The Miracle of the Sacrament

This is a poem in three parts written over today and yesterday. It describes various recent events in my life with a rather heavy-handed pinch of symbolism and the like.

 

The Miracle of the Sacrament

 

By Sam Davidson

 

I.

 

Overgrown

 

Write upon the pages of the Kings

Some greater vision that might be seen

Illusory, a night-charmed sun

Like troubled dreams of troubled things

And turmoiled folks that can’t conceal

Their ragged boot-heels shine

And polished faces appeal

 

To laughing Gods in withered trees

Amid the crags and passes

Of some mountain shrine

Looted and overgrown,

That deep red flower, soiled

And sown and scratched

By tattered boots in tired feet

With dirty soles, their work complete

Who walked the road but didn’t meet

 

Our saviour in his army Jeep

In colonial leathers and garments cheap

His palm-tacks stuck in red lapels

That bleed and soak the blooms

Mid spring wells, blossoming

And all the hornbeams flowering

In Edwardian streets

 

By Victorian red of Hanoverian succession

To line our roads in grand procession

You find no rest whose life-scratched clothes

Will cloth the windows

Where ivy grows and crowds inside your weary mind

 

I looked, O child but couldn’t find

And couldn’t hope for Spring’s own Sun

When Summer’s gone and Winter’s done

It’s execution in the boughs

And in the mossy Kingdom of grass

I didn’t water the killing fields

Rather hoped to break your misty sleep

That talks and hopes and prays and cries

 

And knows I could never want to die

And neither you my English child

In war-torn fields and woods still wild

And where the rocky streams still flow

Here my love may bloom and grow

In a dappled coppice where the cool wind blows

You came to me, I never chose

To be your comfort but you asked

And I touched your hand

As your breath moves scented hair

And sainted eyes rest in worldly lids

Heavy in bright night’s own glittering kiss

And when you wake the world seems changed

Our loving God plays stranger games

 

 

II.

 

Communion

 

Wracked by adoration

This rural retreat

In divine commandment transfigures

And seems to form some sweet

Confused tapestry

O, vines and creepers on ruddy brick

Who climb so high and grow so thick

Concealing artful designs of symmetry

 

Do you not put forth flowers?

Pure, unmarked ‘til clear frost-fed

And sanctified rest in blesséd beds

Their icy communion corrupted

By the perfumed dust of summer’s

Unnatural consummation

But still in raptured transformation

The arid air is damped by holy life

Come rarely by day my light-specked

Night-born Epiphanies

 

Here in God’s own sanctity

Arcadian green in urban scenes

Where fog-drenched cars drip

Sweat and steam

Where from the stars a drifting calm

May distil from words what they really mean

 

“But when a moment like this arrives,

At last I relax, hope conquers belief”

So never mind the past-scratched hands

I wash them in the sacred streams

Of love’s own land

Where we erected statues

And wrought upon altars of Western brick

Some simple token of greeny quick

Though bloody drenched and sweaty slick

Our crucifix a thorny stick

Here

 

A nation built for ourselves

In brief moments of peace twixt penitence

And hell, our well-hoped for

Communion is brief

I know that sleep is drawing near

But across the streets I think I hear

 

“Hosanna in thy God-sent tryst

So write thy hymns in sun-kissed spots

And when the rain comes

Worry not”

 

He walks with me, though well concealed

‘Til blessed company can reveal

Thy beauty in his craftsman’s hands

That hold your life’s heart fluttering

Murmurs in the night-surf spluttering

‘Gainst impotent serpent’s angry muttering

Whose cruel designs will hurt no more

His artifice spread; fine sand on the shore

Of shifting prayer’s light sun-soothed sea

 

Say when you sleep you’ll dream of me

Your light-blessed-flesh rest peacefully

Some fairer country we may see

 

 

III.

 

Horticulture

 

I planted two seeds in ferny Earth

One for each of the last days

Of November

As the fire lights it’s final ember

As the car-lit f*g bids chilly memory stir

As smoky recollection fills the greenhouse air

 

I lived a day in two parts

One for dawn and one for dusk when awakes the heart

And prays God renew our better half

 

You asked me why I smelt of hash

And beer and wine and mis-spent ash

I smile and laugh and must confess

And “sorry mate, I’ve got none left

But if you’ve got an hour or two

I’ll roll the heavens and Earth for you”.

 

Well you’ve not been a lady

But I’m not a knight

And neither pity nor judgment can set it right

And I’ll look straight ahead and give sound advice

While my questing temptation lends trickery tonight

 

I behave as good as much I can

And so befits a gentleman

And hope all around may sometime agree

There’s much more to life than what we see.

Reviews

[Freder Fredersen (aka G..]

Dude, this is fantastic. I have no criticism to make. Just to say that this stands heads above anything I've read recently. Overgrown was my favorite section, but the view of higher powers taken here makes such sense. And the overwhelming tone lends to the idea that we just don't know. And it's far too complex for these mortal minds to grasp. Loved it. Going in my favorites. Perhaps when I've read it a few more time I'll have more to offer....If so, I'll shoot you a message!

Cheers!
G

[Lexi Nicole]

This is so beautiful. It's refreshing. I felt like I was reading a long-forgotten piece of classical writing. Your rhythm and flow is flawless, your language is spectacular, your imagery is amazing. There is not a single thing I dislike about this piece and I have no criticism to offer. Amazing write, fantastic job! Keep writing, you've got a real gift.

-Howl