Note: I wrote this poem for my son Atticus’s first birthday, which coincided with his baptism. 

I summon the symbols to align
Holy birth and holy death
are manifest
in the sacred rhythms of the child

Trumpets blare the eternal plan
heralding the inevitable passage from boy to man
But in the interim–mirrors and masks
Secret potions from the elders’ casks

There will be time to ponder mysteries
to analyze Earth’s vast histories
There will be alterations, reconsiderations
Earthquakes of revelations,
Floods of desire,
Blizzards of confusion,
Friendships forged in fire

But in the now
only a poem exists
framing your tenuous footsteps
fixing your innocent grin

A poem to cast your story in light
A story of spirit and skin

A poem to parallel
the darkest days
and most luminous nights
the epiphany of a king

For Atticus
©2010 Christopher Rager

turn a key
in the belly of mechanism
unlock the secret source
metal pieces
disjointed, strewn
picked apart parts of hollow dissemblance

turn a phrase
in the belly of utterance
unlock the secret source
clay pieces
joined, coagulated
put together parts, stuffed scarecrow

In Castle ten Berghe

The Flemish phantoms float

Aristocratic accoutrements enclosed

By a moat.

A regal buck on the coat of arms

The silent solitude of its stately charms.

A half day’s drive

From the fields of Ypres–

Where boys went to an early grave–

The merchants of Bruge

Called away to war

Locked in memory

Behind ten Berghe’s door

Herstory …

can never be said,

at least not through the myth

which we have read.

     Herstory …

Is unreasonable to men:

truculent, bleeding

an impenetrable den.

History …

is of brute penetration

acquisition, possession,

a confused and violent separation

      –demanding truculence, bleeding

History–to have and to hold

Herstory–can never be told

no ink.

no ink will dry tonight

no black wet words will bite

the yellow tobacco parchment.

no ink.

no ink can dry tonight

the moon is full and bright

we meet beneath magnolia

and pick petals thin and white.

As I paddle crystal waters I see
A secret world beneath me
Visions that we were meant to know
And others that remain below
Hidden in microcosmic veracity
Reminding what it means to be

I may never cross this strait amore
On my journey to a farther shore
But the memory of these clear calm streams
Will forever shape a wilderness of dreams

As I paddle crystal waters I see
There are shapes of God I cannot be
But these contours placed beyond our grip
Are the reasons we undertake the trip

As a child
He saw the perfect shape of an oak
spreading a symmetrical canopy
like a thick smoky spectre
about his brain

As a man
He saw the imperfection
of thickly knotted bark and branches
that screamed of weather scars
the deep lines of each season’s shift

One branch grew
another did not
One branch blossomed
another did not
One bird flew
from one branch to the other

We went on out to the mountain
when dawn was wet with dew
we carried food and smokes
into a horizon of green and blue

When we got to the peak
we stopped and viewed
the expanse that spread around
and watched the world
stumble awake
and its inhabitants wander into town

And I felt the daze
in a drifting haze
of a lifetime far too swift
And I felt the daze
in a drifting haze
of God’s contradictory gift

Make them Think in Words
Let the birds
be buried
beneath the clouds
And let the tree be the marriage
of soil and sound

The juniper with its reddish fur
reveals its smoke in stick and spur
Far across the valley green
into forests with an ancient gleen

It came to me in light that day
In shouldered soldiers on their way
To mills that shape and splint desire
And echo in scented stacks of fire

Make them dream in sounds
Let the hounds
be carried
across the down
And let the soul be the marriage
of sea and ground

Copyright 2006

God
Why cannot I live as human?

The paradox of your divine decree
The path of the right is too narrow for me
Are these your disciples who proselytize
Who spread venomous rumour
Cast judgmental eyes?

God
Why cannot I cleanse the dis-ease of my soul?
And take what is half
Convert into whole
Am I a disciple or am I just lost?
Obstinate, selfish, and will not pay the cost

This is a room
And this is a bed
This is a pen
And this is my head
There is the truth
And there are lies
And I cannot distinguish
The food from the flies

copyright 2005