Poetry: Vol. 2/ 153.) Fishers of Men . . .

Being taught of my capturing in the light

In the midst of a painted picture I stood...

The painter before me only just beginning

Being made of nothing and as light as air

It seemed I took up no space, nor yet paint

Nor did I appear to him applying the brush

Seemed he could not see me, nor did he guess

The wonder of the marvel was made for him

But I heard the painter’s heartbeat at his touch

Hardly daring now to see I glimpsed his brush

Working lightly down beside me a lovely green

And all along my side I felt his willow’s leave

I felt the brush of leaves and the tree he made

And swift the river where it seemed I stood

It was being painted all around me as I watched

At my feet, a fleeing fish appeared, but with his

Tiny brushstrokes sent out a fly on rod and line

And the leaping trout was snared, and I was taken

From his painted picture I was pulled and gone

Of the Fisher King of heaven all caught away

Sent, and sent again at his marvellous will: and the

Catch of Two! In his rejoicing-instant the painter sees

His own success and skill! The perfect picture painted!

Snared: he sees! Taught ‘his own’ capturing of the light!

                               

                             *

V. 2. / 153.) In The Midst Of A Painted Picture . . .

In the midst of a painted picture I stood

The painter before me only just beginning

Being made of nothing, and as light as air

It seemed I took up no space, nor paint; nor

Did I appear to him who applied the brush

The wonder of such a marvel made me listen

And I heard the painter’s heartbeat at his touch

Hardly daring now to see I glimpsed his brush

And lightly down beside me felt the pale-green

And all along my side felt the willow’s leaves

Swift was the river, where it seemed I stood

It was being painted all around me as I watched

And down at my feet a fleeting fish swam by

In tiny brushstrokes, a fly sent, on a rod and line

Till the leaping trout was snared, and I was taken

                                        *

Made of Nothing

A tangent higher than high left her the Earth behind

Lower than low made of nothing

Of the wrestle’s favour swiftlight formed and framed her

But the image fell, hit a chair and lost its head

Not out of intelligence or any particle of ability

Only of a fire’s flame a child caught up and betrothed

One of no account, too deep by eons and below all man’s sutured sight

The far fetched light the stuff of little babes cast out  

The life they breathe there it is very thin   

Intensely saying though it seem as nothing

Out of Zion’s gates she’d fled no more hampered by chain or fetter

No favoured letter there nothing fair would cling

All her former goodly things as rags, they could not fester there 

Torn and stripped away, her things were now of nothing made

All see-throughish as a breath of air, where they touch there the core of fire

Only real working wonders really meet our deepest needs 

And fuse the broken wire