I have a Friend. He had commissioned
a book of poetry.
I must
with such a huge and lofty mission
to put in His idea trust.
He said to me, I shouldn't worry
too much about it.
He will
take care of my life’s story.
All that I have to do – be still
and to observe the life unfolding
with all its charms and strange twists,
excruciating pain, and molding
into unknown - what exists
in patterns of my life already
and makes me laugh, and weep, and scream
with indignation, and its steady
in unpredictableness pace
is bringing closer my dream
by filling gaps in me with verses,
with their unexpected grace
and their underground forces
that stream within.
It is my job
to listen to the voice internal
and to my heart’s unceasing throb
with imprints of the life eternal.
My task is now to direct
a gush of words and to obey
their persistence, to intersect
my suffering, explained one day,
an instrumental tool for now.
It’s for my good.
The pain’s function
is with its power to endow
my poems with some strength, to sanction
their growth, intensity, and ease.
Yet, poetry in turn provides
from any misery release
and through a maze of feelings guides
in moments sore and distressing,
and therefore it’s not a chore
but undeniably a blessing.
How could I dare to ignore
my dear Friend with His commission
and keep His promises at bay?
Although it’s in His tradition
the generosity of pay,
in any case, I wouldn't dare
to take advantage of my Friend.
Enough that He provides care
and to my needs He does attend.
Besides, once my Friend had paid
far more, far more that I am worth,
when on the cross He had displayed
His love for me and my new birth.
20 September 2011