................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Harold Lorin................................................................
RUSSIAN EXHIBIT
I saw a summer of my father
By the birch trees at his river.
Perhaps the boy'd come down
Warm and sweating from the village.
He is slender, small. I see him in the water.
I hear his laugh. It rests in the leaves
Why did I not hear it when it mattered ?
Apathea
Like Origin and Augustine
And Gregory and Clement
I've searched my core to find
The Spirit they promised lies within.
But what I find are shards of twisted
Remnants of a dwarflike soul,
Envious, boastful, arrogant, and rude.
So is what they say not true?
And Plato's God is inaccessible
And all there is is this Angry Fellow
Beclouded on a Mountain top?
Coronation
Now she sits enthroned and crowned
Above the golden spires and the clouds
The Virgin once more with her Child.
Around her angels chanting Holy Holy
The aging Peter. Grey robed Paul
The Baptist with anachronistic rod
Two bearded berobed Bishops
What does she say to them?
What hopes do they exchange?
What passes as communion?
What understanding might they have?
The mother of the Child and
Those others.
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