Thursday, November 3, 2016

Song at Charan

This Picture Needs A Title

© 2016 David Prashker
To listen to an audio recital of the poem, click here

Through the halls of my father’s palace
   the pillars of his seven temples
      I pursued the wild eagle to its roost
and tamed it there

My journey was never of the feet
   but like the hand that opens
      both in giving and receiving
My journey was to the origin of journeys

I climbed upon the ladder
   taking the reed that was offered me
      with the branched candlestick

I lay upon my bed till morning
   dreaming my own awakening
and in the twilight
   I broke open the doors
      and ventured out

I baked bread for myself
   and heated a bowl of soup
      and these I placed in a basket

Then I was ready
   to travel to Moriah
      to the land of my fathers
And there too I climbed upon the ladder

Daily my complaint grew bitter
   yet my voice was never so sharp
      as the scratching of my pen
   nor my tongue so sour
      as the taste of exile

When I grew hungry I took a ram
   intending to kill it for my supper
      but in my anguish it was my own throat
that moved to whet the blade

Yet still I rode my white ass through the desert
   and my feet wrote riddles in the burning sand
      my eyes grew blind with mirages of mirages
and sun carved pyramids upon my hands

Yet still I bent my knees to walking
   still I stood outside no shelter’s door
My goal like flowers dancing in a rock-bed

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