Mid the smell
of sheep dung
came the song.
The gods are dying.
The gods of men are dying.
Self-shaped objects
of worship crumble,
beginning a funeral
dance, a danse macabre
of Athens and Jerusalem.
The gods are dying.
The gods of men are dying.
A funereal keening
pours from stone lips.
Wealth, knowledge, science,
philosophy are sucked into
mirrors of polished vanities.
The gods are dying.
The gods of men are dying.
A child born.
A son given.
Salvation.
Over at the High Calling, a poetry prompt (well, partially a poetry prompt) is asking readers to take a big thing of Christmas – family, Christ, celebration, grief and so forth – and share it in something small, like a poem, a photo, a Bible verse or a song. Check and post and see some of the offerings provided via links in the comment section.
Photograph: Statue of the death of Adonis.
13 comments:
Glynn, this was beautiful.
May the gods keep on dying...even the unknown gods in my life. Just wondering about the word danse...is that an old world word?
Beautiful.
Your use of "danse macabre" ("Dance of Death") brings in a slew of associations that enrich the meaning within this poem.
This is really cool, Glynn.
Awesome.
Glynn, this is beautiful!
**exhale**
wow. i love the way you see.
WOW. Just that because I have no other words.
Blessings.
Thanks for praying, writing, and sharing, Glynn!
I loved the repetition. Like dying often goes. Bit by bit by bit. Until the final exhalation.
Extraordinary.
As always, you make my heart beat more softly.
I love your perspective, and thank you for sharing it. I pray the gods continue to die, as the Light of Christ rises upon us. Blessings, Glynn.
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