Reading Siddhartha While Standing
Siddhartha sits there Eastern-spiritual still
waiting for nothing
but I have a response
although my complicated Western-outlook
causes me to hesitate; scramble; blame
he and Govinda take the highest road
that makes my nose bleed
they don’t even seem to be cold
but I in my heavy-hooded childhood
drama traumas shake, rattle and roll
Hermann the German writes inscriptions
between pages; between well-chosen words
about the meaning of wanting to find
the meaning of life
but on balance I find no meaning
so I ignore Siddhartha,
sitting there
without any apparent care
does he realise I’m
standing on his toes?
The Bloodied Wall-Hanging
Jesus hangs on the wall
fresh cuts, splinters
a well-worn path in the carpet
no deviation
a belief so intense
there’s drippings of blood
anguish, torment
a space filled with 5000 bodies
a thumbed calendar
with a tractor digging
is boldly marked
with the holy days
prints of Christ
rescuing, surrendering
sprinkled among
the shambles
he and her
black and white
told and been told
clear as a luminous, sun-drenched day
biblical in their Sunday best
they offer a ride
I go along
enthralled, transfixed, expectant
