Posted as a result of reading Rob Mackenzie's comments on religious poetry in his vitual tour, currently appearing at Sorlil's blog, Poetry in Progress, at http://sorlily.blogspot.com
On reading the bible to my children
“Is this a true story?” they ask, at five.
Flawless, I reply: “In the meta sense”.
For the cut glass crystal clarity
of this book so apparent that wonder
means no doubt could ever enter here, my mind
seven days creation, nanoseconds
of the big bang and eons of galaxy gathering
until a planet earth, then life could be,
and it started in the water, on the fifth day.
We evolve the next, command the earth
till Adam’s subtle serpent tempts Eve,
he wants her fruit, and I know children
mean all innocence is lost: you have to grow up.
Pressure on resources makes unhappy
hunter gatherers have to herd, then harrow,
then murder so cities can be built,
but thrown together we reveal ourselves
to God, so He floods the earth, and wouldn’t you?
Noah hope, rainbow promise, start again
and ziggurats rise in Ur we were so wise
that we could be as God, so of course were fools
and never spoke to each other again.
By the time you get to Abram the psychological
truth of that story, in that place, at that time,
means you cannot doubt another word and look,
boys, look, we’re only at Genesis 12.
I do not even colour, for faith
is air not effort to me and
I never have to justify.
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