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Poems by Brian Keeble
Far from the Dawn
No time cometh upon you but is followed by a worse.
As lights excess I am original night,Begotten dark of lights unyielding ground.My dark, discharged as light, discovers itsDenial falls only as shadows cast by itself.I move to embrace and marry each borrowed shade,Since true descent from light to shadow findsAll dark dissolves in bright felicity.My light, reflected, sanctions each weighted stepOf transience, its sole enabling path,Since light and dark sculpt every seeming here.What animates the flowers consummate artCannot not make the symmetry of leavesRose and thorn being pledged to a single stem.Here thought is natal to what cannot be thought:The minds eye looks from the unobservable.All opposites, wedded ever apart, as soundFrom silence, assign the way familiarly trod.
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As time, my unceasing flowdestinys traceIs like a river as it floods with life;It carries a tide of purgatorial fireWhose bloated rancour pours into the soul,Distorting each path of light, and so deceivesThe senses to make the seeming rigid earthAnd stars conceal the rivers inviolate sourceThat starts and ends in preternatural dark.
As judge, I rake the purgatorial firesAbundant ash. Mans creaturehood miscarries.Submerged in time, fathomed only by count,The selfdevouring here, with sweated hands,Consume, consume, striving against the checkOf surfeit. The world used up in noise and stenchCould never satisfy this gross expansionOf appetites. To what avail this rushTo make addition to perfunctory discontent?On this bleak shore, long after the dawn,Finding its limit, the exhausted wave,Faltering, dives and breaks. The living streamLeaves only dregs, and dries.
Yet, what of my signs?There is an alchemy at work in things:That holy fire whose transmutation stirsThe virgin womb of mercy, kindling thereA radiance that lights arts equipoise,To show how each thing named is in the throesOf praise, speaking through eternitys Word.Thus my unseeable dark, refracted andReflected in every colour, as a bodyWears an embroidered cloak, unfoldsTo hide how naked is my original night.
Poems Brian Keeble
