Friday, May 10, 2013

On Malcolm Guite's Singing Bowl

(Read/listen to Singing Bowl first)

I begin the song exactly where I am
and read it first, the black print on white field
while the space behind my eyes fills with volcanic pressure
erupts into my frontal lobe and tears run terrified
away from the bomb blast of epiphany

I let him read it then to me, his clipped British accent
oddly smoothing the standing hair
on the back of my tense neck, crowned with pain
from years of trying to keep a cap on what he says
was both about how to pray and how to fulfil my vocation as a poet

Guttural groan escapes my lips like a long shackled muse
finally seeing the light of day, unsure whether to laugh
moan or write and know, somehow, all three are worship
Today I have chosen to take the road less travelled
as the Singing Bowl unlocks the gate.

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