a little while ago I wrote a poem. I found it again tonight when I was storing away a good quote by Bertrand Russell that Herr Fish put on the forum a little way down and I thought I would stick it up. No need for responses. its not very long and its about finally beginning to realise how little I am.

And is this aching breaking?

But no more melodrama please
No more claims of knowledge and grand design;
Then is this mere weariness or, at last, a speck of wisdom
That drives me downward, downward?

Blip I am: no ‘humility’ here: just painful, painful truth;
Would it were not so:
No holy acceptance here: just sighs and tired anger
. . . . . . . . .

Words fail me . . . .
No poet me . . .
But one thing, one thing only
Must I say before I go.
Say and sing and say again:
Say until I know:
My blipness, weakness, smallness:
A gateway, entrance, door.

A door not opened before:
Stiff, unyielding,
Heavy, swollen,
Chafing against frame;
Who pushes? Leave be I say!
But no. . . . .
No . . . .
Come in and be and be
And be with me.

The other side? Not paradise for sure:
Weeds waist high, brambled, choked,
Beyond? the cliff, the dark abyss,
Of nothingness and grief.

And was it You who spoke those words:
Come in and be and be with me?
My voice, Your words?
Your voice, my words?
Both and both perhaps.

I have a list of unanswered questions.

Come in and be and be with me
You said and still I grieve.
I grieve because I did not hear
Your words now ringing in my ear.

(sometime in 2007)