Two Poems
MTC Cronin

Writing God Down

Words. Tapering towards the end of the thing where they fall off.

Write 'HOPE'. No, that's not right.
Closer, but such unjustified shame, such painful
diffidence can never last.

Doctors of the Law, Saints and a handful of great scholars are preparing
the divine names and creating a vocabulary in which to speak them.

God has been the most philanthropic eponym, giving his name to all
people and places. [With some minor slipups: 'for example, there was
a big furor in the Japanese government a while back about the character
commonly used to mean "woman", which is based on a symbol for a person
sweeping. Apparently there are better alternatives they wanted people to use. . .']

God is the unavoidable text.

'R' is the dog letter. Trilling on the tip of my tongue as the letter
for god is thrilling.

It's all about oath.

And how what you say can kill you. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I want those beautiful
wordsters to stop breaking my heart.


It is not for nothing we inherit
The glory of victims
The nightmares of despair
And the hate and anguish
Of a tired and conquered crowd
--Paul Èluard

We have forgotten their steps
Our own untraceable
As the sound
That sends only its echo

The word a feeling
Creation of the witness
To their own
The word against nothing

Confessing this
Unnecessary confession
The desire to speak
For all who arrived with us

We are not asleep
We have inherited
Their wakefulness
The vigil beside life

In the long grass
In the beard
Around the river's edge
In the similar form elsewhere

The mouth like gravity
Finding earth
That thing inside
Its name

Language lies in it
The field beyond
People with rocks
In their bellies

People devouring
The heaviness around them
Constant and sure
Of pain

Giving birth to ships
Striking heavily
At the air and weeping

They are parsing glory
Squeezing it for juice
And sunbeams

Admitting it
Belonging it
Living it in a little knapsack
On their backs

Thrown together
By these incidents
Of glory
They travel like a family

Going and tripping
They have grown up here
Where the mud is silver
Where gold is spit

Here in the hierarchies
And early morning norms
Here mechanical and vulgar
Befitting an artisan

Here in a morning of worms
Clean their lungs
Ready to speak
Like handicrafts savoured

Of optimistic despair
How none are able to help it
Nor preparing banquets
Or begging

Of readiness to be afraid
Doing it all
Because the only reason not to
Was fear

Later on they tell us
It becomes so easy to say
They were great
Convinced of their courage

Showing grief
The true friend of the deceased
Knowing the recentness
Of all loss

Knowing that sharing
Is public
That reasoning
Is performed

Glorious glorious glorious
Convincing singing
That the nightmare
Is an old whisper

Seeing the world from sleep
How it remains the same
Sitting on a path

Playing with what binds it
Splitting off the trees
And the spirals

Now and again
Putting some time into the pit
Rubbing water from the leaves
Onto its face

The world is a child of wonder
No wonder
It was born
Without excuses

Not for nothing
Does it put rainbows up there
By demanding
The colour's union

Not for anyone
Will it renounce its marriage
To disturbance
To the small one

This one is the ceremony of itself
Buried in the sky
In the enormous part

In immunity
It hides like teeth
At work behind the carcass
Appetite of all definitions

Like anguish it congeals
About our lips
While we bid again
For tomorrow

Spilling back into jurisdiction
On the other side of now
It's all over

Ashed and alembic
Inhabiting the unaware
Tired writhing
Blotches of faith

Flesh with ten lots
Of memories attached
Flesh with none

So the wars of remembering
Exist and exist
Plating right
Plating wrong

When we open our eyes
On their hiatus
The judge's first job begins
In self-possession

We fill the swamp
Cut our tongues to shapes
Rest the keys
To the doors we have passed

Make sense our own
Extinguishing the niggling

Claw the land
Go at the sea with our spoons
Count the bones
That make us human

(Excuse is fearless)
Should they be numbered
When the first star tears
The sunset from the sky?

Bitter as the missing
Indifference the last note
As tributes must die
Incomprehensible and finally

The first time
Broken smooth
Now breaking on us
Untrueing us

As now exploring our own hands
We find the trap
Forever catching
Disbelief and converting it

To belief
To rough ghosts of those
We have forgotten
To the devoted expert fan

To the record
To the confession we touch on
And touch only lightly
To rising and falling

Without falling
Customs manner dress
Theatre and the and the
All into the relationship of us

So our hands don't panic
And our shall bes
Are not referred
To madness

So our language used
Is therefore
And arrival and once
Wasn't any of this

Once was the possibility
Of a current
In which the cellos swam
Alongside the sharks

Ah! Ah! Ah! violinists!
Over the instant
And the surface
Of the lover's access

You know why you have carried
The circle this far
And why it remains
So open

Later the daughter the son
With tears put down
Pass through
Its gap

Seules of nothing
With only the heyday
All they can do
Is enter

They don't need to confess
The revenge they carry
Nor the distrust
The salt of their bodies
Housebound their ribcages
Possess and repossess
Every account
Of feat and cultivation

As unsaveable as them and us
They within
Openers hurdlers accusers
Symmetrical to us

Kindly and gloriously
Diffusing us
For the idea of generation
And the ahead

While in our straightjackets
We bite
The tails of magicians
And twist the sympathies

Undo generals
And prepare too what we
Will leave
Our bodies as guides

To the earth walls
And dark cells
To the pulse handed over
As if a voluptuous incident

Of saving
And of dramatic genetics
Of saying aloud
The big poem near the end

The poem opened on tyranny
And aware of our muzzles
As it cuts us from the breath
Of justice

The poem apart from citizens
Because so with them
That it can only be noticed
As dissidence

The poem that tells
Them and us and them
That we'll fail if we ever try
To get anger out of the body

Silence is the fold
These words go into
Where they burrow
Into the future

Say them
The last names
Which must be
How the earth calls us in

Say them
For they are glory
Once twice and thrice

They are the standards
Of love
What they are written on
Our eyes ears mouths

The tips of our fingers
Pieces of the body
Plundering of intuition
And becoming lovers

There is no escape
From receiving these words
You the third body made
When two become one