Poetry Forum

A Brief History of God


Running water, running through the mind.
The eye at night. The blue the iris views.
Could this be some new world? Or is it all
a place we knew in childhood? Where I’ve trod
has its strange constellations, but it fills
the burning heart, it is no mystery.
And now the sun stands still. The running water
begins and ends this history of God.


The rose is sick, it can’t be well.
The broken branch will not reknit.
I who heard angels like a bell
am changed, there is no stopping it.

Clay climbs his hill again. And from the top:
the same dull plain of sorrow. Every soul
is prisoner, nor will that ever stop.
He pauses – it’s the same long rigmarole.
There is no harvest for this bitter crop.

Clay’s back is broad and made for carrying.
His legs are strong; they will not fail the test.
Let dawn break; Clay will not, he’ll be unvarying.
Come take a look. He has forgot the rest.

I gather that Clay is a character in the Bible, right? I suspect there is a story in there that would make the meaning of this poem more apparent.

Good question, Caleb! No, Clay is my middle and family name (well, CLaiborne). Maybe that helps? Clay pops up a few times in the MS.

Cheers,
John