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.