The Book of My Soul
“The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof but canst
not tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.” John ch 3. vs 8.
In a plain bound book
I tattoo white paper in blue
Then wrap myself in this shaman’s cloak
To fly with the eagle to a sky renewed.
I sing words salvaged from the press
In the intervals of Te Deum,
Stolen from its church,
Sung so only its melancholy shines.
Pärt turned to church and tradition
Amidst a century of horror,
And I turn to these conjured spirits
In a world polluted by podcast trash.
Inwardly, I turn – not without question.
The simplest words are sewn with elaborate doubt.
But into the image of inwardness
I dive deeper, and there find reasons to go on.
In the mandalas, strange mazes, of this book
I encircle, tame, and then hold fast
The sound of the blowing wind.
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