Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Priest of Poetry

for Soroya

Have I taken a vow
of poverty for my art?
Reading sacred texts
and holy men, I do not doubt
that I have become a priest
of poetry.

"I am a nun to theatre,"
she muses.
There is passion in her eyes,
her concentrated gaze
peering into me.
I am naked.
“Then I am a priest of poetry,”
I smile back.
“How poetic,” she says,
emptying her coconut porter.

Years of celibacy, it seems, carved
on belts, silence in the church
of my mind.

I give my life to you, poetry.
I will scrawl notes in your margins.
I will paint cathedrals with words.
I will take communion every day:
it is with the breaking of the spine
of the book that we remember you;
it is with the drinking of verse
that we remember you.
I will sweat rhythm,
sing stanza, whirl dizzily.
I will stand on the street corner,
shouting the names of the dead.

I am a priest of poetry.
I carry my bible with me everywhere,
mumbling its incantations
to the wall.

Creative Commons License
This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

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