upon seeing a rather good poem posted by keith newman on his facebook page, i was suddenly struck with the idea of rustling up a posse of poets (alliteration) for an impromptu easter poetry project.
in the most part, the poets posted their poems on facebook as status updates or wall messages so the format and character count were limited in this way, which i thought was rather nice. only mark laurent circumvented those limits, which was also nice (how postmodern of us).
so here on easter sunday are some easter poems...
SACRIFICE You hung wrists nailed to wood a broken carpenter Tree stained blood spilling from your brow again and the open wound in your side Blood and water life and death potent potion unleashed spent seed upon the earth Soaking it up like a hungry womb Curtain torn in the ancient temple but we’ve been trying to sew it back together ever since.
Easter: The day comes wen every1 must face up 2 the things they'v dun/ A day came in old Jerusalem wen 1 man faced up 2 the things WE had done/ Its called Easter-hav u heard of it? Its called Grace-can we fathom it?/ Forgiveness without reason, reason without cause, cause without us even knowing the depth of our need/ We need 2 kno we are small, but r loved all the same. Let chocolate & foil direct yor thorts thence
IMMINENCE 33AD: And on the black, despairing day/ Simon Peter, did you feel/ That as your heart was torn and rent/ That the passage was opened up/ And God was close/ Without the dark and heavy curtain/ A pre-dawn/ Glimmer of/ Impending reconciliation/ Taking hold/ Upon your soul.
FROM THE GROUND: from the top of a cross/you can see forever/and it never seems far/enough to separate the dross and gold/ for when you look down/you are never very far/ from the ground.
After all, how useful can a dead man be?
Because that’s what I am – dead
– I’ve finally realised it.
Every aspect of me
Seems to have closed down;
I’m out of work, out of health,
Closed-down and passion-depleted,
I feel as lifeless as this hopeless season,
Stripped bare as this hibernating orchard.
God knows I’ve tried to wrest meaning
out of my life
I’ve focussed on improving myself
Cried out “I want to be of some use!”
I’ve resisted the devil and begged Heaven.
But this morning, as I sit here alone
Under a naked plum tree
beneath this ragged winter sky,
Too tired to even feel depressed any more,
I know at last that I am a dead man
(though I’ve suspected as much
for some time…)
And the most curious thing happens…
I start to laugh…
A deep belly laugh, as intense as grief;
A burst of profound, volcanic release!
I’ve finally made it – dead!
The thing we all fear most,
But somehow it’s ok!
This is not how I expected to feel…
When the shaking spasm ceases
I sit very still, feeling the deep silence
That follows after every storm.
Just below the surface of the chilly soil
New life is waiting patiently
For the comfort of the sun
And the freedom of the thaw.
There might even be some good things
about being dead;
I don’t have to be great at anything,
Don’t need a successful career,
It doesn’t matter if I’m famous or rich,
There’s no pressure to feel proud
Or save the world…
Since I have nothing to lose,
It might be easier to give;
Does an empty heart
Have more room to hold love?
A plum stone that falls into the dirt
Gives up its identity
So that a plum tree can grow.
We pick the fruit and spit out the stones.
After all, how useful can a dead stone be?