Sunday Poetry

I really liked this poem by Tryfon Tolides in the Book World section of today's Washington Post.

Calling

Come to the point where, finally, you are lost,

wayside-sitting, wind-gazing, train-whistle-listening,

if you want to converse with the invisible presence,

continual, sustained, indwelling, be lost,

be abandoned, so that the heart, the mind, as big

as God, come to the place where you are lost,

so that all your days and the shuttering of each day's

light and the blue magnetic incomprehensible,

jumping and motionless blue of twilight and the fine

blackening after, around the incomprehensible,

waiting and breathing of trees with their

delight-inducing

cloud-depths and freedom-shapes and darting birds,

happen in pure glory, in ineffable joy of consciousness,

so that your senses overfill to muteness,

so that mere being becomes the form of your praise.