A slight rewrite of psalm 137.

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I lack the cadences and tones of the prophets

Sometimes words tumble from my mouth like grain

At other times words are pulled like teeth

When I sat down by the Manchester Ship canal

On a cold grey December day

I, too, wept because of the curse I carried

The curse of a glint of a light from Elysium

Or Zion or heaven-knows-what-you-will.

I cannot sing the songs of the Lord

Whether I'm at home or abroad

But if I ever forget to sing of the dead

May I be silenced forever.

My highest joy was a little boy

Who died of meningitis just before

Christmas. If I knew that Babylon

Had done this I, too, could seek revenge.

But, my friend, knives and bullets are of

Little use against virus and bacteria. 

Psalm 137 ends so  eloquently by wishing

Happiness to one who seized and slaughtered

An infant child; by Christ I would beg to differ. 

 

◄ The beautiful Cathars of Languedoc

dictatorship ►

Comments

Big Sal

Tue 18th Dec 2018 22:18

Beautiful doesn't come close to this.🌷

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, that's why it's best to try to learn as much as possible in the short time we have here.

Love and respect to you and yours during this time of year, John.

poemagraphic

Tue 18th Dec 2018 21:45

John to take one line to highlight my joy of the verse is impossible here my friend, as is my want, I often do this however...

A microscopic, macroscopic view of this work is impossible

Each line is holographic in nature. Like the aforementioned if we dropped your poem each fragment would hold the magnificence of the whole.

I am as green as an elf at Christmas John
Po

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