Above Heroic (Though in Secret Done)

By Richard Mather

Exile, or ignominy,

or bonds, or pain

You must wait for courage or grace but fate

Is stubborn. Waiting is very long, like exile,

And is walked in steps, solitary.

The Lord’s world lies before you, but all is war.

A bulldog ant bites its tail just as the tail stings

The head, multiplying curses.

Earth tacks to your toes, dust sticks to your face.

Strong light beats down; it burns your forehead

As in wandering mazes you roam.

At dusk birds roost and craw from the branches.

In the morning an eagle will fall from the clouds

Like fork lightning, bringing

To this land a false gleaming, flashing knife-like

At a slaughter. Tired now, you stumble and fall.

Tonight rocks shall be your pillows.

An Eden raised

in the waste

wilderness?

Startled from a dream,

Only half-aware of yourself,

You discern a man

Whose clothes are white as light,

Feeding deer, tending cattle.

The wolf and kid feed from his hands.

He cares for the spider

And the web, and protects

The slippery earthworm

From the wild horses’ strong gallop.

Before you the man kneels

And from him a great power flows.

You grow strong;

Your hands are fierce; your hair

Is lustrous; the blind spots

Are peeled from your eyes; scales fall.

Each moment in his presence

Is new, seeming

To come from eternity.

Afraid of nothing, you laugh;

You catch the scent of battle from afar.

At the shofar’s blast

You speak with great authority.

But there is no battle to join

And no scent to enjoy.

No fierce encounter

Or collision with fate: there is peace

And only peace, a peace never contested

So as to seem quite false.

There’s no-one around, not even the man

Whose clothes appeared to shine.

You feel a great dread.

Your potential shall be fruitless.

Your desire staunched.

Your sight denuded.

You have been tricked by the enemy,

Just as our first parents were tricked.

To the old life

You could return and command

A following, maybe seize

The throne or invade a foreign power.

But that is vanity,

A wandering of the appetite.

No, the way back and the way here

Are incommensurate.

Once crossed, the line between

The two worlds cannot be crossed again.

Forward now:

try again, wait

Stuck in this uneasy station, what else

To do but to let these words I write

(Knowing you’ll never write anything),

Lift you high and set you down on a green bank

Where angels serve celestial foods

And ambrosial wines

(Real or illusory, I discern not).

And as you partake,

You wait and hope for what you don’t see,

Not knowing if what you see is true,

Never knowing if it comes freely

Or costs you everything.

Let others be led in circles by the devil

Let them be persuaded by his rhetoric,

Blinded by his illusions.

Let others lose themselves in the world’s

Profane places where carnal powers,

Which occupy godlike offices,

Pry into the chambers of the sleeping,

And the unspeakable desire to see

And know yields only cadavers and vanities,

Concealing true vision.

You, though, shall rest here

And watch for the moment when you

Can leave the high-vaulted sky

For your mother’s low-roofed house

(Preserved and kept whole, by her, as always),

Towards which the soul

Leans, for the soul is not the self that goes

To heaven, but the self that,

After a long time abroad,

Retreats and finds its way home unobserved,

Away from profane eyes,

To retire, to talk, and to read in private.

This is above heroic, even if in secret done.