There are poems that I envy,

in the sea-fog rolling in at turn of tide,what feature of its form alerts us firstthat it’s so present, now, and here?That spiralled horn – why is it that we knowthat’s where it should be seen,that place upon our forehead we can feel ourselves?The unicorn within us knows –when attention spirals to a fine, fine…

ears, minds, hearts, souls,record actions thatare already poetry or poeticin themselvesor so it seemswhich makes it easyfor poetic poets to writepoetic poetryas when I watch youpoised so still, sitting there,your face against the light,painting meeting sculpture,still as any animal,still as any goddessroaming the cosmos in your mindseeking, ballpoint poised,the answer to some hiddencrossword clueliving in…

out in the market place of this world,I remember that I have forgottenone thing – but cannot rememberwhat it can be…’My Beloved saidIs it yourself?‘It is of myself, yetit is not myself..’‘Is it Myself? ’‘It is of Yourself, yetit is not Yourself..’‘Then it must be that one thingwhich is most precious to you:that for which…

but it said nothingI worshipped the Selfbut it did not smile at meI surrendered every actionto the Selfbut it only watched,said nothing,did not smilenow I am silent,watch, and smile:how can you findthat which you never lost?

for, if they read the heavens’ portents so well,what need of proof, of presence at the scene?And then, to go without due retinuethrough unforgiving deserts; foreign towns;and forests hiding thieves and wild beasts too?And carrying rich gifts? And worse, their crowns?And so to risk three kingdoms, not just one?And for the sake of some religious…

matches the silence and the stillnesslike the speaking silenceof the retrochoir behind the altarof a simple white Greek island church –that has no ornament; simply wallspainted in a pale blue wash,the space, the air itself, as radiant with heaven;behind the iconostasis – gold and candle and eternal gaze –where praise is prepared; thought surrendered;humility the…