Art is here and was always here
To reflect this state we live in
Which is of course why Stalin
Hitler and all those et ceteras
Always found it so uncomfortable

It’s not that I do arrogance or anything
But I will say this, mark you
That all your pundits remain clueless
Tangled in some tongue jungle of
Propaganda for goosing the silly geese

Let me take you, my innocent
To that place invincible
That place where you cannot stand
Abandoning life, even in the slow lane
An everlasting picnic by the river

Chittering, washing boulders to pebbles
And, in the fullness of time, sand
Where I too can at need remind myself
That I am simply an insignificant part
Of a much, much bigger insignificance

I have to keep reminding myself
Of how wonderful you are
Not because I’ve forgotten
But because I can’t believe it
And go on embodied

Your artistic creations
Canapés melting on the tongue
Timeless, urgelessly beautiful
Newly coined, announcing
Thou art, thou art that, tat tvam asi

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on November 25, 2011, in Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Excellent poem. Some truth.


  2. Too beautiful for words, Ben! Sometimes words are not enough to praise the Lord God, and I praise Him too with feelings! I love the two-fold play on words in your last line! Brilliant!


  3. Thank you. I actually imagined you enjoying this as I finished it last night. My intentions with these words is to move readers towards such feelings.


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