Angels of Death

“. . . I might dream of climbing forever the tall dark trees above me. They are so tall that I feel as if I should find at their tops the nests of the angels; but in this mind they would be dark and dreadful angels; angels of death.” – G.K. Chesterton

Cast out, they wait at the tops of tall trees
In nests wound round with wisps of clouds and ivory feathers,
Reinforced with snow that glitters, gleams, and glows,
Reflecting the icy, piercing light of a moonlit winter night.

They do not sleep.
They do not age or weep or rage.
They have no unearthly children at their feet,
no dust or dung to taint their pristine keep.

They do not die, and they do not live.
Full of promise, they never give.

They shine and shimmer, awe and blind.
They seek to seduce.
They seek to bind.

They seek to eat that part of us
that lives, or dies, forever,
as it must.

They come to us from high above,
Our desolation certain but for Love.

–A.M. Otwell, Advent 2008

Voices in My Head

Voices in My Head

I suppose we each have some voice
rising and falling in our heads,
a blood-dimmed tide loosed
as the center fails to hold.

Yeats of course,
yet not Yeats’ voice.
I hear an old and weary woman of letters,
voice revitalized in the widening gyre,
the fluorescent lights’ disquieting hum
as something slouched toward Bethlehem.

“To be or not to be, that is the question.”

“I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.”

The first chapter of the Gospel according to St. John
forever in King James in chorus.
Sixth grade class in chapel,
youthful unison producing half gospel,
half Dr. Seuss.

On discovering that some words echo,
I decided to learn how to use them.

I honed my skill at spoken word
took home with me the verse Wurl hurled,
Rochelle’s measured devastation,
eerie voices that
echoed my pain,
my shame.
Made it real.
Made me reel.
Made me feel.
Made me real.

Later, once taught to thirst,
I looked up laureates.
Frost has made all the difference.
Collins and I have our last cigarettes.
Kooser’s reader cleans her raincoat, and I am somehow comforted.

Recently, the liturgy,
the Word made Flesh in small bright flashes
of various priestly voices throughout each day.

I also hear a still small voice, but I often do not listen.

One would think that I would have something to say,
but somewhere, sometime, somehow,
someone already said it better.

The voices tell me to sing a new song,
but there is nothing new under the sun.

At least I am never alone.

–A.M. Otwell, 2008

(Minor changes made on Tuesday, December 9.)