SEA BEFORE THE RAIN
At the memory of trees
An image arrests
My far off eye.....
The island sky is dark
As the afternoon monsoon
Steams in from the hell hot
Surface of the Natuna sea.
White foam scalds the toes
Beneath the temporarily threatened
Equatorial eye in his height.
Coast sand scorches in an
Eternal white ribbon
Tying emerald fleshy jungle fringe
To silty grey brown ocean.
White and red and blue paint peal
From the high prowed fishing prahu
Beached to blister on the silica strand.
The fisherman’s chocolate leather
Skin bakes a deeper brown
Ancient eyes narrowed to the glare
Beneath the weathered rim
Cracked and pale palm fronds
Woven green and skillful by a
Loving woman’s hands, mother, wife, or
Daughter not far hence.
At rest before the rain, one hand upon
The forestem, one foot on the sand
The other tucked beneath him
A human heron in contemplation.
The rain comes on, soaring rushing wave
Soft black billows
Mounted on slanted silver spears
Plowing the wide salt field
With splashing white furrows.
And now the sand melts and runs
In plastic smoothness under this ocean in the air
And oven’s heat enough to
Warm old cold souls
Gives way before a child’s dream of
Breathtaking cool and laughing wet
Even old fishermen might dance.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Coffee Sunlight Spoons
Coffee sunlight spoons
You and me and macaroons
Conversation, intercourse, thoughts in air
How dark your hair is
Lorna Doone
You and me and macaroons
Conversation, intercourse, thoughts in air
How dark your hair is
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Books, by Benjamin Hummel
Railing
at M'lady
I'm incensed with you, Vincent
But adore your
poetry, your gift
The gemmy words studding
The pages where
I've found them
Irish waters by a Cornish prow
Sonnets by the
dozen.
You are to me, an historical anomaly
1916 girls should
be pure and demure
Not given to lovers chasing them
To Paris, or back
and forth across the Channel!
Ah, curse wealth and privilege, fame and fortune,
Skill with the
mouth, tongue and pen,
Why must they so inevitably lead to abandon?
Wherefore Anais Nin?
Damn it, poet! I'm sure I
would've been among
The manly crowd
admiring, longing, lusting
After your red, red lips, your flaming tresses. Perhaps even, scaling that tower,
I'd have shared
in your collective social malaises, Millay.
I refuse to read your biographies because
I'm jealous, out
of season, out of time,
I want Paris, too, the cafes, the words
Glittering like
dark red wine in crystal stems,
And tall, strong Nordic companions
Wearing crowns of
red and gold or onyx
Like the shepherdess of Shulam.
You died before I
was conceived!
But
I've snitched snippets of your life
In the Borders stacks, furtively reading in the middle
Looking at the
pictures, an undisciplined hack.
Your rhyme and rhythm enrapture me, wile’d flapper!
And I wish I had
been on the field then
I'd've won your heart, composed you verse
To show you how,
impossibly, I understood!
I know! My blood is as red,
my words as good.
That I can love
and long with the
Best of them - with
you!
For you.
But I have nothing to commend me
No one knows
these words, my languages
Are all foreign, oriental, scented with cloves and
Black pepper, cinnamon and tea, I have no proper degree
No peerage, no land, or horses, houses, industries.
I've not been to
Paris, I haven't known women.
Only jungle and granite, and deep blue saltwater.
Your price is ever beyond my means, as are all the beautiful
Ones, the
brilliant ones, the red lipped ones, catching the eye
With hooks and tearing the heart, provoking love.
And all I am able
to do is pound out my longing
In words that tumble, and do not flow like the streams from your
mouth.
You did some
pounding, too, perchance. But you had
fulfillment right
There! Why were you not
happy with your English god and all
His
sycophants? The lesser gods before and
after?
And here I am all out of time
My white charger
pawing sand, proud silver
Armor dulled by corroding air, chipped sword in hand
Seeking a flat
horizon for the damsel in distress.
Chivalry did not die with Alfred Lord, that Quixotic Victorian,
But my sword, my
pen are impotent.
Failing even now to rescue the living
Sending for the
dead
For places in the realms of vision
Where dreams
succeed, dragons are slain.
Pity, they are so soft
Rather they were
as real as pain.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
IN THE GARDEN OF ALLAH 2/5/97
The poets all expound
How fleeting are the pleasures
Of this, our dew like existence
And further how momentary
Are its pains.
Yet Allah in his hidden mirth
Mysteriously drops the cool golden
Moments like sweet tropic rain
In wastes of heated heaving salt.
How is it then, that mere
Children do so exquisitely enjoy
The mornings of life
While we in our maturing age
So better knowing
Cannot sense a thing
Quaffing greedily our anesthetic
All for fear of pain not yet felt.
Tell me further too
How pleasure could be
Greater than to lie on cool yellow
Stone by water as glass
Undisturbed by the gentle globe's
Ponderous rotation into dawn
And drink through half open lids
Lately sleeping
The mango light of a new sun.
Blue green air fresh with
The sharpness of earth waking
Ears full of the sea sound of
This liquid in which we breathe
The slow and languorous swimmer's
Stretch of immature limbs
The murmuring laughter of
Friend's conversation close to hand.
Limestone urns immovably immense
Glowing like lamps in the horizontal rays
Softly muting their flaming source's fiery power
And beyond the garden wall's mothering security
The world waits in wonder begging our eye behold it.
The poets all expound
How fleeting are the pleasures
Of this, our dew like existence
And further how momentary
Are its pains.
Yet Allah in his hidden mirth
Mysteriously drops the cool golden
Moments like sweet tropic rain
In wastes of heated heaving salt.
How is it then, that mere
Children do so exquisitely enjoy
The mornings of life
While we in our maturing age
So better knowing
Cannot sense a thing
Quaffing greedily our anesthetic
All for fear of pain not yet felt.
Tell me further too
How pleasure could be
Greater than to lie on cool yellow
Stone by water as glass
Undisturbed by the gentle globe's
Ponderous rotation into dawn
And drink through half open lids
Lately sleeping
The mango light of a new sun.
Blue green air fresh with
The sharpness of earth waking
Ears full of the sea sound of
This liquid in which we breathe
The slow and languorous swimmer's
Stretch of immature limbs
The murmuring laughter of
Friend's conversation close to hand.
Limestone urns immovably immense
Glowing like lamps in the horizontal rays
Softly muting their flaming source's fiery power
And beyond the garden wall's mothering security
The world waits in wonder begging our eye behold it.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Flipping the Cat (For Paul)
It was done, once
A day of sailing
On White Bear Lake
We three on an
Ancient leaf green Spirit cat
Darting in and out
Between gull white blunt-nosed
Scows in diaphanous regatta.
Then sandwiches on the
Sandy shore and the grave
Responsibility of time running out
But we did not listen to the
Calm voice of reason or sense
It must be done once more,
The citrus of delight squeezed dry of
Every drop of fleeting joy.
So forth we sallied in a freshening
Breeze, our spirit’s soaring in
The sail as the Spirit Cat flew up
Upon her beam in the gusting
Streams of unlikely Great Plains air.
Little we displaced tropic sailors knew
A buffalo gale was close upon us
Black squall clouds from some continental
Hell scuttling up unseen astern
And high above our shoulders.
The green hull leeward sounded
Like a narwhal seeking mackerel or tuna
And did not resurface, the cat stuttered
And then as slowly as you please, rolled her
Stern to starboard, spilling you and I into
The lake.
Then thrash in the water, and avoid the
Smothering sail, and clutch at
The drifting borrowed baseball cap
God willing I will lose nothing to
This water, life nor brother nor boat
And I called to you, and you to me
As we struggled in the cloying fluid.
The prairie gale was on us then
With whitecaps roaring by
The cat’s tramp becoming an anvil
For the hammer of wind
Driving us shoreward and resisting
Our efforts as we tried twice
To right her, refusing help from
Boaters speeding by to shelter.
We screamed and shivered and burned
Our fingers raw on ropes
Hauling and heaving at the hulls
Not knowing if God had our
End in view, but calling to Him still until
The howling wind beached us
On pill hill peninsula below a rich man’s
Mansion high on the bluff.
We flipped the cat upright finally
Walking the impossible mast up the
Slope, but you were hypothermically chilled
And I was tropically exhausted
Steam rolling from beneath my thick
Skin of black neoprene.
We begged a moment’s shelter from the
Lightning and thunder and
Lashing rain from a juvenile babysitter
Tending the requisite two children
In the great house.
The clouds and rain blow on to unknown regious
As they do over lakes on the edge
Of these Great Plains stretching to the infinite west
And the sun wanly betook itself
Of it’s lazy summer afternoon duties once more.
We put out from our sheltering shore
Quivering still with fear and cold and
The extremities of our exertions.
The cat rode low, taking water in an unseen wound
So gratefully we lashed her to a Sea Doo
For the short ride back to the beach and landing
Passing by to port a turtled blue hull
Keel upright like a fin
Another unfortunate sailor.
And I thanked God for my life,
And for the old Spirit cat,
As I had cried aloud to Him for help
In the midst and asked for mine
And yours and for that old boat, too.
And I thank Him yet
For that birthday sail
I will not forget
For the adventure and the bond
Of brothers whom God
Has privileged to brave
The elements of this earth
Powers of the air and sea
Yet lived to tell the tale of it,
And know His love and ours
The better.
It was done, once
A day of sailing
On White Bear Lake
We three on an
Ancient leaf green Spirit cat
Darting in and out
Between gull white blunt-nosed
Scows in diaphanous regatta.
Then sandwiches on the
Sandy shore and the grave
Responsibility of time running out
But we did not listen to the
Calm voice of reason or sense
It must be done once more,
The citrus of delight squeezed dry of
Every drop of fleeting joy.
So forth we sallied in a freshening
Breeze, our spirit’s soaring in
The sail as the Spirit Cat flew up
Upon her beam in the gusting
Streams of unlikely Great Plains air.
Little we displaced tropic sailors knew
A buffalo gale was close upon us
Black squall clouds from some continental
Hell scuttling up unseen astern
And high above our shoulders.
The green hull leeward sounded
Like a narwhal seeking mackerel or tuna
And did not resurface, the cat stuttered
And then as slowly as you please, rolled her
Stern to starboard, spilling you and I into
The lake.
Then thrash in the water, and avoid the
Smothering sail, and clutch at
The drifting borrowed baseball cap
God willing I will lose nothing to
This water, life nor brother nor boat
And I called to you, and you to me
As we struggled in the cloying fluid.
The prairie gale was on us then
With whitecaps roaring by
The cat’s tramp becoming an anvil
For the hammer of wind
Driving us shoreward and resisting
Our efforts as we tried twice
To right her, refusing help from
Boaters speeding by to shelter.
We screamed and shivered and burned
Our fingers raw on ropes
Hauling and heaving at the hulls
Not knowing if God had our
End in view, but calling to Him still until
The howling wind beached us
On pill hill peninsula below a rich man’s
Mansion high on the bluff.
We flipped the cat upright finally
Walking the impossible mast up the
Slope, but you were hypothermically chilled
And I was tropically exhausted
Steam rolling from beneath my thick
Skin of black neoprene.
We begged a moment’s shelter from the
Lightning and thunder and
Lashing rain from a juvenile babysitter
Tending the requisite two children
In the great house.
The clouds and rain blow on to unknown regious
As they do over lakes on the edge
Of these Great Plains stretching to the infinite west
And the sun wanly betook itself
Of it’s lazy summer afternoon duties once more.
We put out from our sheltering shore
Quivering still with fear and cold and
The extremities of our exertions.
The cat rode low, taking water in an unseen wound
So gratefully we lashed her to a Sea Doo
For the short ride back to the beach and landing
Passing by to port a turtled blue hull
Keel upright like a fin
Another unfortunate sailor.
And I thanked God for my life,
And for the old Spirit cat,
As I had cried aloud to Him for help
In the midst and asked for mine
And yours and for that old boat, too.
And I thank Him yet
For that birthday sail
I will not forget
For the adventure and the bond
Of brothers whom God
Has privileged to brave
The elements of this earth
Powers of the air and sea
Yet lived to tell the tale of it,
And know His love and ours
The better.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Lovely Bones
White, bone white,
Dry, bone dry,
Here they lie
Amidst the mold
Autumn’s ruby red and gold
All gone by.
Gather them then,
Collect them all
Make of them a pile
A bundle pitiful and small
A girl child’s tibia and femur
A woman’s pelvic saddle
Skull entwined with
Hanks of yet red-gold hair still.
What husband left her there,
Or lover, brother, friend – murderer?
Why should she lie so cold
Upon her bed of old old
Maple tree appendages, mingled
With the sharp needles of pines
Dun dull and brindled brown.
So I will lay my head upon
An empty breast, sprung
Casket of the heart,
Pure enameled cage of hopes
Love now abandoned
Upon a wind of fall
Drifting like descending leaves
Dry and whispering.
I will wonder what children
Might have been
What tanglings amid the
Warm drifts among the trees
Would tint white cheeks
And cause dark eyes
To smolder, lips bruised with
Kisses fierce or nibbles tender.
Oh, yes, and I might dream
Why bones must lie here
Unloved, ungathered as dreams
Of love in autumn
Only, only, for a time and times.
Love will one day
Gather these and knit them
As in their mother’s
Womb first they were knitted
Down below in
Deep to depths unknown unknowable.
Ad majorem Dei gloriam,
Wendell Geary Jr.
Fall, 2001
White, bone white,
Dry, bone dry,
Here they lie
Amidst the mold
Autumn’s ruby red and gold
All gone by.
Gather them then,
Collect them all
Make of them a pile
A bundle pitiful and small
A girl child’s tibia and femur
A woman’s pelvic saddle
Skull entwined with
Hanks of yet red-gold hair still.
What husband left her there,
Or lover, brother, friend – murderer?
Why should she lie so cold
Upon her bed of old old
Maple tree appendages, mingled
With the sharp needles of pines
Dun dull and brindled brown.
So I will lay my head upon
An empty breast, sprung
Casket of the heart,
Pure enameled cage of hopes
Love now abandoned
Upon a wind of fall
Drifting like descending leaves
Dry and whispering.
I will wonder what children
Might have been
What tanglings amid the
Warm drifts among the trees
Would tint white cheeks
And cause dark eyes
To smolder, lips bruised with
Kisses fierce or nibbles tender.
Oh, yes, and I might dream
Why bones must lie here
Unloved, ungathered as dreams
Of love in autumn
Only, only, for a time and times.
Love will one day
Gather these and knit them
As in their mother’s
Womb first they were knitted
Down below in
Deep to depths unknown unknowable.
Ad majorem Dei gloriam,
Wendell Geary Jr.
Fall, 2001
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Seeking Arran
Clyde’s coast
Brunei’s shore
To walk them
Again or anon
Though one exists
Only in the heart’s imagination
The other only in memory’s aging eye.
To walk in block booted feet
Arran’s sea belt macadam,
View with my own white orbs
Lockranza’s iron tower,
Staring black socketed toward
The bay, girt round with her
Sward of rain damp green.
And on beyond to the
Twelve Apostle’s solid
White domesticity, deep set glaze
Catching the sun setting
Toward Erin’s Isle
Below the green gray curve
Of Kyntyre’s horizon line.
And on again to where the soughing
Breeze from the Firth echoes
In the arched confines of the cavern
Where lay the Celtic hero
Bruce’s royal head an exile,
As are those who dream of
Thick salt air flowing warm as mother milk
O’er frothy foam on sand beneath
Ecstatically arched palms sighing
In the heat of the tropic night.
And above the cold washed shingle,
Climbing up and up into the highlands
Of this little Scotland, following
A clattering, dun scree track
To where the rills over goarse and heather
Collect in a cold clear lake
Among the mounds of weathered gray rock hills.
And to the end, in the south
Among the scrub pines where
The red deer run,
When exhausted feet find wool warm
Comfort beneath an inn’s eiderdown.
How my feet do fly
Cold and wet, or warm and dry
In my mind’s far seeing eye
Along an island’s shore,
Pan’s land of nevermore,
Arran’s ilse east of Erin
Seeking Eve and love
Among sea palms and singing pines.
Wendell Geary Jr. – February 15, 2001 - III
Clyde’s coast
Brunei’s shore
To walk them
Again or anon
Though one exists
Only in the heart’s imagination
The other only in memory’s aging eye.
To walk in block booted feet
Arran’s sea belt macadam,
View with my own white orbs
Lockranza’s iron tower,
Staring black socketed toward
The bay, girt round with her
Sward of rain damp green.
And on beyond to the
Twelve Apostle’s solid
White domesticity, deep set glaze
Catching the sun setting
Toward Erin’s Isle
Below the green gray curve
Of Kyntyre’s horizon line.
And on again to where the soughing
Breeze from the Firth echoes
In the arched confines of the cavern
Where lay the Celtic hero
Bruce’s royal head an exile,
As are those who dream of
Thick salt air flowing warm as mother milk
O’er frothy foam on sand beneath
Ecstatically arched palms sighing
In the heat of the tropic night.
And above the cold washed shingle,
Climbing up and up into the highlands
Of this little Scotland, following
A clattering, dun scree track
To where the rills over goarse and heather
Collect in a cold clear lake
Among the mounds of weathered gray rock hills.
And to the end, in the south
Among the scrub pines where
The red deer run,
When exhausted feet find wool warm
Comfort beneath an inn’s eiderdown.
How my feet do fly
Cold and wet, or warm and dry
In my mind’s far seeing eye
Along an island’s shore,
Pan’s land of nevermore,
Arran’s ilse east of Erin
Seeking Eve and love
Among sea palms and singing pines.
Wendell Geary Jr. – February 15, 2001 - III
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Between the Worlds
Hot green haze
Fading to bluing gray in
Onrushing tropic dusk
All edged with burning orange in the utter west.
Above these towers now, over
Old Batavia, tier on tier
Clad with the emblem of the verdigris
Mermaid Arabica and her twin tails.
Java, garden of the east all
Jade, Adamite, Chrysoberyl, Chalcedony, Amazonite,
Emerald archipelago between
Never the twain to meet, East and West.
Crossroad of ancient empire
Qin and Brahmin, Dutch and Britannic
Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie
Shell and Exxon Mobile
Lapped by muddy waters
Off mangrove coasts
And orient religions all
Jesuit, Nestorian, mullahs, monks
In saffron robes and red.
But the waves that wash our
Hearts, brothers, sisters, soul fishers
Are azure and sea.
We then, carry his love,
Floating flame burning within the breast
Sailing in light of brilliant blue
Though to shore-bound view
These vessels drift in the foggy gray
Between the worlds.
July 2007 - OC, Singapore
Hot green haze
Fading to bluing gray in
Onrushing tropic dusk
All edged with burning orange in the utter west.
Above these towers now, over
Old Batavia, tier on tier
Clad with the emblem of the verdigris
Mermaid Arabica and her twin tails.
Java, garden of the east all
Jade, Adamite, Chrysoberyl, Chalcedony, Amazonite,
Emerald archipelago between
Never the twain to meet, East and West.
Crossroad of ancient empire
Qin and Brahmin, Dutch and Britannic
Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie
Shell and Exxon Mobile
Lapped by muddy waters
Off mangrove coasts
And orient religions all
Jesuit, Nestorian, mullahs, monks
In saffron robes and red.
But the waves that wash our
Hearts, brothers, sisters, soul fishers
Are azure and sea.
We then, carry his love,
Floating flame burning within the breast
Sailing in light of brilliant blue
Though to shore-bound view
These vessels drift in the foggy gray
Between the worlds.
July 2007 - OC, Singapore
Lost West of Boon Lay
Listening to Dido
And easily, my life is for rent
In sticky heat on hard seats
In smoothly running electric trains
And air conditioned diesel busses
Yellow sunlight, old with afternoon
Black hair, dark almond eyes
Christian cemetery, Islamic, Chinese
Military camps. Air Force. Army. Academy.
Late but not stressed,
Lost, but confident.
Hot, but there is a drying breeze
Alone but complete.
Truly loved and full of peace
Heart full and still
Because you do, Father, you do.
On the bridge between
Choa Chu Kang west and Choa Chu Kang east,
Following a woman over
To discover I’d gotten off too early
By two stops.
And a mosque just down the end of the block,
And carefully cut green grass in the field across,
And I have peace.
What joy, to be lost and late
And not repeating to myself
A litany of the level of personal inadequacy.
Late but whole.
Lost, and still a man,
Listening to love songs
By a woman I’ll never meet.
August, 2007
Listening to Dido
And easily, my life is for rent
In sticky heat on hard seats
In smoothly running electric trains
And air conditioned diesel busses
Yellow sunlight, old with afternoon
Black hair, dark almond eyes
Christian cemetery, Islamic, Chinese
Military camps. Air Force. Army. Academy.
Late but not stressed,
Lost, but confident.
Hot, but there is a drying breeze
Alone but complete.
Truly loved and full of peace
Heart full and still
Because you do, Father, you do.
On the bridge between
Choa Chu Kang west and Choa Chu Kang east,
Following a woman over
To discover I’d gotten off too early
By two stops.
And a mosque just down the end of the block,
And carefully cut green grass in the field across,
And I have peace.
What joy, to be lost and late
And not repeating to myself
A litany of the level of personal inadequacy.
Late but whole.
Lost, and still a man,
Listening to love songs
By a woman I’ll never meet.
August, 2007
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Alabaster Vial
You are going.
You are not mine,
Gone, and I had no chance.
To tell you
To show you how
I love you,
How I long for you.
Unrequited in my aloneness,
Touched by your grace
Touched by your love and gifts
How can I show you
What you mean to me?
The love inside me is
Strong, full, and fecund
The rivers of longing
A silent and mighty flood within.
I would have scented myself
With this, for your delight,
My delight to soar in yours
As I gave myself to you
Lover, companion, wife, mother
To the progeny of kings.
I only wanted what was the nature of
My creation and my stature fair.
But you are not mine,
You belong to Another,
And to a nameless purpose I cannot
Sound, a vagueness that stifles
My breath, and my heart pounds in
Unknown fear, my lungs burn
Beneath my breast.
So I give you but this portion
The scent, and pour out the vial
Of my longing, that you not forget
The delight I have in loving you.
I will not, cannot be silent.
Know then this, my love, for all of time.
You are going.
You are not mine,
Gone, and I had no chance.
To tell you
To show you how
I love you,
How I long for you.
Unrequited in my aloneness,
Touched by your grace
Touched by your love and gifts
How can I show you
What you mean to me?
The love inside me is
Strong, full, and fecund
The rivers of longing
A silent and mighty flood within.
I would have scented myself
With this, for your delight,
My delight to soar in yours
As I gave myself to you
Lover, companion, wife, mother
To the progeny of kings.
I only wanted what was the nature of
My creation and my stature fair.
But you are not mine,
You belong to Another,
And to a nameless purpose I cannot
Sound, a vagueness that stifles
My breath, and my heart pounds in
Unknown fear, my lungs burn
Beneath my breast.
So I give you but this portion
The scent, and pour out the vial
Of my longing, that you not forget
The delight I have in loving you.
I will not, cannot be silent.
Know then this, my love, for all of time.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
A Church in Tuscany
The experience you gave me,
My friend,
Showing me the beautiful,
Those ancient lines drawn by
Men long dead
But alive for all they touch my heart
Cannot be repeated
Or given me by another
Never in all time.
To have shown to me
The delight of your eyes,
And have shared with me
This secret knowledge of your heart
What more can man give?
And I will never quite know
How it was that we shared this,
You and I
Eye to eye, and eye to art
This breath taking delight
This golden thought arrested
For eternity in the mind of Elohim.
May heaven contain its shrine
As does my mind for time
And may there bowered be
In those mansions of Elysium
This moment and your hand in mine.
December 28, 2000
The experience you gave me,
My friend,
Showing me the beautiful,
Those ancient lines drawn by
Men long dead
But alive for all they touch my heart
Cannot be repeated
Or given me by another
Never in all time.
To have shown to me
The delight of your eyes,
And have shared with me
This secret knowledge of your heart
What more can man give?
And I will never quite know
How it was that we shared this,
You and I
Eye to eye, and eye to art
This breath taking delight
This golden thought arrested
For eternity in the mind of Elohim.
May heaven contain its shrine
As does my mind for time
And may there bowered be
In those mansions of Elysium
This moment and your hand in mine.
December 28, 2000
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Opportunity
Odd, how rejection opens the secret postern door for a midnight walk with the Beloved One. And the things that burn in our breasts with secret fire - unfulfilled longings of the heart or soul - become for us an opportunity to worship Him. To lean into His breast, as John the Beloved did. You've got to love MacDonald, and his metaphors of God clothed in the beauty of the female characters in his fantasies. Exquisitely envisioned. Reminder all again, how the image of God is with us, male and female. And yes, one must agree with Lewis, that we all, as mere creatures, experience the intrusive glory of God as dangerously male. And perhaps this is why women seem drawn to Him more readily than men. But as a man, to see God clothed in beauty, as a woman is, is also to be inexorably fascinated, and to learn to worship, as Keats, in beauty and truth. Perhaps the syphallitic, tubercular romantic will among those we will be astounded to see around the Throne, where many a bishop will go missing. So to Him, the dedication of this secret fast this day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)