The Poetry Of...
Harold Lorin...........................................................................
The Baptism
The bald old man knelt at the lectern
His lowered head did not reflect the lights.
He seemed distracted
As if he had not entirely understood
The Trinity or Transubstantiation.
Or could not remember why he was this
Moment kneeling before strangers.
The Pastor waved the water on his head
It must have felt cool. Perhaps surprising.
The Pastor made the cross,
It must have felt committing. Perhaps warm.
The congregation watched him rise.
Of what was he now part?
Who are we? Have we really been told
That which we yet must do?
Late Day
Elisabeth is vacuuming.
From the open door above the deck
The sound comes down the hill
Within the laden summer air
Toward the pond now pinking.
Like bells announcing vespers in a cloister.
Filtering through lobelia in the pots
Passing through plaintain and hortensia
Like a chorus of Evensong sung
From the vaulted chancel, all else hushed.
Birds quietened, sky still, thought halted.
Holy moment--Elisabeth is vacuuming our home.
Origen
Ya'know I hired ol' Origen for bodyguard,
Needing protection from dese here con-substantiationists.
So far it ain't been a bad idea.
My brain has stopped itchin'.
These Neo-Platonists are tough.
People don't mess with these guys.
They work it out- the Son from the Father
The Bird from the Spirit, the Nous from the Soul.
Emanance from Emanation.
They know who ta trust.
What's what. Who's who.
What's goin' on.
What happened.
