A Poem by Jason Freure

Robert Knight

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October 3rd, 2012 - 10:02 AM

A Poem by Jason Freure

St. Joseph's Oratory

ORA a cry of agony from the flesh mob.
Rip these prison veils
locking us two apart!
Strip the tatters of the earth
from my starved and dirty soul.
ORA a heart's resonance
when the horizons toll an azure birth
in the clutch of an up-reaching hand.
ORA when the supplicant kisses his own spirit,
body and self bent out in submission
at the feet of the icons and idols
in the house of heaven-on-earth.
ORA bliss at the world-navel,
where the cosmic sky is struggled to the earth
and monufied in the cathedral dome,
where the electricity ceases to burn,
but generates the soul from the lofty turbines.
ORA darts and bullets are not enough.
A plane the length and width of the sky must project
in order to infuse the empty above with the praying one.
ORA give, or the astral lacks light
and will not illuminate the earth,
and will not illuminate the things on earth
that will turn dull and fade
when they might shine
as black shines whitely back in the light.
ORA the ascetic has nothing to give
besides himself,
dusty with desert, emaciated, alone.
He offers bones when he should give fat,
he offers ash when he should give barley.
ORA here the heart of a dead saint bleeds
into the night for the thirsty.
His sympathy is sustenance.
He who kneels deserts the crutches
with which he must walk the earth.
When he stands again he may walk with two legs
for awhile, in the open air above the city.
ORA one rests on one's knees
to drink from a stream.
ORA a prayer emanates close to the mouth that spoke it.
Flesh trembles and organs go still
from their churning.
The voice of the prayer cascades through the gut.
Incarnate, the spirit can speak
and speaks its desire to outgrow its body.
Ungrateful spirits abandon their birthplace
and impoverish it.
Their hands pray idly when they refuse the work,
the imperative to multiply, to multiply icons and idols
and works of humanity.
ORA a cup must brim before a drop spills over
unless a hand or a tremor overturns it.
Turn over an empty cup, or nearly empty,
and the drought of the earth receives not a drop.

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