Sunday, 24 April 2011


St Anthony and the Centaur

(for Maggie Ross)

There is another world, and it is this one.

He knows this is no devil, which breed
only the nausea of loss. No. Here is horse sweat,
sage, wild scent of trampled spurge,

flanks like oiled wood, and human eyes.
The slow rhythm of four lungs, two hearts,
beating wary vigil by the forest edge.

―Where is the path? To holy Paul of Thebes.
You must know him. He dwells in this wilderness, at a spring
beside a single tree. A raven brings to him his bread.

The centaur gives no answer. The nostrils flare
with shifting breath, stirring flies in chestnut hollows.
How can the hooves among the ferns be shod?

―We another. My kind. As thine do not.
Our bloods are knit in mercy. We have not forgot
that we are earthborn, and know no exile hence.

A blessing passes. Now the centaur points out the road,
and each to each bows low. Behold: shy annunciation
of the fathomless and hybrid Word.


Sovay said...

This is beautiful.

Steffen said...

This is a splendid little piece of writing. Let me know when you've got your first volume of poetry ready, and I'll purchase a copy. I'd love to get hold of your academic works as well, but due to my studies it is easier to pick up a volume of poetry these days.

Also, I wonder what you can tell me about the picture in the blogpost. When was it painted? Where is it situated and so forth.

Bo said...

Very glad you both like it. I wish I knew, re: the painting!

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