Version II: Birdsong and Resurrection
For I will consider my cat Jeoffry.
Christopher Smart
The birds were singing out that Easter morning,
as we walked to the lakefront in the crisp
Chicago air, and my mind understood
each word they spoke. You’ll never find a day
that isn’t God’s. “St Francis,” Brecht averred,
“preached to the fowls.” My journey home – which lay
just down the road – became complex. “A good
deed never goes unpunished,” I have heard.
The sky above me opened without warning.
The Stations of the Cross: Christ fell.
I walked them in that Spanish church.
I heard the angels like a bell.
Did God then leave me in the lurch?
At Easter Mass, clean out your wallet and
hug some bum till you’re stopped by the police.
You do each thing you do at God’s command.
Restraints and Haldol might just bring you peace.
Amid the wreckage and regret,
amid the loss of what was sweet,
I rest awhile. I’m living yet.
I’m breathing. I am on my feet.
Version I: Birdsong and Resurrection
The birds were singing out that Easter morning,
as we walked to the lakefront in the crisp
Chicago air, and my mind understood
each word they spoke. You’ll never find a day
that isn’t God’s. “St Francis,” Brecht averred,
“preached to the fowls.” My journey home – which lay
just down the road – became complex. “A good
deed never goes unpunished,” I have heard.
The sky above me opened without warning.
The Stations of the Cross: Christ fell.
I walked them in that Spanish church.
I heard the angels like a bell.
Did God then leave me in the lurch?
At Easter Mass, clean out your wallet and
hug some bum till you’re stopped by the police.
You do each thing you do at God’s command.
Restraints and Haldol might just bring you peace.
The years accrete as I think back
upon that sudden fall from grace.
I am made up of what I lack.
That can’t be helped. That has its place.
Amid the wreckage and regret,
amid the loss of what was sweet,
I’m taking stock: I’m living yet.
I’m speaking. I am on my feet.
Birdsong and Resurrection
The birds were in song on my walk yesterday John, as if it was Spring, of course it wasn't (not according to my calendar... perhaps I should throw the calendar away!) I walked past a beggar the other day, but saw a lad give him a five pound note. The optimism of youth! Anyway, I can relate to aspects of your poem.
Bw
Phil
Bw
Phil
Hi Phil,
Birdsong is great, isn't it? And they seem to sing at random intervals.
Five quid is a generous gift for a young lad. That does gladden the heart. When i was mad, i had a simple system - every coin in my pocket went to the first person who asked. After that, I'd have no more change. I'm glad there were things here you could relate to! Madness may be more relatable than one imagines, or at least, that is perhaps my hope.
Cheers,
John
Birdsong is great, isn't it? And they seem to sing at random intervals.
Five quid is a generous gift for a young lad. That does gladden the heart. When i was mad, i had a simple system - every coin in my pocket went to the first person who asked. After that, I'd have no more change. I'm glad there were things here you could relate to! Madness may be more relatable than one imagines, or at least, that is perhaps my hope.
Cheers,
John