The Celtic Spring begins today, so Happy Imbolc.

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Green Man

on a ceramic head

by Paula Zimmermann

 

 

I know that you must be there,

innocent divine,

although at first I cannot see;

your martyrdom, daily,

amidst brick, steel, and glass

goes almost un-noticed

and has made us blind.

We have all but buried you.

 

But then I find you

through my friend’s teasing hands;

she caught you, and brought you into light

for a space: a god of the first world,

staring sightlessly from traceried foliage,

green wisdom gushing from your mouth.

Your Calvary features, wreathed with ivy,

are half-poised, half-unconscious;

sleeping, yet wakeful,

as though a querulous shout

might startle you into our time,

capsize our ship of fools,

and drown us in a new verdant surge.

 

So now you hang, - nailed,

yet barely understood – above my desk,

passing silent judgement

on all I write.

The light angles deep

across those pagan eyes,

and the flicker of your lids

prophesies a glimpse

into so many hallowed places:

dark church, deep forest,

equivocal human heart.