I love the poem. I hold it in my
cupped hands like a flower, fair one glowing
in sun; like a priest holds sacred hosts. I
whisper its rhythmic words, soft lines flowing
as sacred verse from a monk’s lips, blue script
on white wave. Robert Graves knew vast powers
of the White Goddess (pale phantom who sipped
nectar, finding eternal life), towers
of Olympus filled with her song, sending
gods to their rest. What’s better than making
words enfold like feathers of angels’ wings?
They rise from earth beyond stars, forsaking
fear for faith and all-lasting grace unsealed,
our Great Maker’s sign: a new peace revealed.
Roger Armbrust
October 19, 2009
