches where old
Gurnardís Head is a
Frozen god, eyes closed,
face turned away
from the sea
from which all
creatures came in
the insensate dawn,
impelled by chance
or desire, and back
to which, at eventide
they must return.
11:34:58 PM 
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