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Take what the old-church found in Mithra's tomb, candle and script and bell, take what the new-church spat upon and broke and shattered.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Upon
Bells
Found
Candle
Iconoclasm
Take
Script
Spat
Broke
Spats
Scripts
Tomb
Poet
Tombs
Poetry
Bell
Church
Shattered

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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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The whole white world is ours.
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The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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Dance until the earth dance.
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Could beauty be beaten out, O youth the cities have sent to strike at each other's strength, it is you who have kept her alight.
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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Until it seems the whole city will be covered with gold pollen shaken from the bell-towers, lilies plundered with the weight of massive bees . . .
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Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.
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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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Let Love step down, open the clasped hands, forfeit the thorny crown, retrieve the garment that was whole, body and spirit one, spirit and soul.
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Pompeii has nothing to teach us, we know crack of volcanic fissure, slow flow of terrible lava, pressure on heart, lungs, the brain about to burst its brittle case (what the skull can endure!)
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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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For you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
Hilda Doolittle