Wednesday, July 30, 2008

8 hours.

Today is July 30th. Hello July 30th.

Today Meghan gets back from her mammoth trip to England. I say mammoth because of the length of the trip: six weeks. I also say mammoth because the desire for her to return to Wheaton felt incredibly heavy on my soul. Even as the mighty woolly mammoth, resplendent in his long and luxurious fur, creates a large and burdensome weight upon the blades of grass under his elephant-like feet, so did the desire for Meghan to return from England push me into feelings of solitariness.

And now, a poem by Dylan Thomas. Because that's the perfect companion for the epic metaphor.

In The Beginning by Dylan Thomas
In the beginning was the three-pointed star,
One smile of light across the empty face,
One bough of bone across the rooting air,
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun,
And, burning ciphers on the round of space,
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun.

In the beginning was the pale signature,
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile,
And after came the imprints on the water,
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon;
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail
Touched the first cloud and left a sign.

In the beginning was the mounting fire
That set alight the weathers from a spark,
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower,
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas,
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock
The secret oils that drive the grass.

In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.

In the beginning was the secret brain.
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
Before the pitch was forking to a sun;
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve,
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light
The ribbed original of love.

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