Poetry

BECOMING NONE

by Walter Boswell
12/11/18
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Becoming None

Maybe the only true society is personal –

                holding out

                                for the benefit of self alone

                                                the credulity of goodness.

A union of spirits: one, as he is one,

                                                then one together.

At vision’s outset

                peers the fear of fate, not faith, which saves;

the dream no more destined for experience

                                                than for relating:

                lying across this destitute autumn a-languishing.

                                Who am I,

                       and why a stranger,

                and what appropriates a soul

                  to become equal with God?

Let Christ be displayed;

                let it no more to be imagined

                                the purported provisions to accomplishment.

Let caution flare – as a precaution to lit divisiveness.

When striking             and leaking volatile sin,

                suffering afterward these pinned conservative feet,

                                                within this wreck …

                lie closer to extinction than eternity.

It is a concession toward unity

                that vanity must make

                                in tribute to the Master.

For seasons growing            yet coming have I,

                but upon whose neck

                the head must first be planted

                                before the crown.

Left Behind

Left to lie in composts of unsettling truths …

                it is not so much that I have mis-taken the sacred ground,

                                I have also lost the shovel –

shan’t even be missing them,

                these treasures of long-buried dedication.

So many things unrecorded,

                ostensibly left to less frantic times;

now to shudder at the shutting of windows,

                                glorious passages breaking –

                along with all the other enlightenments

I once thought mathematically bonded, glorious,

                                and altogether beautifully fit for framing.

With only one lamp of reasoning remaining:

                who shall see through to me

                when the last and broken closes.

Sad Job

                                Ad lib the make-shift walk;

                                kineosis, overturning, frustration.

                Is it not because there is no God inside,

                                have you no god to call upon?

                I shall conduct a Satanic task,

                                and take thee down into a salt mine,

                perhaps to be raised up in a day –

                                perhaps in a Lord’s day.

                Know then to suffer

                                what you must suffer to know,

                                                regardless the contradiction.

Last Days

                                            Mind,

                                         an eye,

                                  ill, going blind;

                    a collection of thought tools

restrictive of framework like an out-of-bounds stage.

A play begun in fallowness, with persistence to learn –

                                 spiritless now.

         Watch the leaves of colored reason fall

   from this would-be crossing of November fate

                   into another coming winter.

                All these contradictions to self.

Dr. Walter Boswell

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