The Messenger

T
The messenger runs, not carrying the news
of victory, or defeat; the messenger, unresting,
has always been running, the wind before and behind him,
across the turning back of earth, leaving
his tracks across the plains, his ropes
hanging from the ledges of mountains;
for centuries, millennia, he has been running
carrying whatever it is that cannot be
put down: it is rolled in a tube
made of hide, carefully, to keep it dry
as he runs, through storms and monsoons,
sometimes on foot, sometimes poling a boat
through a flooded mangrove swamp, or
setting stiff sails to cross from island to island
running before the wind. In some ages, peasants
have helped him—bringing him small cakes
of rice wrapped in the weeds of the sea and
new sandals woven of hemp for his torn
bleeding feet; sometimes in the heat of noon
they would offer a drink of rosewater, sometimes
a coat of fur against the winter snows;
and sometimes at night, he would rest
by a fire where voices wove with the music
of gut-strings, or with mountain pipes whose
sound was like wind through the bones
of creation—and he would be cheered
by the company of others, the firelit glow
of their faces like a bright raft afloat in the dark;
at times, rumors spread of his death, scholars
analyzed his obsession, dated his bones, his prayer bundle;
but at dawn, he always arose, in the mists,
in the blur of so many mornings, so many shoes
worn into scraps and discarded, so many
the cities that burned as he passed
them, so many the skulls abandoned
by armies, so many whose blood
stained the threads of their prayer rugs,
so many, so many, so many—
oh,
and that green, sunlit hill that kept
rising from the dark waters of flood, outlined bright
against the sky, the odds, the evidence—
and he, the messenger,
running through history, carries this small tube,
its durable hide—carries it, not like
a torch, no, nothing so blazing;
not like the brass lamp that summons
a genie, no magic wishes;
not like the candles that hope sets aflame
and a breath can extinguish ...

no.
He carried it like
what has no likeness,
what is curled up inside and
he swore he could feel it, though
perhaps he had dreamed it, still
at times, stopping under some tree
or other, when the night was warm,
so close the stars seemed to breathe in
the branches, he would lie quiet,
then it would seem
that whatever it was in there
would pulse softly with light, a code
only the heart could break
(but of course he couldn’t say
for he was only the messenger)—
and at sunrise, wearily, he would rise
to his feet and trudge on, sometimes
running, sometimes stumbling,
carrying whatever it was that could not
be put down, would not be cast aside—
and besides, he would chide himself,
weren’t they all as tired as he,
and hadn’t they helped him, time
and again, on his way?
Rating:

Comment form:

*Max text - 1500. Manual moderation.

Similar Poems:

Paradise Lost: Book  8 (1674 version) by John Milton
John Milton
THE Angel ended, and in Adams Eare
So Charming left his voice, that he a while
Thought him still speaking, still stood fixt to hear;
Then as new wak't thus gratefully repli'd.
What thanks sufficient, or what recompence
Equal have I to render thee, Divine
Hystorian, who thus largely hast allayd
The thirst I had of knowledge, and voutsaf't
This friendly condescention to relate
Things else by me unsearchable, now heard
With wonder, but delight, and, as is due,
With glorie attributed to the high
Creator; something yet of doubt remaines,
Which onely thy solution can resolve.
When I behold this goodly Frame, this World
Read Poem
0
191
Rating:

from The Seasons: Spring by James Thomson
James Thomson
As rising from the vegetable World
My Theme ascends, with equal Wing ascend,
My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the Woods
Invite you forth in all your gayest Trim.
Lend me your Song, ye Nightingales! oh pour
The mazy-running Soul of Melody
Into my varied Verse! while I deduce,
From the first Note the hollow Cuckoo sings,
Read Poem
0
165
Rating:

Cleon by Robert Browning
Robert Browning
"As certain also of your own poets have said"—
(Acts 17.28)
Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles,
Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea
And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece")—
To Protus in his Tyranny: much health!
Read Poem
0
178
Rating:

Erinna by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Was she of spirit race, or was she one
Of earth's least earthly daughters, one to whom
A gift of loveliness and soul is given,
Only to make them wretched?There is an antique gem, on which her brow
Retains its graven beauty even now.
Her hair is braided, but one curl behind
Floats as enamour'd of the summer wind;
The rest is simple. Is she not too fair
Read Poem
0
167
Rating:

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking by Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman
Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wander’d alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
Read Poem
0
215
Rating:

Alastor; or, The Spirit of Solitude by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare.—
Confess. St. August. Earth, ocean, air, belovèd brotherhood!
If our great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
Read Poem
0
148
Rating:

Together by R. S. Thomas
R. S. Thomas
All my life
I was face to face
with her, at meal-times,
by the fire, even
in the ultimate intimacies
of the bed. You could have asked,
then, for information
about her? There was a room
Read Poem
0
114
Rating:

The Cometary Script by Daisy Aldan
Daisy Aldan
He said, ‘Tracking across space-time in their long-drawn elliptical
orbits, as many Comets as fish in the sea
are announcing their approach by a fall, from seven Radiants,
of meteors, bombarding Earth with heavenly
debris; myriads visible myriads invisible.’
Copious meteors came streaking toward me
like a driving snow-storm, grasped only in the mind’s geography.

‘Core magnetized by Sun in their elliptical
Read Poem
0
214
Rating:

Robin Hood by John Keats
John Keats
TO A FRIEND No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Read Poem
0
113
Rating:

Patterns by Amy Lowell
Amy Lowell
I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
Read Poem
0
139
Rating:

Love's Nocturn by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Master of the murmuring courts
Where the shapes of sleep convene!—
Lo! my spirit here exhorts
All the powers of thy demesne
For their aid to woo my queen.
What reports
Yield thy jealous courts unseen?

Vaporous, unaccountable,
Dreamland lies forlorn of light,
Hollow like a breathing shell.
Ah! that from all dreams I might
Choose one dream and guide its flight!
I know well
What her sleep should tell to-night.
Read Poem
0
140
Rating:

In the God’s Dreams by James Laughlin
James Laughlin
Am I a character in the dreams
of the god Hermes the messenger?
Certainly many of my dreams
have nothing to do with the
common life around me. There
are never any automobiles or
airplanes in them. These
dreams belong to an age in
Read Poem
0
125
Rating:

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Percy Bysshe Shelley
The awful shadow of some unseen Power
Floats though unseen among us; visiting
This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower;
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower,
It visits with inconstant glance
Each human heart and countenance;
Like hues and harmonies of evening,
Like clouds in starlight widely spread,
Like memory of music fled,
Like aught that for its grace may be
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.

Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate
With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon
Read Poem
0
165
Rating:

Grace by John Logan
John Logan
We suffer from the repression of the sublime.
—Roberto Assagioli This artist’s sculptured, open box of mahogany
(ivory white inside) is strung
Read Poem
0
137
Rating:

Eyes Only by Linda Pastan
Linda Pastan
Dear lost sharer
of silences,
I would send a letter
the way the tree sends messages
in leaves,
or the sky in exclamations
of pure cloud.

Therefore I write
Read Poem
0
86
Rating:

from From the Theatre of Illusion by Pierre Corneille
Pierre Corneille
Act 2, Scene 2
Clindor, a young picaresque hero, has been living by his wits in Paris, but has now drifted to Bordeaux, to become the valet of a braggart bravo named Matamore. He is chiefly employed as a go-between, carrying Matamore's amorous messages to the beautiful Isabelle—who only suffers the master because she is in love with the messenger. clindor
Sir, why so restless? Is there any need,
With all your fame, for one more glorious deed?
Have you not slain enough bold foes by now,
Read Poem
0
144
Rating:

from The Faerie Queene: Book I, Canto I by Edmund Spenser
Edmund Spenser
Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,
As time her taught in lowly Shepheards weeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds
To blazon broad emongst her learned throng:
Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize my song.
Helpe then, O holy Virgin chiefe of nine,
Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will,
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne
The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
Of Faerie knights and fairest Tanaquill,
Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
Read Poem
0
141
Rating:

The Little Mariner by Odysseus Elytis
Odysseus Elytis
Spotlight a

SCENE ONE: Open-air court in the ancient city of Athens. The accused arrive
and proceed among curses and cries of Death! Death!

SCENE TWO: A jail in the same city, beneath the Acropolis, walls half-eaten by
dampness. On the ground, a miserly straw mat and in the corner,
an earthenware jar of water. On the outside wall, a shadow: the
guard.

SCENE THREE: Constantinople. In the harem of the Holy Place, in candlelight,
Read Poem
0
106
Rating:

Paradise Lost: Book 11 (1674 version) by John Milton
John Milton
Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood
Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above
Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd
The stonie from thir hearts, & made new flesh
Regenerate grow instead, that sighs now breath'd
Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer
Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight
Then loudest Oratorie: yet thir port
Read Poem
0
141
Rating:

Autobiography: New York by Charles Reznikoff
Charles Reznikoff
I

It is not to be bought for a penny
in the candy store, nor picked
from the bushes in the park. It may be found, perhaps,
in the ashes on the distant lots,
among the rusting cans and Jimpson weeds.
If you wish to eat fish freely,
cucumbers and melons,
Read Poem
0
202
Rating: