The Transfiguration

So from the ground we felt that virtue branch
Through all our veins till we were whole, our wrists
As fresh and pure as water from a well,
Our hands made new to handle holy things,
The source of all our seeing rinsed and cleansed
Till earth and light and water entering there
Gave back to us the clear unfallen world.
We would have thrown our clothes away for lightness,
But that even they, though sour and travel stained,
Seemed, like our flesh, made of immortal substance,
And the soiled flax and wool lay light upon us
Like friendly wonders, flower and flock entwined
As in a morning field. Was it a vision?
Or did we see that day the unseeable
One glory of the everlasting world
Perpetually at work, though never seen
Since Eden locked the gate that’s everywhere
And nowhere? Was the change in us alone,
And the enormous earth still left forlorn,
An exile or a prisoner? Yet the world
We saw that day made this unreal, for all
Was in its place. The painted animals
Assembled there in gentle congregations,
Or sought apart their leafy oratories,
Or walked in peace, the wild and tame together,
As if, also for them, the day had come.
The shepherds’ hovels shone, for underneath
The soot we saw the stone clean at the heart
As on the starting-day. The refuse heaps
Were grained with that fine dust that made the world;
For he had said, ‘To the pure all things are pure.’
And when we went into the town, he with us,
The lurkers under doorways, murderers,
With rags tied round their feet for silence, came
Out of themselves to us and were with us,
And those who hide within the labyrinth
Of their own loneliness and greatness came,
And those entangled in their own devices,
The silent and the garrulous liars, all
Stepped out of their dungeons and were free.
Reality or vision, this we have seen.
If it had lasted but another moment
It might have held for ever! But the world
Rolled back into its place, and we are here,
And all that radiant kingdom lies forlorn,
As if it had never stirred; no human voice
Is heard among its meadows, but it speaks
To itself alone, alone it flowers and shines
And blossoms for itself while time runs on.

But he will come again, it’s said, though not
Unwanted and unsummoned; for all things,
Beasts of the field, and woods, and rocks, and seas,
And all mankind from end to end of the earth
Will call him with one voice. In our own time,
Some say, or at a time when time is ripe.
Then he will come, Christ the uncrucified,
Christ the discrucified, his death undone,
His agony unmade, his cross dismantled—
Glad to be so—and the tormented wood
Will cure its hurt and grow into a tree
In a green springing corner of young Eden,
And Judas damned take his long journey backward
From darkness into light and be a child
Beside his mother’s knee, and the betrayal
Be quite undone and never more be done.

— Edwin Muir

The Whisper

“Then the Lord said, ‘Go outside and stand on the mountain before the Lord; the Lord will be passing by.’ A strong and heavy wind was rending the mountains and crushing rocks before the Lord—but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake—but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake there was fire—but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire there was a tiny whispering sound. When he heard this, Elijah hid his face in his cloak and went and stood at the entrance of the cave. A voice said to him, ‘Elijah, why are you here?’” (I Kings 19:11-13)

That’s why it is important to be loud.
In order to avoid the questions, keep
the conscience muted, stay within the crowd.
Make sure you are exhausted before sleep.
Play music when you’re by yourself,
and talk more than you listen. Talk much more.
Leave prayer like dust, collecting on the shelf.
Don’t meditate. Don’t contemplate. Don’t bore.
Think only of how much there is to do.
Don’t gaze too long at nature; it’s a trap.
Clouds are redundant. Skies are often blue.
Why study them? You’ll be labeled a sap.
Do not sit still for long, or what you fear—
it will come. When you’re still, it will appear.

It will come. When you’re still, it will appear.
That is because its hush is always there.
And it will ask you, Why? Why are you here?
Why were you born? It’s like a kind of dare
that you will want to answer. Wish for fire—
for wind or for an earthquake—anything
to keep the whisper out. Lean on desire.
Don’t sleep alone. Don’t eat alone. Don’t bring
attention to the silence. Block it out.
Don’t answer it. That’s when it starts, you know.
Question that you felt the whisper. Doubt.
Why are you here? Don’t worry. Let it go.
The whisper is the source of change, the knife.
You must avoid it. Just like death. Or life.

—Annabelle Moseley
from A Ship to Hold the World and The Marionette’s Ascent