Saturday, January 4, 2014

Song's Nativity | The Singer

In the beginning was
   the song of love.
Alone in empty nothingness
   and space
It sang itself through
   vaulted halls above
Reached gently out to
   touch the Father's face.

And all the tracklessness
   where worlds would be
Cried 'Father' through the
   aching void. Sound tore
The distant chasm, and eternity
Called back--'I love you Son--
   sing Troubadour.'

His melody fell upward
   into joy
And climbed its way
   in spangled rhapsody.
Earthmaker's infant stars
   adored his boy,
And blazed his name through
   every galaxy.

'Love,' sang the Spirit Son
   and mountains came.
More melody, and life
   began to grow.
He sang of light, and darkness
   fled in shame
Before a universe in

Then on the naked ground
   the Troubadour
Knelt down and firmly sang
   a stronger chord.
He scooped the earth dust
   in his hand
And worked the clay
   till he had molded man.

They laid him down beneath
   primeval trees
And waited there. They loved
   him while he slept
And both rejoiced as he began
   to breathe
A triumph etched in brutal

'I am a Man!' the sun-crowned
   being sang.
He stood and brushed away the
   clinging sand.
He knew from where his very
   being sprang.
Wet clay still dripped from
   off the Singer's hands.

Earthmaker viewed the sculptured
Of man, God-like and strident,
Of everything that was,
   content to be
God's intimate and only earthen

The three embraced in that
   primeval glen.
And then God walked away,
   his Singer too.
Hate came--discord--they
   never met again.

The new man aged and died
   and dying grew
A race of doubtful, death-owned
   sickly men.
And every child received the
   planet's scar
And wept for love to come and
   reign. And then
To heal hate-sickened life
   both wide and far.

'We're naked!' cried the
   new men in their shame.
   (they really were)
A race of piteous things
   who had no name.

They died absurdly whimpering
   for life.
They probed their sin for
Self murdered self in endless
   hopeless strife
And holiness slept with

All birth was but the prelude
   unto death
And every cradle swung above
   a grave.
The sun made weary trips from
   east to west,
Time found no shore, and
   culture screamed and raved.

The world, in peaceless orbits,
   sped along
And waited for the Singer and
   his song.


The Father and his Troubadour
   sat down
Upon the outer rim of space.
   'And here,
My Singer,' said Earthmaker,
   'is the crown
Of all my endless skies--the
   green, brown sphere
Of all my hopes.' He reached
   and took the round
New planet down, and held it
   to his ear.

'They're crying, Troubadour,'
   he said, 'They cry
So hopelessly.' He gave the
   little ball
Unto his Son, who also held
   it by
His ear. 'Year after weary
   year they all
Keep crying. They seem born to
   weep then die.
Our new man taught them crying
   in the Fall.

'It is a peaceless globe.
   Some are sincere
In desperate desire to see
   her freed
Of her absurdity. But
   war is here.
Men die in conflict, bathed
   in blood and greed.'

Then with his nail he scraped
   the atmosphere
And both of them beheld the
   planet bleed.

Earthmaker set earth spinning
   on its way
And said, 'Give me your vast
My son; I'll wrap it in a bit
   of clay.
Then enter Terra microscop-
to love the little souls who
   weep away
Their lives' 'I will,' I said,
   'set Terra free.'

And then I fell asleep and all
   awareness fled.
I felt my very being shrinking
My vastness ebbed away. In dwind-
   ling dread,
All size decayed. The universe
Drew back. I woke upon a tiny
Of straw in one of Terra's
   smaller towns.

And now the great reduction
   has begun:
Earthmaker and his Troubadour
   are one.
And here's the new redeeming
The only song that can set
   Terra free.

The Shrine of older days
   must be laid by.
Mankind must see Earthmaker
   left the sky,
And he is with us. They must
   concede that
I am he. They must believe the
   Song or die....

Calvin Miller's The Singer p.44-46, 108-110.

No comments:

Post a Comment